Gato is Bobby Flay’s best restaurant yet, and the city’s best nearly 150-seat eatery in years to open outside a hotel, office tower or mall. Partner Laurence Kretchmer carved a brasserie out of a 100-year-old former homeless shelter, and Flay put his culinary cred on the line after a decade of TV overexposure.
The golden boy of the American grill is also a protean popularizer of Southwestern and Spanish-inspired cuisine. We miss his Mesa Grill and Bolo, both felled by landlord issues.
But — perhaps like Bobby-weary Food Network haters rooting for him to flop — I doubted he was this good. Gato is infuriatingly excellent. Passion, not preciousness, informs the broadly Mediterranean menu’s every corner.
And David Rockwell’s best design in eons honors every corner of the house. Excavation revealed a vaulted brick ceiling that was long hidden by Sheetrock — an early-20th-century sky brooding over structural columns and walls of timeworn brick.
A grand, buzzing bar faces the windowed kitchen; golden light radiates from industrial-style glass fixtures. But beware chairs unforgiving of butts broader than a baby’s. Beg for a cozy booth — offer the smart and friendly floor staff your next child if necessary.
Flay told me he regarded Gato as “an expression of what Bolo would be today,” but it’s better than that. Shunning artsy presentation or pointless claims to “authenticity,” he makes Spanish-inflected themes new while respecting their underlying strength.
One month ago, tarragon-shy “tarragon” chicken recalled the timid seasoning of Bolo’s last few years. But soon enough after, Flay’s affinity for the Mediterranean’s sunny flavor constellations declared itself with trumpets blaring. Tarragon permeated the bird’s every pore. Assertive but controlled leitmotifs such as citrus fruit, paprika and romesco stood up for themselves without overwhelming meat or fish.
“Bar” selections (three for $17) channel the playful spirit of the best northern-Spanish tapas. Smoked paprika gently complexions a plancha-cooked chorizo crépinette, a kind of ground pork mini-burger; apricot mostarda garnish lightens the load.
I never thought of octopus as a vehicle for tangerine sauce. Yet the sauce deftly parries the supple tentacle’s mineral quality and offsets the heft of lardons.
As at celebrated Brooklyn bistros, Gato dishes bear intimate evidence of their time in the kitchen — Berkshire “porterhouse” pork chop sweating an osso buco-like ooze of red wine and tomato, orata skin gleaming with the olive oil saute that turns it so crisp.
Eggs slow-scrambled with creme fraiche, crumbled goat cheese, crackling almonds and chives are a sensuously realized folly. It’s a prelude to vegetarian paella, a truly great new dish. An egg is steamed into short-grain Calasparra rice dense with kale, crisp-fried artichoke hearts and crimini and shiitake mushrooms under a sprinkle of Calabrian chili oil.
Socarrat abundantly clings to the pan bottom. The waiter scrapes the burnt rice loose and spoons all the elements into a stew that’s simultaneously silken and crackling.
Strong, modernized-traditional desserts from pastry chef Clarisa Martino end things on a happy note. Love that espresso bread pudding!
You’ll have to strain for a glimpse of Flay on your way out. He toils nightly on the line, but rarely leaves the kitchen to schmooze or preen.
Expect him to be in there until all the reviews are in. After that we’ll excuse the occasional trip to the studio — and pray that the magic goes on.