Not every chef with a Fabergé obsession finds a Russian Czar to indulge him.  (I don’t say HER because I’ve not yet noticed a female chef gone gaga over jewel box cooking.) Paul Liebrandt had a Pope in Drew Nieporent. Now he thinks he has an even more powerful potentate in Brooklyn. Wiley Dufresne had Daddy on Clinton Fresh Foods in l999. Now at wd~50, he is an established charismatic with devoted acolytes. 

Chef Shaun Hergatt materializes to soften the chill of the monochromatic dining room.

          Michelin-starred Shaun Hergatt didn’t come from Australia to gild a zillion duck breasts in the kitchens of Ritz Carltons without his own Fabergé dream lending a gleam to his sauces.  Juni, inside the Hotel Chandler on East 31st Street, is a taste of that dream.  ESquared Hospitality is his Czar Nicholas. 

A trio of gently cooked langoustine huddle with summer squash in an orange reduction.

          I don’t mind a flutter of marigold petal on this exquisitely cooked langoustine. I enjoy  perfect sprigs of young purslane accessorizing my Griggstown poussin. But a three-inch by two-inch sliver topped with a cockscomb in an overly-intense saucy glue, is rash. Say “dried paper” or pistachio dust, or microplaned cured egg yolk to me and I might laugh. Or cry.

Dark-suited lieutenants perform attentive maneuvers at a staging table.

          I could just write that our dining alcove is grey and gloomy, eerily quiet, and I am not a fan of eating art. But I would never want to suggest you avoid Juni. I’m sure the house will realize some illumination might be friendly in the front room. The staff will get more relaxed with customers and not just stand there en masse watching you exit with a gift bag of the chef’s favorite tea leaves in hand.  (I hope that gift wasn’t just for a recognized critic.)

Little Tootsie rolls of silken foie gras take center stage in this esoteric tableau.

          You might be one of my readers who longs to have a spot on your list where you can take friends who want to talk without shouting. You may get a thrill from flavor innovation and a rush when the foie gras arrives in two silken little tootsie rolls on a plate with a trio of potato towers and three flourless potato gnocchi in a navy orange reduction with a flicker of marigold petal. Juni is for you. Book soon because well-heeled diners who thrive on fuss and eat like birds and hate to wear their hearing aids will soon be claiming these tables.

I’m not amused by carrot paper in this opening feint. But yes, corn, give me corn jelly.

A cockscomb and intense saucery overpowers this beautifully cooked poussin.

          The small house-baked baguettes (olive or plain) are a portend of caring. I’m won over by the corn soup of the amuse – layered corn espuma on corn jelly.  And the best dish of the evening is my starter – gossamer ravioli of artichoke and pine nuts in a creamy bath of white wine and artichoke broth.  Four ravioli. It was a full-size plate of food, not a schematic design for a work of art.  I was glad I didn’t have a date. I could give one to each of my pals and have two all for myself.

Veal tenderloin with quince goes Japanese with burdock, mizuna and hon shimejis.

          We’d chosen the four-course tasting for $90 rather than six courses for $120 or an a la carte rove through the summer tidbits, $20 for an app, $40 for a main, $15 for dessert. Plump and perfect little langoustines proved to be a fine mouthful, making me realize edible art is not meant to be shared. Eating one third of two pickled onions is perhaps unfair to the artist. By the way, I raved about Hergatt’s marvelous tasting menu at SHO Shaun Hergatt in its near inaccessible perch on Wall Street.  He struck me as less esoteric then.

          A decorous cut of black bass with its potato curls, fondant, teeny gnocchi and summer truffle sabayon might tickle your palate, but I was not moved. The chef may emerge to spill on an essential emulsion and make you feel wanted and special. Veal tenderloin can be pretty boring in miniature. Even full-size with a ruffle of quinoa and a few heads of hon shimeji mushrooms -- it’s not going into my hall of fame. Take it for yours.

Bravo for Grimaud duck breast, deliciously rare, with an exceptional meatiness.

          Even a favorite -- rare duck breast in six generously curated slices -- seems mannered to me with a scattering of hyssop blossom, hibiscus jus and evidence of candy beets. You might want to disagree.

Perhaps the waves of meringue were meant to evoke a turbulent sea.

          I found the lemon meringue with blueberry and sage a sordid mess. Sorry Mina Pizarro. As pastry chef I’m sure you’re just channeling the chef’s vision. The peaches and cream would surely be happier without basil and cucumber.  Better by far, almost rewarding: chocolate with black plum sorbet and a tattoo of pistachio purée that didn’t need a boost from tarragon. 

Black plum sorbet is just that, black plum sorbet, surrounded by chocolate.

          Peanut nougat with celery seeds, Mission fig beignet and chocolate-coated hyssop leaf show what artistic inspiration can do with mignardises.

Chocolate-painted Hyssop leaves, fig beignets, celery seed-flecked nougat signal finito.

           It would be viscous and cheap to dismiss Juni after just one very early meal, even though we tasted nearly every maquette the artist envisioned for summer. I am not dismissing it at all. I am recommending it for aesthetes and adventurous eaters, and for bruised and battered New Yorkers who long to be coddled and fed in a civilized haven. Yes, there are rugs on the floor.

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