Now and then I drag myself out of my house, get on the subway, and walk the rest of the way to a restaurant. Last night, for example, it was Bar Boulud. Sixth visit, the place gets better and better, it’s finding its groove, the room now has rhythm.
Raw oysters, gougere, risotto with ramps and porcini, boudin blanc, lobster.
The room was packed with visitors and some locals. The bar was completely jammed. Drinks and cocktails are pricey ($17 average), so drink less, OK?
It’s really the kind of restaurant that the city benefits from enormously: Uncompromising French cuisine using local seafood, in-house charcuterie, and service that is anticipatory and not obsequious nor tentative.
There are places all over town that call themselves French. We’re not going to name names, you know who you are. But that makes me think of Chico in one of those old Marx Brothers movies–Abie the Fishman asks him, “Hey, since when are you Italian?”