July 15, 2013 | BITE: My Journal
Flight of the Butterfly


Butterfly scores with first-rate fried chicken, cole slaw and fabulous honey biscuits. 

          If I hadn’t just bumped into him touting the aggressive aging of cows at Costata, his remarkable translation of a steakhouse, I might think that the compulsively driven chef Michael White had nothing to do one afternoon, so he opened the Butterfly.

          Why bother? What we’ve got here in a narrow pocket on West Broadway, between a couple of eateries you and I never heard of, is a homesick diner serving retro American pop food with 55 seats and cocktail ambition. Not quite the Wisconsin supper club Eater led us to expect.

 


The West Broadway entrance is more imposing than the narrow space itself.


          In fact, White warehoused the space for two years, craving a presence in Tribeca. Meanwhile, he and his money partner, Ahmass Fakahany, grew their Altamarea empire to $50 million revenue last year, from $3 million in 2008, planning a rooftop greenhouse in California, Chop Shop in London, a seed of Nicoletta Pizzeria in Washington D.C. and an uptown Morini where Centrolire used to be.



Expect serious action at the bar. Mixologist Eben Freeman has revised retro classics.

 

          He sold The Butterfly to the neighborhood planning board with an early menu of Midwestern nostalgia like fried cheese curds, French bread pizza, a mid-century hostess dip of baked spinach and artichoke called the Crock Pot, “Sheboygan Style Brats” and beef stroganoff. As a Midwesterner from Detroit, I saw my life flashing before my eyes just thinking of it.

 


My marvelous bourbon whiskey sour and the refreshing upgraded Tom Collins.

          But then White decided to dedicate the Butterfly to the company’s celebrated mixologist Eben Freeman. It would be a cocktail bar with “fabulous bar food,” he promised.  Eben himself tricked up the place, chose the mirrors, the bamboo-wrapped bar, some 50s clocks set at 4:35, a banquette with vintage airs, waiters with multiple ballpoint pens in their pocket protectors and waitresses in ruffled aprons. Is it possible this cost $1.5 million? Never mind. After a few sips of Freeman’s Rusty Nail or a Brandy Old Fashioned, you’ll realize this is fun.

 


Custom ice and prestige booze are the mark of Eben Freeman’s muddling.

          I’m excited tonight by Freeman’s cocktail revival sketched in Trader Vic’s tiki taki style on the back of the small folding menu. I immediately consider the Mai Tai, an old prom favorite. But then I’m drawn to the Grasshopper, another friend from childhood retooled for a nation of demanding barflies. Crème de cacao, crème de menthe, crème de calories.  I pass. My $14 Whiskey Sour with maple angostura and couturier ice cubes turns out to be boozy and marvelous. My friend’s re-jiggered Tom Collins tastes like a walk into the cold box on this sultry evening when the air conditioning seems pokey.  

 


Housemade bratwurst painted with spicy mustard makes exceptional sliders.


          When was the last time you saw the category “Hors D’Oeuvres” on a menu? There are nine at $8 to $13, counting the relish plate with ricotta-ranch dressing and the pork rinds gussied up with pecorino and rosemary.  Our savory bratwurst sliders with spicy mustard may be the best dish of the night.

 


Reuben croquettes are good too, exposing a younger generation to 1000 Island dressing.


          Reuben croquettes gather corned beef, sauerkraut and rye in a lush stickiness of cheese. My companion has heard of their thousand island dressing dip, but never actually seen that particular atomic orange glow before. I can tell she’s not sure at first if she likes it. But then she instructs the waiter to leave it behind just in case. 

 


There’s nothing wrong with zucchini minis, just that we expected crispy zucchini cakes.


          It turns out to be perfect for jazzing up the boring cod filet in the “Moby Dick” sandwich with bibb lettuce, beefsteak tomato and tartar sauce. We’re both disappointed too by the teeny blini-like zucchini pancakes in spite of generous plops of trout roe on swaths of crème fraîche. We were expecting, well…crispy, full-sized zucchini pancakes, like the fried potato latkes New Yorkers know.

 


The breaded cod in this Moby Dick sandwich is curiously boring.


          Reading ahead online as I do these days, I already knew I must have the buttermilk fried chicken, the only one of four entrees I would even consider. Nothing to complain about here. We share the four crusty sections of bird, three of them dark meat and a large, wonderfully crumbly honey-painted biscuit. My friend drags her chicken through the thousand island goo too. Excellent fries, an extra from the kitchen, get a dab of ketchup, occasionally alternating with dressing.

 


Maybe a little less mayonnaise would help this sincerely Midwestern Caesar.

          The waiter has forgotten our Caesar. Even after reminding, it seems to be taking forever. My friend urges me to cancel it because we’ve eaten so much, but too late. Here it is, exceptionally crisp. The anchovy, even as strong as it is, can’t disguise that Midwestern mayo.  

 


A hot blonde sundae needs a seriously luscious hot blondie.

          My friend clearly doesn’t want any part of dessert. She’s on her way this week to Miami with her bikini. “The fried chicken and biscuit was my dessert,” she says. So it’s up to me. I choose the “Hot Blonde.” I thought Wisconsin was famous for its blondes. This sundae homage isn’t even close to sinful.

 


Butterfly is just a neihgborhood bar with ambitious cocktails and pretty good food.


          I still don’t understand what the The Butterfly is all about, beyond an insatiable lust for zip code coverage. If you said it was a front for illegal numbers action or a cover for marijuana plants in the cellar, I’d get it. But an ode to a moment in history when Chef Bianco was peeling potatoes at a nightclub called The Butterfly? I suppose the sentiment is sweet. Still, think about the lifespan of a butterfly. Wouldn’t you be a little spooked?

225 West Broadway between White and Franklin Streets. 646 692 4943. Dinner Sunday  through Thursday 5 pm to midnight. Friday and Saturday to 1 am.


Photographs may not be used without permission from Gael Greene. Copyright 2013. All rights reserved.

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