DBGB: Daniel Does The Bowery (CLOSED)

        So here we are at Boulud’s new brasserie of beer and bratwurst, a sophisticated melding of Lyonnais and American comfort food. The bar has a slightly unfinished feel with its sloping cement floors and bistro mirrors but in the dining room the careful clutter of copper pots on dark wooden shelves and supplies that normally would be stored out of sight add warmth and energy to the long narrow stretch of booths and tables crowded together alongside the bright open kitchen.

        It’s already standing room only with the usual foodie first nighters in full swarm, the industry and media and uptowners who define themselves by the tables they can snag.  I spy Roberta Morrell and her husband, Hal Rubenstein, Tony May, Wylie Dufresne, and Telepan partner Jimmy Nicholas. “The only item we’ve already run out of is Jim’s matzoh ball soup,” says our waiter.  I guess that should tell us something though I’m not sure what.

        But we’re happy enough with the spicy broiled crab cake, an aristocrat formed with fat crab tendrils, and the sausages the three of us are sharing: pork and duck gizzard Toulouse on cassoulet beans and spicy lamb merguez on overcooked lemony spinach with chickpeas. Watch out for what looks like half a dill pickle – it’s a lethally unseeded jalapeño. I am ready to try all fourteen links, bangers, saucisses and wieners – especially a reprise of the sensational spicy Basque blood sausage I tasted at a pre-opening party. But my companions cringe at the suggestion. One orders a second martini. I surrender to sanity. After all, starters and burgers and innards from the head to toe offerings (“Tête aux Pieds” on the menu) are calling out to me.  Since I can’t get any takers for tongue or tripe, I’m delighted when the chef sends out a gift of crispy tripe triangles alongside spicy-tomato tripe salad.  Our guest is seduced too.   

        If you’re still brooding about thin French women, you might be tempted to skip dessert. Don’t, even if all you can find room for is pastry chef Mimi Eberhardt’s thrilling coffee ice cream.  I say go for the sensuous excess of her coffee caramel sundae with small chocolate cookies, chunks of brownie, candied pecans, chocolate sauce and whipped cream. The Kreik Beer sundae with cookies, meringue, cherries and sauce Anglaise is a close runner-up. And her strawberry tart is a classic beauty, very ripe berries, marscapone, pastry cream and pâte brisée. I would find my way back for a taste of the apricot-pistachio sundae alone.

        Yes, it’s still a work in progress. The manager passing by can’t hear a word I say.  “We have to work on that,” he allows. Acoustics may be the reason the waiter didn’t hear us order escargots, mussels and the Piggie he delivered as another gift from the kitchen. When the lights suddenly lower from a most civilized level to Stygian at 8:20, I am curious if it’s intentional. The manager seems seriously perturbed. “We’re still working on that too.”  And I admire the dedication of the young woman assigned to wipe condensation puddles from the bare wood-veneer tables – there aren’t enough cardboard coasters for all our glasses.  As she approaches for her fifth spruce-up, I beg her to let me wipe up after myself.