Cascabel: Shanks for the Memories

        The waltz of the whisks plays on. Little cookie-cutter chefs tumble out of the culinary-academy ovens every semester, but pure pitch is rare and classroom skills need seasoning. So restauranteurs woo and steal, and wanderlust fires the rising stars of the range. That’s exactly how the chef at Alison on Dominick Street wound up at Cascabel. And how the former chef at Soleil was hired to fill the empty toque -- to reproduce the legendary lamb shank.

        When his profit share at Alison didn’t amount to a hill of lentils, Tom Valenti got the itch. He might have gone grand, big-time, uptown. But his pasta supplier, John Zaccaro Jr., had a family problem --  and Valenti knew he could fix it: Cascabel, limp and unloved, neither here nor there on Lafayette. Yes, Mom had run for vice-president, but that couldn’t fill the seats.

        “If you’re on the edge of SoHo, you may as well be in North Dakota,” Valenti told Zaccaro. “You need a draw.”

        “What about you?” Zaccaro asked.

        The idea simmered.

        “When I realized I was ready to move,” Valenti says, “I made a conscious effort to stay downtown. I’m not ready to supervise a big kitchen. I really want to cook. I want to keep my hands dirty while I still have the energy. At the end of the night, I like to identify each stock in the stains on my apron.”

        And now Cascabel has precisely what it needs -- wonderful food worth getting lost for. Passersby can wander in for pasta and a glass of wine at the bar. Lovers may even find the voguish dim romantic. Miles Davis or early Mel Tormé, mirrors everywhere, spotlights focused, and a muted glow on walls swirled in crimson and black, like Japanese lacquer. As for that sculpture, could it be...an eviscerated cricket? Two coconuts in an oversize tamale?

        The crew is eager, unbridled, still in rehearsel. And the chef confides that he’s just getting the feel of the kitchen. But that’s okay. His robust cooking is absolutely winning. The familiar beans and peas and tangy broths. The signature tepee of salmon on a chick-pea pancake. The obligatory charred lamb slices painted with peppery lemon mayonnaise. And the amazing lamb shank, now with whole roasted garlic and tomato risotto, march out of the kitchen in relentless triumph.

        Pastas from junior’s Ravioli Store on Sullivan Street provoke a torrent of fashionable Italianate diversions. Farfalle with sausage, broccoli rabe and borlotta beans. Magnificent tripe on penne in a chili-hot tomato-wine sauce that telegraphs the scent of pleasure from across the room. Begin boldly, with octopus and whelk in a crush of savory tomato, or duck carpaccio with a Technicolor of lentils and small cuts of gizzard confit. Chicken-and-foie-gras agnolotti float in duck broth with chick-peas and leeks. But don’t call this a frisée salad when it’s just a doodad of green beside sturgeon with poached egg on toast. And let’s retire the fried-whitebait prologue for something - anything - less greasy.

        The specter of citywide tuna abuse fades with this rosy, porcini-dusted magic. Let the mood dictate. Grilled halibut, clean and fresh in a tangy tomato consommé.  Or nuttily crisp skate on braised cabbage with potato crackles and “bacon butter.” Or perfectly cooked squab under a crown of the thinnest fried onion rings. Meat lovers who can resist the shank will be wowed by the braised beef paired with a small and splendid grilled steak and spaetzle, or tenderest pork loin with spinach and white-bean ravioli. (Entrées $14 to $24.)

        Intense sorbets, such as tonight’s mango, apricot, and grapefruit Campari, are what I long for after such a hearty indulgence. Perhaps, too, a butter cookie and a chocolate macaroon. Or the lemon semifreddo with its citric puddle, homey ginger cake filled with buttermilk cream, and a tricky but delicious arrangement of apple baklava.

        Two weddings in a year would frazzle most anyone. First a new husband, now a new chef. Alison Price-Hurt was in a dither. After all, Tom Valenti’s cooking had become a trademark of Alison on Dominick Street. When he left for Cascabel, she felt jilted, then paralyzed -- daunted by the impending talent hunt. And she was soon lost in the flood of résumés, numb with the endless tastings of the candidates’ sweetbreads and chocolate soufflés. Until Scott Bryan came along. And alumnus of Mondrian, Bouley, Le Bernardin, he’d fled Soleil for the Hamptons in a philosophical snit -- “to clear my head a bit.” Could he be Mr. Right?

        So far, it’s a honeymoon. My first-time guests rave. Longtime Alison fans may notice the difference, but they’re happy, too. As for Bryan, he’s reassured by the professional staff, serious wine list, and the room, “elegant and simple, hitting the high notes, just like the food.” With fewer hands in the kitchen and linen bills down, Price has postponed earlier plans to move. She thinks she can make money.

        Of course, new liaisons often bring old baggage. Here it’s the lamb shank. “Customers go nuts over it,” Bryan acknowledges. “Maybe I’ll get rid of it for the summer. I’d like to do braised beef cheeks in the fall to wean people away from the shank,” he says wistfully. And his is good, juicy (more flavorful tonight than Valenti’s a few days ago at Cascabel), with an extra boost from the garlic-lemon-parsley gremolata, plus the traditional white beans. Like the front page of the New York Times, the menu is familiar -- same crimes, different datelines. Chefs everywhere do skate and tuna and squab with designer purees, flavored oils, and self-conscious emulsions. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

        Here gently gelled cod sits beside truffle-oil mashed potatoes with asparagus in mushroom juice. Wondrously crisp salmon, equally rare, gets napped with a lemongrass potion, and the pea-sprout floats give it an earthy savor. Green lentils, garlic confit, and -- yes -- foie gras emulsion grace the squab. An echo of Valenti’s duck-liver vinaigrette? It’s not that anyone is copying anyone else. Foie gras creep is in the air. It always is.

        The skate picks up a hint of thyme in the sautéeing and arrives with eggplant puree in a bouillabaisse vinaigrette. And is there a Republican in the kitchen? The sirloin with its “potatoe” napoleon gets my vote anyway, with stewed shallots in a tangy Cabernet sauce. Entrées range from $23 to a rude $31 (for a first-rate veal chop special on zesty risotto).

        As for the starters, the brininess you want from an oyster stew is overwhelmed by cream, but endive-walnut-and-Roquefort salad makes a lively beginning. And a tuffet of roasted beets under a melt of chevre is exquisitely sauced. Even though the kitchen has occasional excesses -- peanuts in the seafood salad is overkill -- and a shade less punch, this is still one of the most romantic spots in town. Our waitress tonight is so polished that she seems to read our minds, and Alison herself helps us choose wines, a Jura Chardonnay and a Guicharde Rhône, both exceptionally delicious for the price, $19 and $21.

        The warm chocolate cake looks familiar, but it definitely satisfies the craving for cocoa. The crème brûlée is classic. And the warm apple tart is shockingly delicious. With the $3 tea bag comes a sweet little cookie farewell. Time again to rediscover that shiver of surprise -- on a desolate patch of urban nowhere. 

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