Food & Drink

Eatery a sure Betony

Trout in a roe-and-vegetable pool will take your breath away.

Trout in a roe-and-vegetable pool will take your breath away.

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The last place west of Moscow where I expected to be dazzled by a restaurant — surely the last place on West 57th Street — was Betony, the ridiculously wonderful successor to instant-flop Brasserie Pushkin.

Although it’s run by a trio of Eleven Madison Park veterans, modern-American Betony (named for a medicinal herb nobody’s heard of) has the same owner as Pushkin, Russian zillionaire Andrei Dellos. All the city’s oligarchs couldn’t save his “czarist fantasy,” which lasted less than a year.

A few months ago, I snarked at Dellos for opening Betony and downtown’s mammoth Manon, even while memories of Pushkin stank up the block that’s home to Nobu 57.

But I take back everything I said about Betony. The underpriced (for the moment) menu’s sometimes too cutesy, but a helluva debut by executive chef Bryce Shuman, served in an adult atmosphere that draws hordes of the stylish young.

The sweet and confident floor crew reminds you what “service” meant before it fell to the “my absolute favorite”-babbling airheads. Purged of Pushkin’s nymphs, statues and tacky, “Versailles-inspired” murals, the two-level dining space feels at home in its stripped-down but still-plush skin (love those upholstered banquettes!) Only rococo French oak on the walls recalls Pushkin’s excess.

Shuman’s cooking can sound rococo, too, it’s so complicated. But it evinces a refreshing clarity of presentation. He worked for six years with the great Daniel Humm at Eleven Madison Park, where he rose to executive sous chef — a rung considerably below chef de cuisine. Here, commanding his own stage, he reveals an original talent at times overreaching, at others not aiming high enough, but stunning in its audacity.

The laconic menu — three spare columns of under-described “bites,” small plates and entrees — too cheaply mimics Eleven Madison Park’s. But Shuman and general manager Eamon Rockey modestly call the style “refined modern-American fare that is both familiar and engaging,” and let the results speak for themselves.

Shuman’s a mini-molecularist, employing only the esoteric school’s more familiar methods, such as Cryovac cooking and dehydration. His playful way with smaller items (most $12 to $16) shows off almost too much technique.

“Lobster roll” (restaurant’s quotes) takes the form of cigarette-shaped crisps atop “reinterpreted persillade” of parsley and dehydrated potatoes. Silly but yummy foie gras bonbons, a David Burke-ish folly of cold foie gras balls in hazelnut crusts, take a sweetening cue from a touch of cinnamon.

Chickpea fritters cross the line into the trivial zone. But gravity reasserts itself in a salad of crispy, crushed grains (farro, bulgur) and quinoa, from which alfalfa and clover sprout as if from the earth itself; labne yogurt lends just a touch of cheesy, tart sweetness.

I’ve never had marinated sardines as good — as rich as steak yet without a trace of oiliness. Chicken liver mousse is formed into spheres embraced in a green glaze made with parsley and schmaltz. Can anything so heartstoppingly rich be so light on the tongue?

Entrees (most $24 to $29) are less uniformly inspired, but the best, like Catskills brook trout in a vivid trout roe and -vegetable pool, leave you breathless. Betony’s “money” dish is beef short ribs, thyme- and garlic-seasoned and shaped into succulent cubes. They emerge from a sous vide bath in their own fat, possessing the flavor depth of cote de bouef. They come with yakitori-grilled romaine leaves brushed with beef fat hefty enough to stand on their own, and a veal sweetbread that would be superfluous if not so good.

Poached lobster was presented under a lawn of dill. The waiter poured creamy broth over it, drawing the dill essence with it, then yanked the greens away to reveal a buttery specimen and a garden of gorgeous summer beans. But there was less claw and more cartilage than I want for $36.

Wine director Luke Wohlers presides over a list strong in all price ranges. Desserts, which Shuman does himself, taste swell once you figure them out. Elements of a chaotically deconstructed “blueberry parfait” — berries, osmanthus tea-scented ice cream, poppyseed crisps and blueberry mousse — winningly conveyed their oddly complementary, sweet and savory essences. But it was so hard to navigate, my friend joked it should come with a “You are here” sign.

But right now, “here” means 41 W. 57th St. to anyone who’d given up on ever finding a place this exciting in Midtown again.