Deep-flavored and spit-roasted lamb is one of the highlights at the eatery. (Gabi Porter)
The elegant dining room at new Alison Eighteen is square. Tables, booths and banquettes are set at right angles, generating cozy corners even in the middle of the floor.
Although few men wear suits, all behave as discreetly as if they do. Women sport more dresses and skirts than slacks. No tablecloths doesn’t mean it’s loud: You can hear yourself think and your companions moan over how good everything tastes.
Is New York ready for a grown-up restaurant? Alison Eighteen conjures Manhattan dining 15 years ago, before places with $35 entrees devolved into mosh pits. Co-owner and guiding spirit Alison Price Becker recaptures the civilized era pre-9/11, before downtown’s frozen zone doomed her romantic eatery, Alison on Dominick, near the Holland Tunnel.
She spent 10 years running places in the Hamptons. The menu at her new one in the Flatiron District, by her longtime executive chef Robert Gurvich, is as square as the room: It boasts nothing more than “seasonal featuring French-influenced American cooking.”
It’s pricey (most starters are $15 to $18, mains $26 to $45) but pleasurable, although bound to bore those who can’t face the day without all things weird or queasiness-inducing — you’ll find no obscure organs, “foraged” roots or nose-to-tail anything.
You will find deep-flavored, spit-roasted lamb and chicken and lushly thick cuts of familiar fish, in a gracious, high-ceiling space infused with floor-roaming, blond and smiling Alison’s warmth. Wheel-like chandeliers cast a mellow sheen on the terrazzo floor, aubergine leather seats and walnut tables.
Alison pops up on the walls, too: Room-encircling toile split by vertical mirrors depicts her amid whimsical animals and scenes of New York, the print as precisely drawn as the well-drilled waiters’ white shirts and ties.
Alas, a dark curtain between the dining room and lounge casts a pall. The soundtrack occasionally gets in your ears. Whose “Ring of Fire” is this? Joaquin Phoenix’s from the Johnny Cash movie, my Shazam app reveals. It burns.
Even the most cautiously conceived dishes come to life thanks to Gurvich’s way with details, from earthy hen o’ the wood mushrooms to toothpick-thin shoestring fries. White bean and kale soup brimming with ham hocks is now off the menu, but I wish it wasn’t — it’s a soul-satisfying cold-weather dish for any temperature.
Steamed mussels in creme fraiche broth brought on snores, even though the plump specimens tasted pristine. “This is 1998 luxury cooking,” the lady next to us said of supple, braised veal shank, off the bone and sparkling in its own jus. Well, some of us miss 1998 luxury cooking.
Gurvich takes care not to challenge or offend. The oysters in rich stew with celery and bacon lardo are thoughtfully pre-sliced. The Basque tint of Alison on Dominick popped up near-imperceptible in a single dish: black bass in a light broth with cockles, artichokes and chewy pieces of chorizo, accented with a few bright-red piquillo peppers — a happy alternative to the common way of piling them on with a shovel.
Pastry chef Theodore Kanellopoulous attunes his creations to the mood, not inventive but meticulously composed. Go for a dome-like chocolate tart and passion fruit beignets attended by caramel sauce they don’t need.
Customers were arriving well after 10 one night, among them a young couple who couldn’t stop lip-kissing en route to the table.
Anywhere else you wouldn’t bat an eye; here, it seemed as shocking as group sex at a Rick Santorum rally. Not that Alison’s customers are Republicans. But it’s nice to know that New York still has a taste for principled conservatism on the plate.