Memo to those critics bemoaning the scarcity of women chefs in Manhattan: Ever hear of Food Network star Alexandra Guarnaschelli, who happens to run Butter Midtown?
The 200-seat, uptown transplant of the now-closed celeb-magnet Butter on Lafayette Street opened in November. Yet reviewers and food editors have strangely averted their gaze.
So let Free Range be the first to tell you: On the TV chef/real world scale, Butter Midtown falls midway between Masaharu Morimoto’s defunct, laugh-riot Tribeca Canvas and Bobby Flay’s three-star Gato — a respectable showing that might not be spectacular enough for the crowd that worships April Bloomfield and Anita Lo.
Carved deep beneath the Cassa Hotel tower, Butter Midtown flaunts a birch forest mural, a ceiling pergola and logs stacked outside the open kitchen, where Guarnaschelli can often be glimpsed.
They’re meant to evoke the old Butter’s woodlands spirit. But a soaring atrium ceiling above communal tables channels only the modern hotel above, and endless booths beneath a lower ceiling portion suggest a wrong turn into the Houston’s chain.
Unlike its Lafayette Street predecessor, the new Butter clientele numbers more executives in suits and tasteful skirts than scenesters. But they’re just as loud, thanks to hard surfaces that amplify every click of an iPhone or a BlackBerry.
Some dishes are wonderful, but you wish there more of them. Rather than sound the usual Greenmarket notes one or two at a time, the American-eclectic menu tends to ring them all at once: So many leaves and beans and veggies piled on dishes make it hard to tell what’s what.
The lineup’s evolved since my first meals in March. (Most starters are $12 to $18, mains $23 to $44.) Guarnaschelli and partners Richie Akiva and Scott Sartiano mercifully dropped a liquefied gruyere cheese bath masquerading as “welsh rarebit.” But they kept house-made ricotta and hen of the woods mushrooms on sourdough toast, which I loved a few months back. Alas, a few nights ago, this “hot” appetizer arrived cold.
“White cloud” cauliflower made a friend gasp, “That isn’t cauliflower, it’s Godzilla.” It did resemble a lab experiment gone amok, but — charred to a toothsome turn and aggressively sparked by Marash pepper — it was as satisfying as a richly marbled steak.
Leafy and garden choices, though, are offset by clunky, suburban-saloon-like pasta. Stick with seafood, the house’s strong suit.
Seared halibut deftly mingled citric, spicy and herbal notes — a tingling interplay including bay leaf, pickled mustard seeds, lime juice and chives. Russian-style salmon coulibiac equally pleased eye and palate. Guarnaschelli enfolds wild salmon in a Russian-doll succession of wraps: savoy cabbage, basmati rice pilaf within a dill crepe and house-made brioche containing the whole shooting match.
Meat choices, though, perished on the plate. Why are so many Manhattan chefs afraid of jus and moisture? Luscious collard greens couldn’t bail out a dry Berkshire pork chop. Rugged-flavored wild spinach known as lamb’s quarters upstaged roasted chicken that delighted at first taste but turned duller by the bite.
Pastry chef Kevin O’Brien’s “raspberry beignets” might be the best jelly doughnuts in town. They go down as smoothly as the luxurious house-made butters served with Parker House rolls.
But the menu’s clunkers are as out of place as foil-wrapped Land O’Lakes. I hope Guarnaschelli applies her “Iron” hand to make this good enough place truly worthy of her name.