I was warned that the block in front of the new Setai Condominium looked like downtown Baghdad. So we swing into a parking spot on Beaver Street, navigate the scaffolding and take the elevator to Sho Shaun Hergatt, entering a muted world of dark wood, black and red Thai silk and mother of pearl. We walk past the bar and a narrow infinity pool with candles seeming to float on water. The hush. The lush. The zen. Past empty party rooms, walls of wine, into the intimate dining room, its dark wood blinds and silk panels and Tibetan bronze necklaces creating a cocoon sufficiently impervious to light and the stainless steel tech of the glassed-in kitchen. Sho Shaun Hergatt. No, it’s not Turkish. It’s not an Irish holiday. It’s the chef’s name. No, I never heard of him either. But he has recognized me and comes out of the kitchen to introduce himself.  

        Obviously Setai Hotel’s Miami Beach splash and Hergatt’s triumph in its restaurant must have suggested New York  — anywhere in New York — was ripe, even tepidly gentrified Wall Street, where ex-Lutèce chef, Eberhard Müller at Bayard in the landmark Greek revival mansion of India House didn’t succeed in luring gourmands downtown. Setai’s move might have looked sage in the real estate bubble that seemed to promise revival for residential Wall Street and prompted the company to spend $154 million on a 166 unit condo conversion, with a library, private club and five star hotel-worthy spa, where apartments are priced up to $4.4 million. Even now, they fully expect to “invigorate one of Manhattan’s last uncharted restaurant frontiers,” as the press release puts it.

        So it’s a bit desolate but there is good reason to brave the exterior assault and the loneliness of the long distance runner: Hergatt, an Australian who worked under Gabriel Kreuther at Atelier in the Ritz Carlton, is standing tall here whether you ever heard of him or not, fighting the odds. This is not just a three course prix fixe for $69 or two courses at $57 — it’s an extravagant gifted chef’s tasting that begins with caviar and sour cream beggars purses, aflutter with gold leaf, alongside salmon belly wrapped in a faux “tuile” and duck-and-foie gras terrine on toast, climaxing in silver foil dappled macaroons, pistachio financiers, raspberry gels rolled in yuzu sugar, and a bowl of truffles, a three-star ration of truffles. Hergatt’s six-course tasting, similarly endowed with preambles and afterthoughts, is $95. You can also check it out over a $30 prix fixe lunch.

 

Ginger-soy enlivens kampachi flanked with geoduck clam on daikon brunoise. Photo: Stevn Richter 

        For us on our $69 menu, the caviar purses et al are “amusettes,” a pre-amuse. It’s the amuse proper that knocks our socks off — a small cup of deeply powerful lobster bisque so intoxicating that not even a layer of fennel foam can dilute the intensity. Who is this guy? I am thinking. Where has he been flowering off the radar? It’s only one dinner and we are only three people, so please take this first report for what it is. We’re coming back.

 

        There are appetizers here you don’t find on every single upscale menu in town: spiced double duck consommé with chicken truffle ravioli, salt-pressed Tasmanian ocean trout with nashi pear and kalamansi dressing — points for bravado. Sculpted rounds of raw kampachi scintillate with freshness, scarcely needing a baptism of ginger soy. They come alongside a colorful necklace of “live” geoduck (dead by the time it gets to the table of course), with young ginger and minced bits of fruit. Three small tabs of uni ride on top of three little ovals of peekytoe crab, painted with galangal gelée. I could use a bigger hit of sea urchin but that’s not a flaw, that’s a personal longing. Blue prawn-stuffed squash blossoms are crisp, cleanly fried. And we’re choosing reasonably priced wines by the taste and by the glass poured into crystal goblets — mine an impressive balloon as our wine merchant friend compliments the sommelier, finally letting her choose his red. Much ado is made of poussin marinated in yogurt and smoky Turkish pepper, with Japanese azuki beans. The legs cut back like lollypops come in a separate bowl. I don’t really mind the pretension, just wish the chicken was moister. And I need to scrape away the sticky over-reduced sludge to get at delicious Thai dusted beef, tender and rare. The small filet arrives with a potato galette ruffle topped with glazed beef cheeks.

An island of perfectly cooked Scottish salmon floats in Thai basil froth. Photo: Steven Richter

        But caramelized Scottish salmon with tiny shemiji mushrooms and tatsoi is quite perfect, nicely rare and full of flavor in its very good Thai basil froth. We’re all sharing a fine bouquet of vegetables that may have come with the salmon. I giggle nervously at the pomp of the service, too constant, robotically solicitous, finally, exhausting. I suspect that if they get more people to serve, they’ll be forced to spread the unction around.

 

This beef dish could have been designed by Schiaperelli. Photo: Steven Richter

        As can happen when a critic is recognized, the table is suddenly paved with desserts we did not order. Mina Pizarro’s sweets are like elaborate vintage brooches but not as strong in flavor as Hergatt’s offerings. Milk chocolate ganache set with citrus segments, the “Citrus Palette,” is a rather blah creation, and banana millefeuille reminds me how bananas can betray you. “Chocolate and Jasmine Inspiration” sets too high an expectation. Vanilla blancmange is baby food to me. My favorite is the soup of chilled summer peach with raspberry verjus sorbet. That means I feel free to try every one of her luscious little petits fours and candies. And two of the truffles filled with salted caramel.

 

The house’s farewell lagniappe: truffles, jells, financiers and macaroons. Photo: Steven Richter

        Sho Shaun Hergatt may not fall trippingly from the tongue but, we agree, it is a discovery. A delicious meal, quite unexpectedly brilliant, in a serenely lavish suite that lifts us out of New York to…where? Hong Kong. Singapore. Las Vegas. I even like the somewhat hypnotic spa Muzak. Can it survive? I imagine evil spirits rollicking between the empty tables, dancing in the empty party rooms. “Did anyone ever actually check out this building before Setai bought it?” I ask the seemingly confident and unrepentant chef who has boldly given his unknown name to this remarkable space.

        The clock ticks slowly. Hergatt admits he is waiting for the scaffolding to come down. That will be soon. He is waiting for the repair of the anti-terrorist security turnstile that lets traffic on Broad Street move after inspection by bomb sniffing dogs so taxis can penetrate the street, possibly even drop passengers at the curb. He is waiting for fall when the city fires up again. And he is waiting for the pall of recession to lift. At least he is not waiting for Godot.

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