My date, Cindy Adams, and I picked a plum dining venue the other night – the reopened Plaza Oak Room, which aims to bring “the prestige and influence of the space to the next generation of Manhattan elite.”
How could we resist? After all, Cindy wrote that the new Fairmont-run Plaza and its public rooms were “not ready for prime time” with a bar “like a catering hall.” She pooped upon the Palm Court, where waiters called her “Mrs. Zimmerman.”
For my part, I ridiculed the Palm Court as a “hilariously” awful “tourist trap without tourists.” I suggested that many New Yorkers might avoid the Oak Room, which has long been more popular with moviemakers than with actual paying customers, “even if Ferran Adrià cooked for free.”
So, in our mutual spirit of caring, constructive criticism, Cindy and I braved the joint. The kitchen is headed by even braver Joël Antunes, a Michelin-starred, James Beard-honored chef out of Atlanta.
I told Cindy beforehand, “The Oak Room is a serious restaurant now. It has nothing to do with the hotel or the Palm Court.” I failed to mention that the only way in is through the adjoining Oak Bar, so she pried open the front doors instead, nearly flattening a waiter.
“You certainly know how to make an entrance,” I greeted her.
“Screw yourself,” she cheerfully replied.
I sent back sauvignon blanc that wasn’t sufficiently chilled. Cindy needed a pillow because the banquettes are too low. Waiters bowed, scraped and did everything but pre-chew our food.
We were smacking our lips over future columns full of malicious metaphors and wicked one-liners, when our plan started going awry.
Cindy, properly pillowed, took in the unexpectedly bustling scene on a raw December night. “It looks wonderful,” she said with genuine admiration. “The room is glowing.”
Indeed – a gentle refurbishing under the eye of the city’s Landmarks Preservation Commission stripped away generations worth of grime and veneer that had blackened the oak walls and ceilings. The lofty space is as baronial as ever, but refreshingly lighter on the eyes.
Our next shock was the food. On my earlier visit, a cut of olive oil-poached halibut only slightly larger than an American Express card had been an oily, $38 mess.
The kitchen’s gotten sharper since then. Tuna tartar – more accurately cubed chunks – sparkled on the plate and on the palate. Buttery, charred octopus with fennel showed that Antunes is using the right purveyors.
Lamb loin ($38) and turbot ($44) rivaled the best Modern-American ones. The dishes even looked slightly bigger than I remembered. What the hell was going on?
“The Plaza has been getting terrible press,” said the Oak Room’s owner, Joey Allaham, plopping himself down at our table. The man can definitely read. Vanity Fair reports that women wept in despair on entering the condo-apartment lemons their oligarch husbands had bought sight-unseen. The Times picked apart the “Retail Collection,” which closely resembles a Green Stamps redemption outlet.
And the online buzz is that the Palm Court, which gave up on dinner and now serves only lunch and tea, is already on its last legs.
Allaham said he wants to establish a separate identity for the Oak Room, which he leases from developer Elad.
“Well,” Cindy asked, “how will you do that? This room has a history. It’s about New York. Why don’t you get a beautiful old car and put it out front?”
“Yeah, raffle off a ride home every night,” I proposed. Allaham seemed to humor us, but I wouldn’t count on cruising in a 1939 Cadillac anytime soon.
On the way out, we passed the Palm Court’s sprawl of empty tables brightly lit. The Oak Room deserved a better fate, I thought.
Then I looked at the bill – $338.03 for the two of us with a few glasses of wine, tax and tip. No bottled wine, no dessert.
It will take more than a set of vintage wheels to fill the house after the holidays. But with the Oak Room acting like a real restaurant for the first time in its history, I hope people come. Cindy and I might even be nice for a while.
The Oak Room
10 Central Park South, 212-758-7777