‘Our chef is not happy with the portion he has of duck,” the waiter at strange new Mihoko’s 21 Grams informed us 10 minutes after we’d ordered duck a l’orange. “So there will be none tonight.”
Welcome to waning summer’s most off-center new establishment, full of baffling pronouncements and mysterious rituals — but often empty of customers. Mihoko’s 21 Grams — owned by Mihoko Kiyokawa, a restaurateur (10 places in Japan), art collector and ex-ballerina — has gone overlooked by the dining millions, despite its eye-popping size and globe-girdling ambition.
It aims to “bring together the best of French and Japanese cultures and cuisines . . . not only to stimulate the five senses but also the soul.” The latter is said to weigh 21 grams. What your senses make of the place is less easily quantified.
Do you miss the goofy gimmicks that made Alain Ducasse’s New York debut a howl? Mihoko’s is for you. It presents your bill inside a be-ribboned wooden box. You untie the ribbon yourself.
But there’s more! When the box returns with your credit card and the check to sign, you untie it a second time! You’re fit to be tied yourself after $19 to $29 appetizers and entrees up to $48.
The long, mirrored, plushly upholstered dining room, anchored by a grand white marble bar, is supposed to evoke an “art warehouse.” Aha! We thought the dough just ran out before they could finish the ceiling.
Vaguely Romantic-school paintings remind you of ones you’ve seen but can’t quite place. Fabric panel screens separate tables equipped with shiny metal purse stools closely resembling trash cans.
Exotic cocktails run to $18. The bulk of the heavily French wine list is unprintably unaffordable. But a great sommelier, Julien Moreno, cheerfully guided us to a precious few fine choices under $100.
Moreno, the class of the house, also knows the oddly paired French and sushi menus better than the waiters, who maybe can’t be blamed for confusion. The executive chef last spring was Robert Rubba. Last month they told me it was Andres Grundy.
Now they say it’s been Mizuho Hirakawa all along. Plus, they’re advised “by a very well-respected Michelin-starred chef in New York” whose name they won’t reveal.
Oblivious to our growling stomachs, dark-suited waiters hovered, loomed and fussed with the silverware. Unrequested green tea and a type of rarefied sake were interminably prepared tableside while we waited nearly an hour for the first morsel of solid food.
For every successful dish there was a correspondingly awful one. Cold corn velouté with cooked langoustine evoked summer bliss. Chawan mushi with snap peas, a strained fusion effort, registered as thick pea soup with barely perceptible custard.
Mushroom dashi made amadai (tilefish) with trumpet mushrooms and snap peas come boldly alive. Yet lemon verbena did zilch for lobster cocotte in flavorless, orange-hued sauce and superfluous clams. Colorado lamb ordered medium-rare arrived near-raw, unseasoned and criminally fatty.
Sushi chef Wilson Yang’s lineup was just as erratic — one week sparkling, the next approximating the factory-ship article of 1,000 neighborhood joints. Desserts you’d love for $10 were less lovable at $18.
While “fine dining” struggles to survive the no-reservations onslaught, Mihoko’s 21 Grams does the gracious old style no favors. It might even be a plot to finish it off for good.