April 9, 1999 |
Vintage Insatiable
Punsch Line
Did you know there’s a West 60th Street? It runs the unexpected way, west from Broadway. How perverse. But then, perversity – the contrariness of Manhattan heat – has always been our town’s most endearing charm. Why the Canal Bar? Why 150 Wooster Street? Why Punsch, for goodness’ sake?
Taking forever to open… that has the crowd panting. Fêting Anne Bass, Suzanne Farrell, and then Thierry Mugler (with a Mugler-dressed Barbie doll mounted on a carved-ice birthday cake) in the not-yet-completed Punsch… that’s pretty hypeful. Being hailed in Women’s Wear Daily as “Brian McNally’s newest restaurant venture” couldn’t hurt, even though it’s not Brian’s. Yes, Ulrik Trojaborg and Rick Wahlstedt have toiled at the master’s elbow (Ulrik at Canal Bar and 150 Wooster, Rick at Indochine). Having rubbed in the Golden Grease, they can mimic that downtown ease of his – the improvisational air, the minimal ambience, the maximal impact of lithe beauties descended from ancient civilizations hustling your order.
Early on, Vanity Fair hailed Punsch’s “ultra-stylish” design, recalling “the Nordic modernisms of Saarinen and Asplund… an unorthodox mixture of noble and humble materials.” (Linoleum to you, love. Impossible to keep clean.) What a clod you are to find it bland, unresolved, uncommitted.
Not bothering to post the name, or even a number, outside is catnip to Manhattan masochists. The desultory block reminds one of Canal Bar’s. It feels like nowhere. And yet it isn't. Look for the crouch of limousines and yawning drivers. Antique steel doors, yet to be mounted, may one day announce the name. Till then, as Ulrik suggests, “there’s the fun of discovery.”
A glittery roster of investors is also a definite plus. There are twenty or so, ballet-world legends, fans, groupies – Peter Martins, Anne Bass, Heather Watts, Earle Mack (who swore he’d never back another restaurant after Prima Donna; he probably considers this culture), art collector Agnes Gund, Beth DeWoody of the Rudin clan, Fame publisher Steven Greenberg, the late Keith Haring. Many of the canny investors eat here – Bass with beau Dick Feigen on a round forward banquette, Martins in a power seat almost every evening. So there’s the thrill of voyeurism to feed our hunger while the kitchen finds itself. We sit, eyes darting in expectation, feckless wonders waiting for the faces that vindicate our presence here.
I’ve never watched the fever building. There is almost no one in the place at 9:30, at ten; then come Martins and a rush of kultur mavens clutching ballet programs. That February night, dinner is disappointing (except for a trio of sparkling herrings, hearty pea soup, and a tasty salad of giant sea scallops on spinach), I decide never to return. But spies overhear Barry Diller saying he knew 90 percent of the crowd on a recent Sunday – Donna Karan, Michael Douglas, Ed Koch, Kelly and Calvin Klein with Fran Leibowitz, Geoffrey Beene, then rag trade’s new darling Gordon Henderson, Sandra Bernhard with Isaac Mizrahi. Kathleen Sullivan tête-à-tête with Mort Zuckerman. Would 90 percent of the crowd know Barry Diller? Don’t be rude. Are they lapping up the mucky tortellini with asparagus glue and loving the chewy venison stew, with its cardboard cornmeal crust? Surely the kitchen deserves another chance, I decide.
Our bitchy quartet is not just posing as sociologists, we’re actually having fun cataloguing tribal ceremonies and fashion headlines – power scions Jonathan Tisch and Bill Rudin, a lady in red turban and cape, big black brim at the bar, Working Woman tote ankling out the door as intergenerational nomads pile in post-theater, tube tops worn as skirtlets, black, black, black – and hair. Mane-twitching and –touching. Cowlicks starched, hedges mowed. Add up to everything spent on hair products to groom this crowd and you won’t be so worried about the economy.
“I definitely recognize that woman with the Pekingese seated next to her is not Charo,” I overhear. “And isn't that you-know-who what’s-her-name?”
“Jamie Lee Curtis?”
“Right.”
“It isn't even a look-alike.”
The professional mouth prides itself on never letting mood flavor the taste buds. Does this mean chef Andy Pforzheimer (Canal Bar, Arcadia, “21,” Stars) is getting it together? Or have we just lucked into his best dishes? Grilled bits of rabbit on zesty white beans, good rack of lamb with plump, chewy string bens, chicken with cabbage and whole cloves of garlic in mashed potatoes, duck with a mash of lentils, and good-enough monkfish glorified by something called Jannson’s temptation – an outrageousness of anchovy-touched potatoes baked in cream, the forbidden we thought we’d never wallow in again (and here we are, wallowing). But disaster’s befallen the pea soup – it’s a listless sludge, as if it had simmered on the stove for a week.
“Look at those headbands. Those are not Upper East Side Wasp headbands.”
“You’re right. They’re definitely Queens headbands. Forest Hills?”
“Last train to Flushing.”
The best thing about dessert is that it’s not overly distracting. The apple tart à la mode is utilitarian. Ditto humble cheesecake, icy citric sorbets with chopped fresh fruit, and a sliver of dark, rich truffle cake. Punsch, the sticky-sweet liqueur this canteen is named after, is best as a splash in a parfait of vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, candied ginger, and coffee kick known as the kapten’s glass. Indeed, if Punsch were as potent and addictive as the margarita, I guess there’d be a Scandinavian smorgasbord on every block.
Punsch, with just a smattering of briny starters, is not Scandinavian enough for me. I’ve been in New York long enough to remember, and long for, the thrill of the glorious groaning board at the late Copenhagen, where I learned to love herring and dared even till-then-dreaded beets. Now, at lunch, the mozzarella-and-tomato-and-basil omelet and the shreds of duck confit and vegetables with orzo can be very mundane, and my dry steak sandwich tastes like a reject from the day before.
But Punsch’s roster of Danish and Swedish open-faced sandwiches – choice of two for $12 – is heavenly. My favorites, heaped high and smartly dressed with bits of watercress and sprouts, are sologa (matjes herring, capers, onion, and red beets on pumpernickel), feske korkans nasbranna (peppered mackerel with horseradish cream on rye), Katerine Fra Roskilde (juicy rare roast beef on a hill of potato salad), and Freijas Karlek (sautéed sole on rémoulade sauce), but steak tartare and turkey breast on a salad of apple and celery root are good, too.
The two Ricks aren’t sure how chauvinistic they dare to be. But they’re talking about a smorgasbord buffet for weekend brunch when life smooths a bit. Imagine bumping into Peter Martins over twelve kinds of herring, or crossing forks with Anne Bass at the salade russe.
Wowing Barry Diller wows Rick and Ulrik, too, but the trick will be to keep folks coming when the spotlight dims. As Brain McNally notes, “There’s a core group of 300 people. They move in a body from one place to another. You’re lucky if you get a year. Punsch is the last in a line of a type that began with Fifth Avenue. Odéon. Indochine. This sort of thing can’t continue.”
Punsch, 11 West 60th Street (767-0606). Lunch, Monday through Friday 1:30 a.m. to 3 p.m.; dinner, Tuesday through Saturday 6 p.m. to 12:30 a.m., Sunday and Monday till 11:30 p.m. A.E., D.C., M.C., V.