Brasserie Pushkin Pushing Belle Epoque

          “May I offer you a glass of champagne?” our waiter begins.

          “Are you offering?” I ask.

          “Yes, I’m offering,” he says, clearly puzzled.

          “It’s a gift of the house?”

          He seems dashed. “I am offering, but of course you would pay money.”

          Such small misunderstandings are more amusing then apocalyptic at Brasserie Pushkin, recently settled with astonishIng verve and style, steps from the Russian Tea Room, where Shelly Fireman’s La Tradizionale finally bowed out after heroic makeover attempts to woo the locals. They may have never recovered from the loss of the earlier tenant, Wolf’s Delicatessen.

          A seedling of Moscow’s popular Café Pushkin, set in a 19^th century Russian mansion by entrepreneurial artist Andrey Dellos, the 57^th Street brasserie landed like a mirage in early March. The menu, styled as if it were “The Pushkin Telegraph, Vol. 1,” has vintage graphics and pockets of prose. It does look a bit like Trader Joe’s flyers, but so what?  It’s whimsically disarming and you can wile away the moments reading as you wait for the next course, which may or may not take a while.

          What we’re eating is not always what we expected or hoped from memories of blissful Russian Tea Room splurges. Tuna tartare regally delivered on a giant sloping platter with curls of baby arugula and a bubbling horseradish is muddied by truffle oil. Its decorative sprinkle of seeds reminiscent of the armor on an everything bagel.

          The brilliant scarlet borsch (sic), not quite hot enough in its iron pan and a bit too sweet, turns out to be a thick slurry with slices of first-rate short rib afloat. Smooth rather insipid pirojki (Pushkin spelling) cannot compete with the greasy, flavorful little piroshki we devoured across the street. Blintzes, filled with braised veal then toasted and browned, are simply boring, flanked with decorative drawings in two sauces on the plate. Not since Jean Jacques Rachou slammed the door of La Côte Basque in a tantrum over the Health Department inspection during lunch have we seen drawings of such artistic saucery.

          “Here is the butter made by the chef,” our waiter announces.  He circles with a basket of bread. “We have a baker that does everything to our specifications.” Besides the crusty olive roll, he is especially proud of the house’s muesli loaf with cranberries, apricots, golden raisins, rye berries and sunflower seeds. I’m hoping this won’t be one of those nights where it never gets better than the bread. A fine sturgeon galantine, poached and stuffed with shrimp, painted with an olive tapenade, is an instant high. There is a drawing of the fish’s skeleton on the plate. A little self mockery goes a long way to season pretension.

          Pelmeni - pork, beef and lamb dumplings - are beautifully made, the wrappers thin as silk. And unlike the Tea Room’s version, perversely available only at Wednesday lunch, Pushkin’s keep regular hours, like the rest of the world, but don’t come with mustard.  Order them in broth and ask for more sour cream.

          The rack of lamb is rare as ordered, velvety, yet meaty, but for $48 it could come with a vegetable and a side of Russian country potatoes. (Guess I should have heeded our waiter’s urging and ordered a side.) Each presentation brings a smile or a gasp.  

          This “modern Russian cuisine,” clearly showing its classic French underpinnings, is the work of Café Pushkin’s Chef Andrey Makhof, channeled through Jawn Chasteen, the chef de cuisine from Ohio, with input from publicist and “Iron Chef” judge Karine Bakhoum, who was flown to Moscow last spring to consult. “I told them New Yorkers like salads,” she confided, urging us to order the king crab with papaya and grape-ginger vinaigrette.  But by the time she belatedly discovered us upstairs, we had already eaten – focusing on Russian favorites – a muddy but pleasant beef Stroganov with pickle chunks to cut the richness, but not the millet blinis with Osetra caviar (for $135 ).

          Our foursome salutes her for the drama of presentations. “Everything has been simplified for New York,” she assures us. “They’d be even more elaborate in Moscow.” The pojarski burger was a New York City addition.  “But not from me,” she adds.  It seems likely some of the New York tweaks will go back home.

          Obviously the royal tables are downstairs, beyond the macaron shop and a spectacular Venetian chandelier, where the rococo ceiling is repeated on a banquette and pillows, a taste of what rubles can buy. Even a bare brick wall wears a Belle Epoque floral carving. (They admit to $4.5 million but I hear more than $5 million.) We’re parked on the low-ceiling mezzanine, but there are Titian blue skies and cherubs overhead (wallpaper) and walnut boiserie.  The shadows of leaves behind glass coyly suggest a garden lurks beyond, not just an elevator shaft. The place seems to be full of people speaking Russian. I’m fascinated by the thirst of a lively party right next to us.  Imported ramrod-straight captains flambéing. Elongated beauties at the desk, doling out gold lockets on chains with our coat check numbers inside. 

          Yes, even focusing on less pricey Russian familiars, we’ve managed to spend $320 for our our quartet.  Desserts that serve four are worth $16 – the Café Pushkin bombe for sure – nine layers of almond, raspberry sorbet and jelly, pistachio mousse, the dome painted with blueberry gelée and studded with almond slivers in a vanilla-orange coulis.

          Linger as we are for a flambée. Our waiter warming some booze on a candle till it ignites, explains how Napoleon invented the crème brûlée on the battlefield. Then he spills flames on the spun sugar veil that was protecting the emperor’s pudding from flies (I’m guessing). In a fiery blue alcoholic instant, the crackling veil melts, revealing the scarlet of raspberry coulis. Voila crème brûlée.

          I’m not exactly a pushover after 44 years as a restaurant critic. But tonight I feel I’ve dined with the oligarch’s daughters. The excess is amusing. I feel I might have been Russian in another life. (Grandma always said where she grew up was sometimes Polish and sometimes Russian.) I’ll be back for that crab salad. And perhaps the pelmeni in broth. Recently I’ve maxed out on macarons for all time, but I’ll try one of the little beauties by Café Pushkin’s world champion pastry hand, Emmanuel Ryon. With time, the kitchen might get humming.  For now I’m enjoying the theater. 

41 West 57^th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. 212 465 2400. Lunch Monday through Sunday 11:30 am to 3 pm. Dinner Sunday to Wednesday 5 to 11 pm. Thursday through Saturday 5 to 11:30 pm.  Patisserie Counter 8 am to 5:30 pm