The Writing Room is making lots of people in its neighborhood happy. But its recent opening on the old Elaine’s site — the very idea — whips many Elaine’s devotees into a seething rage. Well, rage over this:
I like The Writing Room’s honest, well-wrought American bistro menu and welcoming-to-all vibe. I didn’t like Elaine’s snoots and shady food. Did I mention that Elaine’s famous wall of books by famous and not-famous customers never found room for mine?
Old-timers chasing ghosts will be crushed or relieved, depending on their memories: Except for a replica of the vestibule, not a trace of Elaine’s survives. The few habitués who’ve trickled back, like Bill Bratton and Rikki Klieman, wouldn’t know where they were if you marched them in blindfolded, so thoroughly have Writing Room owners Michael and Susy Glick vaporized its predecessor.
Their smartly styled American bistro is off to a strong start. It will need to stay that way to last as long as Kaufman’s salon for literati and glitterati did. That its mystique endured until Kaufman’s sad passing in late 2010 testifies to the affection many felt for her.
I wish I could join Elaine’s legion of fans in remembering the house more fondly. It took a lot of dissing to turn me and my wife, Jane, against the place where we first met in 1979 and to which we occasionally returned — but chronic, icy-to-hostile treatment eventually quelled our romantic association. An annoyed “You want to sit?” one night when there were plenty of empty tables was the final straw.
My last meal there with late columnist Jack Newfield featured grilled calamari I wouldn’t serve to a death-row cat: smelly, gelatinous and cold. That night in late 2000, Elaine’s was not wall-to-wall Woody Allens and Marty Scorseses, but full of gawkers who suffered uptown’s worst food in the Siberian side room.
That former wasteland is now The Writing Room’s bar, throbbing with laughter and sexual energy. The whole place is noisy, handsome and clubby in a friendly way. The staff are all smiles. Snug, high-backed leather booths, oak floor and walnut tables in the main room are framed by brick walls hung with vintage photos — some of Elaine’s clientele, if you look very closely.
A cozy, library-like “study” replaces what was an outdoor “courtyard.” Its black-and-white tile floor, fireplace and 1,000 books should be hokey but aren’t: Designer Lindsey Bonime knew what she was doing.
So does executive chef Lucas Billheimer. His crowd-pleasing American menu tastes better than it reads. (Starters $11 to $15, most entrees $22 to $38.) There’s nothing groundbreaking, but the MTA is doing enough of that with subway construction outside.
Soul-satisfying winter dishes relying on strong raw materials are assembled and cooked with care. I had wonderful, lemon-lilted, root-vegetable-rich chicken soup, slightly overcooked baby-back ribs and lobster boil crowned by a tender, steamed crustacean in cherrystone clam velouté.
Best were impossibly buttery, garlicky fried chicken and generously stacked slabs of smoked brisket. However, the waitress’ description of dried-out, pan-roasted cod as “our take on fish and chips” was not to take seriously.
There were solid grilled salmon and spaghetti and meatballs, and fun desserts like adorable creamsicle pops; only soggy funnel cake didn’t live up to the street-fair standard.
The wine list includes bargains such as Barranc Dels Closos 2011, the best Priorat you’re likely to find for $54 in a Manhattan restaurant. And unlike at Elaine’s, smiles are included in the price.