Ansonia: Trading Up

          Never mind what came first -- the Ansonia Station Post Office, the now defunct Ansonia Democratic Club or the glorious beaux-arts hulk of the Ansonia, the one-time residential hotel gone co-op that looks like a mirage of Paris on the corner of Broadway and 73rd. To Louis Lanza the name invokes images of Upper Westside grandeur. Seeking to upgrade and expand his feeding fiefdom (Josie's and Josephina's) and convinced the neighborhood's maturing boomsters are primed for seriously fine dining on Columbus Avenue, Louis Lanza decided to bury all vestiges of Memphis, his Cajun hit of the 80's to launch Ansonia. 

          The soaring duplex dining room has been dressed up with asymmetrical mirrors, quirky angles of wall, subtle almost Aboriginal-like swirls on the rugs, and globes of light suspended on whimsical brass branches and leaves by sculptor J.J. Veronis. If Lanza's timing is right, soon the thirty-somethings who schmoozed and smooched at Memphis's crowded bar in the 80's will be back as forty-somethings, mellowed and ready to spend $100 or more for two on a serious Cabernet and halibut with a leek fondue and baked fingerlings in a chanterelle sauce. Late night dawdlers will discover the mezzanine lounge with its sensational grilled chicken sandwich on crusty ciabatta from the special supper menu and high-tech smoke-eaters for the cigar-puffing set.
   
          With Gotham Bar & Grill one-time sous chef Bill Telepan at the range and Daniel veteran Ricardo Castiblanco smooth as silk touting $100 burgundies up front, the house team has all the right pedigrees. And turtle-paced as it was, that first early dinner impresses. I'm ready to line up partisan support in this zipcode; after all, I live here too. The tuna tartare in a thrillingly citric lime mayonnaise with a frou frou of perky sprouts tastes as rich as tuna belly.

          A grandmotherly potato latke makes a sandwich of house-smoked salmon with creme fraiche, dill and salmon roe. Morels and early fresh peas are scattered about with a fine spring giddiness, tossed with favas in a faintly creamy egg noodle appetizer, and then again, on a special of halibut with asparagus in mushroom-perfumed broth. The perfection of blush-pink foie gras makes me think suddenly of L'Ami Louis I tell my dining pals. "Not for the size of the portion," one sniffs. Our favorite Parisian bistro serves paving blocks of this stuff. Here the fat is judiciously rationed but the elegance is not.

          Knowing I always look for the best buy on the low end of the wine list, my guest insists on treating and chooses a $130 Hospices de Beaune Corton from the small inventory of affordables and major splurges. Sipping this smolderingly sensuous red from a suitable grand burgundy glass wrapped us all in a benevolent glow, but I suspect the glazed duck, a first-rate steak, the luscious guinea hen and the crunch of roesti potatoes would have pleased us cold sober. 

          A week later, Morgan's bold, round pinot noir at one-third the price seems the perfect choice for the chef's contemporary urban cooking, classic and straightforward like Alfred Portale's at Gotham but respectfully modest -- stacked a bit on the plate, and not trying to top the master's towering skyscraper constructions. Tonight we're wild about heads-on herb-crusted shrimp sweet from the grill with white beans and arugula in tomato oil, as well really rare cod in a puddle of  minced olive vinaigrette. The monkfish in a sauce flecked with morels, favas, ramps and asparagus is exquisitely cooked too. Mushroom-studded  barley, crisped shitakes and Swiss chard flank moist, flavor-rich chicken.

          But it's quite clear that even as the menu evolves every few days, the kitchen crew is still in training. Salt attacks alternate with the occasional blahs. One night the tuna tartare has lost its lime-edge. Expertly cooked and deliciously-crusted salmon needs seasoning and should not depend on a clot of roasted tomato for oomph. Everyday there is a new soup or two and they need tougher editing. Baby clam and chorizo soup lacks spunk. The flavor of cold tomato with eggplant caviar is wimpy. But a mixed bean minestrone with pesto, and one night's chicken broth with lentils, wild spinach and peas are worth repeating.

          That the house is willing to settle for these soggy rolls when our town's bread has never been better beats me. And the desserts are still uneven. The crème brûlée may arrive runny though the dried fruit compote garnish is fair comfort. Honey frozen ice cream topped with rhubarb compote on a poppy seed waffle is not my idea of how to glorify rhubarb's brief season -- too much waffle, not enough rhubarb. Ground almonds and candied ginger tend to overwhelm the warm peach tart with its intensely peachy coulis. But the deep espresso brilliance of the  bittersweet chocolate soufflé sauce is seductive and the caramelized banana tart on a coconut linzer crust is a crackling triumph.

          Just ten days ago with its sign not yet visible from the sidewalk, Ansonia was having an adolescent identity  crisis. There were insults and a punch or two from a tipsy stock broker at the bar, always a money-maker here in good times and bad. A potential diner, checking out the menu,  cringed in fear. "We've already chopped a third off the bar to show that's not what we're about anymore,"says Lanza." Now we've moved the maitre d's stand up front to say it's the restaurant that counts."  

          It may take a while to telegraph the message and to shift the drinking crowd from standing room only microbrews at the bar to single malt scotch and a modish stogy at a table on the balcony.  But at midnight not long ago we stopped by for deep-fried onion rings, Thai ribs and sandwiches after a movie and watched as a gathering of off-duty chefs and waiters from Daniel across town annexed a series of tables.  It looked more like the greening of Columbus than the graying.