Once in a while I want a guaranteed high for the evening. It’s not that I don’t relish, even revel in, being a restaurant critic. I certainly wouldn’t have been torturing myself for 47 years, braving the unknown from force of habit. But now and then, I want to go to a restaurant with multiple pleasures or a specific dish I crave. 

           Actually, my friend Josh thought his mother would love Upland. Yes, I agreed, Justin Smillie is constantly revising the menu, occasionally not to my taste, but full of welcome surprises and sensory rushes. My brain immediately fixed on memories of short rib intoxication -- the outrageously rich slab of beef dressed up like a Folies Bergère dancer the chef invented downtown and has revised.

On my latest visit, lemon zest (not chive) dotted the butter but the bread was equally irresistible.

           I’d forgotten how noisy Upland can be, but I feel secure enough in a roomy booth in that golden glow of lemon confit jars on the back wall. The waiter, Jeremiah, recognizes me and volunteers not to explain the whole menu but promises to hang near in case of questions. Meeting a friend’s mother is not necessarily a certain fun evening. How compatible are we? Well, without comparing notes, we all settle on the $14 Smash to start: apple brandy stirred with lemon juice and vanilla syrup, poured on top of muddled blackberries.

I’ve had the fried hen-of-the-wood mushroom twice but never before such a giant specimen.

           When I’m not working, I urge friends to order whatever they want to make up for being bossy most of the time. Some can’t handle that freedom. But San Diego mom doesn’t hesitate. She is intrigued by many of my favorites. And she doesn’t push for a pizza that everyone seems to consider a must here.

I might like a purer explosion of burrata to this one loaded with salty dried tuna, orange, curry leaves.

           The chef sends out the biggest hen-of-the-woods mushroom I’ve seen yet – crispy from frying – to slice and drag through creamy, tangy cloumage cheese.  (I wouldn’t mind a little more cheese on this plate.)

           “Couldn’t the burrata be creamier?” Josh asks. Josh is spoiled from too many dinners where chefs indulge me. I recall a whole globe that exploded once. But I do think the mozzarella cream gets lost here under ribbons of salted dried tuna, segments of orange and artichoke leaves.

           Even though it’s obvious we’re sharing, I have to ask for serving spoons. And not just here, but almost everywhere. I’m almost always sharing and almost always asking. Why don’t waiters bring serving spoons?

The chef sends out a luscious toss of tomorrow’s gem lettuce salad with apricots and we swoon.

           But I’m quickly distracted and losing my socks over the chef’s extra gift now crowding the table. It’s a salad of beyond-crisp gem lettuce leaves with cashew crumble, sliced apricots, and goat cheese in a mustardy vinaigrette that will go on the menu the next day.

Seared squid with favas, Calabrese sausage and bread crumbs in an ominous murk is delicious.

           Yet another gift -- seared squid with favas, Calabrese sausage and bread crumbs in an ominous black goop -- proves to be demandingly delicious, too. We are fast filling up, given the fiercely rich duck wings that we did order – one juicy limb for each of us, fried in duck fat and painted with citrus-chile pow. Maybe I could have ignored the warm potato bread. But none of us did. With great regret, the three of us agree we must cancel the chicken liver pasta.

We got to know Chef Justin Smillie in his open kitchen downtown. Now he indulges us.

           Since my early review, Smillie had begun offering his signature roasted short rib for two at $64. “Is it possible to have it for one?” I had asked. I am confessing this as an indiscretion on my part, since I might have guessed the answer was unlikely to be no. (“I would do it for anyone,” the chef told me later. “No one should be deprived of short rib.”)

Could we order the signature short rib for two for just one? “Yes, anyone can,” says the chef.

           The beef looks more grand duchess than I remember under poufs of celery ruffles, green Castelvetrano emeralds, toasted walnuts and lacy veils of horseradish. This must certainly be an exaggerated “half.” But I do not hesitate. I take one fatty, caramelized chunk. And then another. An olive. Two walnuts. I cannot eat another bite. But I do anyway. I am pleased to report the excess of peppercorns that had overwhelmed the early Upland version has been tamed.

The chocolate bread pudding is very pretty but not my first choice.

           We ask Mom to choose one dessert we can all taste. She fixes on chocolate bread pudding with brûléed bananas. It looks very pretty, but is definitely a hiccup after the cow. I would have chosen the rhubarb-almond tart with crème fraîche ice cream. But then I live in this town. If I survive so much blyhte excess, I can always return.

***
Once Again at The Cecil

Grilled hibiscus-glazed St. Louis ribs with blue cornmeal cake are a great add to the menu

          Since my very early rave BITE for the African-Asian-Low Country mingle of The Cecil in Harlem, I’ve been on their email list. When I got the blast about new menu items, I didn’t dilly-dally. I tapped three friends who had never been and booked an early table.

Here’s how the Cecil looks when the earlybird light fades and the crowd surges.

          I’ve been here several times with different friends who love the exotic diversity of the menu and the diversity of the crowd. But to be frank, I’d been annoyed with The Cecil. On my last visit, the kitchen had shrunk the “small” macaroni and cheese in a casserole that would serve six to a saucer for one.  When I complained to managing partner Alexander Smalls, he defended the move. “People said our portions were too large,” he told me.

 The Cecil’s Afro-Asian men theme is reflected in the art as well.

          “But that’s a virtue, not a complaint,” I responded. “I raved about that dish – not just how transporting, how like Mom’s only better, but how generous the portion. You are making me a liar.”  Smalls just laughed. He is not a man who ever thinks he is wrong.

Our quartet shared five starters (begging for serving spoons), macaroni and then two entrees.

          Well, I decide I owe it to J.J. Johnson, the talented chef, to give the place another try. So many new dishes. I survey the new all-on-one-page menu. Broiled shrimp with a yam flapjack. West African chicken Suya with grilled plantains. Spicy crab bun. Crispy chicken dumpling salad with lemongrass and candied peanuts. Braised goat on udon noodles. No way we can taste everything new.

Chef J.J’s new dishes, especially this giant pork dumpling with pickled peaches skew “more.”

          As we sip our “Southern Moment” on the rocks and Bedell Winery rosé, we debate. Soon the table is crowded with starters to share. (We have to ask for serving spoons. Again and again.) The jumbo pork dumpling sprawls over an entire plate on a puddle of green curry sauce, with grilled pickled peaches, a fried egg, a big lotus chip and a corsage of greenery on top. A lot of baggage for that dumpling.

Thin slices of lamb carpaccio are painted with silken tofu under a canopy of fired curry leaves.

          Thin slices of lamb carpaccio, swathed with silken tofu under a canopy of large fried curry leaves, is more focused. Our team’s favorite -- plump mussels in the shell in a tangy stew of duck sausage, tomato, chunks of roti and a fierce blast of yuzu -- quickly disappears.

Mussels in a tangy stew of raw tomato, yuzu and duck sausage gets everyone’s vote.

          I’ve never been here and not ordered the fried okra. It’s almost always a little different, but always brilliant, a revelation for those who think they don’t like okra. The waiter insists we try the mushroom salad too – fried mushrooms in a toss of sea beans, mustard greens, and salsify purée in a benne seed dressing.

Sweet and smoky duck comes with English peas, Thai basil and Chinese broccoli.

          At that point, two new entrees from the list (priced from $22 to $38) seem more than enough for our quartet. Both the sweet, smoked duck and hibiscus-glazed St. Louis ribs on blue cornmeal cake are kitchen triumphs. I like my ribs with some chew, not falling off the bone. And these have it.

One of my favorite macaroni dishes, ordered “small” comes jumbo size with a serving paddle.

          The diplomatically ample macaroni and cheese arrives in a large clay casserole. And chef J.J. follows, smiling beatifically, and suggesting he agrees with me on the macaroni issue. (I see from the bill it’s a gift from the house…so I suspect it may still be an issue.)

My friend Bette took this marvelous photo of chef J.J. seemingly enchanted by my praise.

          I let my guests choose a dessert from pastry chef Mame Sow’s dessert list. It’s an unexpectedly concise little coconut pie with sweet-potato ice cream and tangy yuzu curd, a luscious medley. As we leave, nighttime’s tall women are arriving, and one of them is a man.

Pastry chef Mame Sow surrounds this small coconut tart with sweet-potato ice cream and yuzu curd.

210 West 118th Street at St. Nicholas Avenue. 212 866 1262. Monday through Thursday 5 pm to midnight. Saturday 11 am to 1 am, Sunday 11 am to 10 pm.

***

Photos may not be used without permission of Gael Greene. Copyright 2015. All rights reserved.

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