The sweet smell of smoke tantalizes as a waiter gives us a view of the roast duck for two.

           My cab stops in the middle of what used to be cheap-shoe-and-drug-deal row -- Eighth street between Sixth Avenue and Washington Square. There is a scattering of newish ventures but it’s still somewhat ghostly. Deserted storefronts with papered windows stretch across the street from The Greenwich Project. Preposterous name. Still, I like the graphics. Almost no one here. Could be the Monday woebegone blues.

The ground floor bar-lounge is desolate on a Monday evening, as is most of the block.

           A small cluster of yappy guys I take to be workmen and pals of the owner mill about, finally settling at a table not far from where I sit with my friends. The greeter wants to take us up to the dining room.  We decide to have cocktails downstairs, and think about where we’ll sit.

The three of us sip cocktails as we discuss options from the inexpensive bar menu.

           She leaves the dining room menu and the small plates listing -- “Three for $20,” it reads. Upstairs I see “Mains,” are mostly $31 to $39. Whole duck for two $88, dry-aged porterhouse, $135. High expectations in an empty house, I think.

The outline of a gun wrapped in the flag over my left shoulder is chilling.

           “We’ll sit right here,” I say, indicating the bare reclaimed wood slat table in the corner.  I glance at the American flag sculpture on the wall next to me, slowly realizing the flag wraps a gun. I sip my bourbon sour slowly. It’s elegant: boozy, but not too. My friend Lauren is disappointed that her “Brick House” with melted Red Hots isn’t feistier. Our third mouth, Linda, finds the “BKLYN ‘76” with lemon, rosemary honey and house lavender bitters, pleasantly refreshing. Three good drinks, granted, but are you, like me, getting sated with over-preening mixology?

Sharing spicy saucisson and Taleggio in a pressed baguette makes a savory bite.

           “Let’s each choose two dishes,” I suggest. Ever the penny-pincher, I choose from  the “Three for $20” roster. There are also $11 choices and five for $16.  The look is classy, all white, small bowls and oversize plates. Two bites of skinny pressed baguette with spicy saucisson and Taleggio is a savory warm-up. And fried artichokes with daubs of black pepper aioli and Pecorino are marvelous.  Serving spoons are only brought when we ask. We have to ask again and again.

From the left: lamb “lardons,” charred leeks with ham and romesco, artichokes.

           I divide an extra-large, delicately crumbed, five-minute egg deliciously oozing yolk, dragging it through some truffle onion jam – not exactly an easy-to-share item.  But lusty, especially since I seem to have given myself most of the runny part.

I love the look of charred leeks with mangalitsa ham on pumpernickel more than the taste.

           Lamb “Lardons,” small squares cut from the flap and braised before being tossed in pimentón and served with garlic chips -- another option you’ve probably never encountered before – shows off the chef’s creativity. “Loaded Potatoes, Usual Suspects” (bacon and cheddar), have me expecting crispy potato skins rather than modest little croquettes. But once in a while a great pitcher must throw for the bunt.

The chef plates raw hamachi with pickled leeks, jalapeño and sesame powder.

           A second wave engulfs the table: guanciale with fresh kimchee, and a still life of charred leeks and slivers of Mangalitsa ham with romesco sauce on a hill of pumpernickel crumbs, my least favorite. The sting and velvety texture of hamachi against pickled leeks with discs of jalapeno stands out.

A whole, barely-cooked small lobster sits on grits with a sophisticated chocolate jus.

           What looks like a whole small lobster rides in on grits. The dark streaks on the plate are chocolate jus, the menu says, but flamed cognac and 99% cocoa keep it from a too-sweet hot fudge sundae effect. What stops us is how astonishingly rare the lobster is, close to sashimi.

Dividing even a giant prawn on squid ink noodles between three can test your friendship.

           Realistically, the very good fideo squid ink pasta with one prawn and big swaths of pimentón aioli, is only suitable for two to share. An inch of outsize prawn is just a tease. Be ready to dive into the more reasonably generous portion of lobster cavatelli with crawfish and ramps –  ever so slightly gummy, full of flavor, it’s the hit of the night.  

Spicy lobster cavatelli with crawfish and leeks is everyone’s favorite both evenings.

           Given the small plates aura, just cocktails and two desserts, the three of us are surprised we’ve spent $200 with tip. Granted, there is an ace at the range – I notice him in traditional whites, lurking at the entry to the open kitchen, gazing out at the spottily occupied lounge.  Even so, quite frankly, I had little hope for The Greenwich Project. I wondered who would come to Cheap Shoe Street for $38 “Celebration of Spring” loin of lamb, or $36 scallops with morels and foie gras sabayon, not to mention the $135 porterhouse.

Pop Eye by Joseph. The art on the walls is for sale, just ask for a card from the gallery.

           Five nights later when I come back to taste more, I stumble into the answer. It looks like a tour bus had debarked a full load of frat boys and their dates at the bar. There is even a guy in a party hat. The lounge tables are full of eaters. Upstairs, we settle at a hammered copper table, across from a pop art painting of Popeye. Captains in suit jackets, jeans and sneakers supervise bussers ferrying hunks of meat back and forth across the room.

Captains look serious in dark jackets and sneakers. This one stands at the service table.

           One stops at our table to show off a burnished duck – wafting the powerful smoke of herbs smoldering on a wooden platter into our noses. Thanks to some timely press and a few yelpers, the affluent young are swarming.

These dehydrated and fried vegetables stand in a luscious mandarin orange-carrot jelly.

           Alas, the kitchen is overwhelmed. The baguettes, so meticulously warmed and toasty that first evening, are already cooling and drying out, as we wait for drinks. The hostess refuses to give us the lounge menu upstairs but the captain agrees to bring three small plates anyway. They arrive before our wine: the lambs lardons, the baguettes a little squashed, a smaller portion of the fabulous artichokes, not quite so fabulous.

Halibut wears a brioche suntan, in a puddle of mandarin-orange jus with salted cashews.

           The decent $48 Corbieres and a sensational beef tartare amuse with a tangle of pickled ramps and radish sprouts follow. “Variation of Market Vegetables” -- dehydrated and fried -- seems a little skimpy for a $16 appetizer but I relish the lemongrass spiked yellow-pepper-mandarin-orange gelee they are planted in. We have to beg for spoons to scoop it up. A side of other-worldy just-born carrots is remarkable. You might want to try  potatoes no bigger than marbles too.

           Again the cavatelli is a triumph. As before, the lobster on grits is shockingly rare. My friends seem to love it, bemoaning only a too meager ration of grits.  The halibut has a handsome brioche suntan and salted cashews, but the last-minute pour of mandarin-carrot jus isn’t enough to counteract overcooking.  Two rectangles of rib eye – not rare as ordered -- make me wish I’d caved for the costly whole duck. Clouds of smoke from the to-and-fro of burning herbs garlanding the caramelized meat torture me with regrets.  Will I ever give in to you-only-live-once?

I guess for some people, donuts are essential on any dessert list.  These are just ok.

           Could be it was premature to worry about The Greenwich Project. Businessman Nick Boccio dreamed up the concept as well as the design – he already had The Vinatta Project and The Mulberry Project before the chef signed on. I’ve not been to either. His executive chef Carmine Di Giovanni is a talented veteran of Picholine and David Burke’s empire. After Friday night’s unexpected siege, he’s ready to tackle problems, like keeping food hot.

           Consider that the local Community Board is pushing the renaissance of Eighth Street. Le Parker Meridien’s Burger Joint just opened a few doors away. As the chef observes, “You couldn’t squeeze in another restaurant a block west on Greenwich,” he adds. And Babbo is steps away. So why heightened ambition on Eighth Street.

This is the smallest baba ever invented, in a delicious pool of sweet cubed pineapple.

           “God bless unjaded New Yorkers,” says Di Giovanni. Agreed.  New York’s love affair with restaurants is endlessly surprising. 

47 West Eighth Street between Sixth Avenue and Washington Square Park East.
212 253 9335. Monday through Thursday 5 pm to 12:30 am. Friday and Saturday till 2 am. Brunch Saturday and Sunday 11 am till 4 pm. (Supposed to start next weekend).

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Photographs may not be used without permission of Gael Greene. Copyright 2013.

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