THE guy on the floor at “sustainable seafood” restaurant Harbour, where we’d just sat down to dinner, wanted to know if we were “fine.”
I thought about how to respond to this total stranger. Life was stressful. Yet, it seemed rewarding enough. But what about my tablemates? Dare I speak for them? Or should I turn the question over to each in turn?
In the interest of getting fed, I stated we were just fine. But things at Harbour are not fine. Not the service, not the shtick and definitely not the food.
By now you’ve likely heard about this odd fish of an eatery scrunched, like sausage into casing, through an endless L bent around an empty lot in way-west SoHo, with a yacht design that’s a shameless knockoff of unrelated Lure Fishbar.
Most reviews last spring found Harbour inoffensive. One critic loved it. The pine-paneled, portholed dining room is reasonably busy for muggy midsummer — although it’s unclear how many in the media-mad crowd are eating, as opposed to just babbling about MSNBC’s shortcomings and about a restaurant publicist who is not Harbour’s publicist.
In a grim economy that’s pushed many fine eateries to the brink, it’s surely politically incorrect to blow off a new joint that flaunts sustainable-this, local-that and natural-whatever. But full-of-itself Harbour asks for it right in the kisser.
Bread is served with “ewww”-inducing ginger yogurt. Species depletion is an important issue that responsible chefs take seriously — but must we read “seafood watch” fliers from the Environmental Defense Fund with our meal? A waiter’s spiel about how Harbour shuns fish prone to mercury poisoning prompted one diner to crack, “But I’m on a high-mercury diet.”
A friend objected to a “kind of threatening” sea monster-like glass chandelier overhead. They were out of lobster. The same night, an odor of backed-up plumbing through the kitchen door made me cringe each time I passed it.
Harbour should not be so leaky after four months. Except for one very able woman manager who can’t be everywhere at once, the staff is better versed in piscene politics than in what’s on the plate. Asked to explain why the meat of $39, butter-poached lobster (on a night they didn’t run out) was stuck to what seemed to be part of a soft, molting shell, he cheerfully replied, “I’m not a lobster connoisseur.” (Harbour says it does not serve soft-shell lobster.)
The original executive chef, Joe Isidori, waded into town sporting a Michelin star earned at a Trump place in Las Vegas. He abruptly left a few weeks ago for “medical” reasons. Maybe Wall Streeter Richard Schaeffer, the owner who “became enchanted with the sea at an early age,” plunked a reported $3 million into Harbour just to show it off to hedge-fund pals.
My visits last spring were memorable for overcooked, fussily Asianized tilefish and arctic char reduced to drear monotones by soapy, flavorless foams. Little has changed now that Isidori’s former No. 2, Anthony Fusco, has taken the helm.
There are good dishes, especially among minuscule starters best viewed under a microscope. But entrees betray a plodding fealty to the past. The foam fiascos include wild striped bass and, absurdly, soft-shell crab. What were the suds? “Yellow curry” on the bass and “green curry” on the crab. Aha!
The crab was fresh, crisp and sweet, but attended by pork belly nearly 100 percent fat. Sockeye salmon overcame a bed of overcooked farro. Striped bass was so dull, I’d have sent it back at any neighborhood bistro where bass you can actually taste can be had for less.
Guys, we all want to “sustain” the sea’s bounty — but first, let’s learn to cook it.
scuozzo@nypost.com
HARBOURM
290 Hudson St. (at Spring Street)
212-989-6410