Claude Reigns

          Barb counters and collectors of bad news imagine that wielding the ax must be a critic's greatest joy. Granted, in the heat of the sensory insult -- when tongue and eye and soul are suffering -- it cheers me sweetly to know I'll get the last word. But far more lastingly thrilling than death knells are trumpets of celebration. A critic longs to discover brilliance. Dragging through a morass of the fiercely mediocre, I yearn to unearth perfection -- a genius chef creating glorious food to enchant the eye and tickle the nose and stun the mouth with rapture...perfection at a gentile tariff in a setting that welcomes.

          I've found the place. But I can't discover it. Claude's, a jewel mounted to show off the cuisinary dazzle of Claude Baills, late the exiled chef of the Palace, was the restaurant of the year long before it finally opened on upper Lexington Avenue after frazzling delays. Success blew into the discreet vestibule the first blustery day of December, and the staff has yet to recover fully. Perfection is still only a dream, but knowing epicures and restless wandering status mongers have already booked the house days in advance.

          There are only 46 chairs. Yet service is painfully slow. You may be smashed, having polished off a bottle of wine, four rolls, and a freesia before soup arrives. But courage! Wait. The food can be wonderful. And the prix fixe is right -- $15 at lunch, $28.50 at dinner.

          Proud, ambitious, creative, stubbornly perfectionist, Claude could focus on the fluting of a grape without noticing the kitchen whirling away in a tornado. But his scallop bisque is satin finesse; the sighs and moans it provoked at our table might have been lifted from the soundtrack of a porno movie. He gentles oysters into sublime submission, tenderly poached and sauced beneath a tangle of crisp vegetables julienne. Snails, a mince of mushroom, parsley, garlic, a dash of wine, a splash of cream, that's all…but the cassolette d'escargot is haunting. Red snapper is graced by Claude's red-wine sauce with nubbins of marrow. Lotte, that firm-fleshed creature sold here as "jellyfish," is batter-dipped and splendidly sauced with leek-scented cream. And Claude's navarin is not a humble stew but a fast sauté of veal and vegetables tossed from skillet to plate with infallible timing.

          Claude shares with the masters of the nouvelle cuisine an almost Japanese sensibility for…less. Nothing is left a second too long on the fire. Classic garniture is banished. There is no formal presentation of platters in the dining room. The kitchen arranges everything on the plate in breathtaking still life. Galantine of fish floats in a puddle of bright rose -- fresh tomato puree, with red grapes set like a diadem of rubies. A small ring of delicate pike mousse is filled with impeccably poached seafood in a sea of lobster-perfumed cream. The very best butter is sculpted into tiny birds. Creative, adventurous…incredibly beautiful.

          And the man behind Claude -- the man with the money, Stephen Spector -- has given him a graceful setting: peach-glow elegance, restrained, almost simple, with a fine touch for detail. Handsome chintzed walls, the fabric artfully rolled where it meets wood. Soft lighting to flatter. Pleasant water-colors. A spray of orchids at the bar. Fragrant freesias on the table (at a height, alas, that obscures the face opposite). Handsome armed side chairs. What bliss! No banquettes, no red velour, no Art Deco, no brick, no ticky-tacky antiquerie.

          They're an odd couple, the youthful French chef and the entrepreneur-dabbler. Quail brought them together. Spector raises quail in New. Jersey. Also partridge, pheasant, and, most recently, game hens. He sells them to New York restaurants. Birds are more a rich man's hobby than a livelihood. In response to rude prying about the sources of his affluence, Spector confesses to real estate and art and, hmmmm…you know. Anyway, when Claude departed from the Palace after a heated quarrel, determined to open his own small place, there was the man with the quail…and the money.

          That's Stephen Spector in the pin-stripe suit…sweet, well meaning, but not sure quite what to do. He chats with friends, sometimes joining them at table. Anarchy reigns in the dining room. No one's in charge. Claude's wife, Dolores, is content to be a bookkeeper and the hatcheck girl -- even accepting tips. Some misguided arbiter of pace has decided that there should be 35 minutes between hors d'oeuvre and entree. Sheer madness. Customers grow antsy. It takes three requests to get a wine list. Two pleas before a waiter fetches forgotten napkins. A busboy dispenses small rolls, delicious and warm. He manages to serve eight rolls while dropping only two to the floor.

          We've been here an hour now, and no sign of hors d'oeuvre. Couples arrived lovers and now scarcely speak. No one comes by to soothe or apologize. No one offers a smidgen of terrine to calm savage hunger. Folks are getting soused. Though I'd made reservations under assorted borrowed names, it was impossible to be anonymous here, and one evening, Claude got so fixated on pleasing me, two earlier arrivals left in a snit. But it happens often …when I'm nowhere in sight. A strong captain is desperately needed, and a stern, realistic second cook.

          But the house is still so new and Claude's admirers so ardent, most diners are tolerant. They will sip a pleasant $12 Chenas or a $9 Muscadet, nibble the rolls, reduce the butter birds to unidentifiable dabs…and wait. Serious gourmands can be utterly benign. One evening the quartet behind us was ecstatically sharing five desserts. "It's our third dinner here this week," they confided. And the menu does tend to ignite that kind of dizzy rapture.

          Except for an overzealous concession to the beef-or-nothing crowd -- Claude offers sirloin, fillet, and rib -- the menu is highly original. An exquisite salad, crisp leaves of Bibb with ribbons of celery and leek beside a square of lovely Corolle cheese, comes with the dinner. Even coffee, an extra $1 to $3 elsewhere around town is included here at the fixed price.

          There are a few legitimate extras at dinner: caviar and foie gras, of course, and $5 per person for a magnificent rack of lamb that serves two -- four rosy-pink chops each, with herbs and mush-room duxelles tucked inside a crisp, thin pastry wrap. But $10 extra apiece for the broiled rib of beef for two is outrageous. The tender, tasty sirloin wrapped in a crêpe ought to be straightforward enough for those who are intimidated by sweetbreads and kidneys.

          Claude's poached-egg "sandwich" -- a balloon of puff pastry split to hold three perfectly poached quail eggs on a nest of spinach (not cooked, merely wilted) -- is ethereal. And I cannot recall more transcendent quail than a brace "just cooked," sublimely delicate against the voluptuous flesh of wild cèpes in a heady reduction of stock and cream. Claude lets his imagination soar with seafood. He fills lettuce leaves with choice morsels of lobster, shrimp, and salmon afloat in a pool of lobster-spiked cream. Entrees are served with a quartet of carefully turned vegetables -- carrot, turnip, zucchini, and potato -- meticulously al dente.

          Lunch is more predictable than dinner. But there is a stylish consommé with perfect little chicken dumplings and marrow; Claude's fragrant snails; and the sublime scallop bisque, plus his leek-blessed lotte and an inspired rendition of lightly browned scallops in a sea of tomato-and-shallot-confettied wine sauce fortified with a dash of demi-glace. But even at noon, with the house less crowded, the kitchen struggles to meet a reasonable pace. "Order first, then linger sipping your aperitif," a seasoned regular advised.

          Indeed, though Claude aims for Nirvana, there are many small flaws. Elsewhere they might be less noticeable. Here, in the house of an artist, one is more demanding. And even Claude realizes that he is still refining certain notions. The fresh tomato sauce of the-pike-and-salmon galantine needs a tang of acid. At lunch both the scallop bisque and a sauce had begun to break.

          Claude's brilliant and beautiful clams in a tomato-flecked garlic butter didn't work. The clams toughened every time. Twice the kidneys have been sadly mundane. The flesh of his sole Catalane could not be more delicate, but the onions beneath would taste better caramelized and the sauce needs acid for balance. And the wine list is misleading. Half the better wines are already gone. (The list has just been intelligently revised.) But there is a lively Beaujolais nouveau, fruity and good for $9. House wine by the glass costs $2.50. The red is a fine Maître d'Estournel ‘74; the white is adequate.

          All the desserts are staggeringly beautiful -- they look like porcelain. Claude's "petit pot de crème nuit et jour a la violette" sounds like a movie starring Catherine Deneuve. And it is stunning. But underneath the whipped cream rosettes and candied violets is a simple little custard guarded by a moat of mundane chocolate. The puff pastry needs work. The Ruche Edouard VII is more thrilling to the eye than to the sweet tooth, and the soufflé Isabelle is not wantonly chocolate -- it is stingy and desperately needs a double dose of sabayon sauce. But there are stunning little pastries, miniature mille-feuilles, cream puffs, and tartelettes. And soon, homemade sorbets.

          Best to my taste is the frozen vanilla soufflé layered with currant jam and the crunchy succés ganache, with its creamy, rich chocolate mousse and crisp meringue. The homemade palmiers and almond tuiles cookies are served in a stunning basket with flowers wound round its handle -- every thing cast in sugar -- a twin of the basket Claude left behind at the Palace.

          No one questions Claude's artistry. What worries those who love his food and are moved by his seriousness and vulnerability is his erratic performance. This is his chance. A lovely little restaurant…his own…filled, with a hungry claque already joined in celebration. Can he find the pace he heeds?

          I sip the molten cream of Claude's scallop soup. Inhale its delicate sea scent. Crunch drifting vegetable ribbons. My companion, the Wall Street Voluptuary, is critical. "This is not a soup," he complains, "This is a sauce. It coats the tongue."

          I look at him as if he were mad. In matters of sublime excess, we almost always agree. "You fool," I cry. "This is heaven. When it comes to soup, I'll take a cup of sauce any day."

969 Lexington Avenue, near 70th Street.