One night at Afro-Asian-American brasserie The Cecil, executive chef Alexander Smalls prowled the gold-glowing dining room and merrily informed us, “I’m not aiming for authenticity.”
Whew! Glad to get that out of the way. You don’t need learned comparisons of The Cecil’s feijoada with that of Brazil or Guinea-Bissau to tell whether it tastes good. (It does once you get past fatty, un-navigable oxtail.) And there’s plenty more mythology to set aside regarding this convivial and winning new Harlem restaurant.
It strives to “integrate the rich culinary traditions of the African diaspora with ingredients and tastes of the New World.” Politically correct types anguish over whether such an establishment owned by former Time Warner boss Richard Parsons “exploits” the neighborhood. Others draw pointless comparisons to Red Rooster, Marcus Samuelsson’s breakthrough place nearby.
It’s easy to lose sight that what we have here is a nice new place to eat, not a cause for racial and socioeconomic disquisitions. The Cecil is the latest welcome addition to a resurgent Harlem dining scene that was, for decades, a cruel joke on tourists and food writers seduced by its long-expired reputation as a mecca for great African-American cooking.
The ambitious menu is working out kinks but is strong enough to please a diverse crowd of older-generation Harlemites in hats and furs, younger ones in chic dresses and hipsters from the nabe and downtown.
They mingle cheerfully in a sexy, angled front bar/lounge that feeds into a trapezoidal dining room. Golden walls frame a cozy sprawl of low-slung, red-and-black leather banquettes and mahogany tables. Details vaguely African mix-and-match with others vaguely 1940s noir.
Sidewalk-facing windows let in the hotel sign’s neon glow. A pensive-faced woman painted on the wall presides over the scene, looking unsure what to make of it all.
You may feel at first the same about the menu. Unlike the Lowcountry-driven one at Parsons’ newer Minton’s supper club next door, it touches down in far-flung North and South American and Caribbean lands, where enslaved, uprooted Africans sought to replicate the mostly West African dishes of their births. If that weren’t a broad enough map, Smalls wheels in dishes like Afro/Asian/American gumbo, where Chinese chicken sausage was the sole discernible link to the Far East.
The time I had it, the gumbo was laden with inedibly rock-hard turkey. That same night, cinnamon-brined and marinated fried guinea hen was so ineptly cooked, they might as well have served brick.
The only decent entree on that early visit was jerk-rubbed wild bass worthy of a better Jamaican resort. But starters showed promise, beginning with handmade breads worthy of paying $8 for: warm roti, hush puppies and sweet rolls with tongue-tingling carrot/curry, red pepper butter and black-eye pea spreads.
Smalls and chef de cuisine Joseph “JJ” Johnson have since got a firmer handle on things, despite inexplicably tame clunkers like skillet-fried salmon of zero character despite the best efforts of plantains and kimchee to give it spark.
The kitchen’s at its best in starters ($8 to $14), salads ($11 to $15) and rice-vegetable wok bar combos ($18 to $25). Rice, lentils, beans and sauces uncompromisingly textured with ginger, garlic, tomatoes and chili are particular strengths.
West African beef suya, thin-sliced in the traditional Nigerian style and rubbed in onion, garlic and ginger powders, packed an unexpected, barbecue-like punch. Flash-fried, spicy and crisp ginger squid delivered on the promise of the vivid peanut chili sauce in which they’re served.
A composed presentation of unctuous chicken liver pâté parried by sweet date jam and crunchy cassava chips might have taken the subway from a French bistro downtown — except that the bistro’s wouldn’t be as good. A vegetable and rice wok bar combo of steamed, crackling black rice in a bowl brimming with chili tofu turns spicier and more complex the deeper you burrow through layers of oranges, crisp-fried peas, carrots and fiery, garlicky piri-piri tomato sauce. Whichever spot on the globe it’s meant to stand for, put me on the next plane.
Entrees ($19 to $36) and “Cecil specials” offered in single or double portions ($16 to $30, or $24 to $48) take fewer risks. Truly timid customers choose a moist, mouthfeel-rich Wagyu-rib cheeseburger.
Bourbon praline ham comprised three generously thick slices. Although many times better than a salad bar’s, it was no more exotic despite the unannounced, off-the-wall substitution of bok choy for collard greens.
Wines are weak, dessert strong — especially killer pecan sticky buns. But it’s troubling to learn that pastry chef Jenny Lee has already left.
The Cecil, like the “new Harlem,” is a work very much in progress. Keep up the good work, Mr. Smalls, and keep your eyes on the kitchen.