January 31, 1994 |
Vintage Insatiable
Les Célèbrités: The Sweet Smell of Excess
Not everyone was humbled in the nineties. Don't you feel the frisson? Déjà moola. Grown men throwing billions at each other for Paramount and a building where the windows pop out. Wall Street still cashing in on our primal optimism. So forget about feeling indigent. Come join us at Les Célèbrités. We've been invited. Our host -- an unrepentant richling -- tries to dine here at least once a month. You or I could eat happily for $100 or so each. Not this Warbucks. After a couple of bottles of Château Petrus and a tornado of truffles, our devil-may-care pal stuffs the check into his pocket without a glance or a whimper.
What a night. While we've been off downscaling, clutching pennies and tippling the wines of Chile, chef Christian Delouvrier has been whipping his kitchen into a creative frenzy. Indeed, all the kitchens of the Essex House are his fiefdom, but this small, precious Lalique-and-gold-leaf jewel of a dining room is his pride. Of the $80 million Nikko spent to spruce up the property, $5 million was frittered away on just fifteen tables (56 seats).
Even if you don't share a passion for the Art Deco masterworks of Emile-Jacques Ruhlmann, you'll be stunned by the gleaming opulence. Lacquer and bold patterns. The ebony cabinets and chairs, some of them authentic, others meticulous copies. The voluptuous overdoor panels and the foam bubbles of the custom Limoges plates, echoed in the satiny linens. If I had an ounce more larceny in my soul, I'd hire a van, pull up to 58th Street -- where the accent marks are constantly tumbling off the LES CÉLÈBRITÉS sign -- and haul everything home.
There's still a curse on hotel dining rooms. Le Cirque shrugged it off with a separate street entrance for Sirio's following from the old Colony. The wizardry of Gray Kunz drags fans through the maze of the St. Regis to Lespinasse. But the dust of lofty feeding ambitions seasons many a room-service club sandwich. And it's easy to overlook Les Célèbrités, hidden far from the lobby past a treasury of old photographs (Jean Harlow, Barbara Hutton, Brenda Frazier, and Robert Taylor, looking younger than Johnny Depp). That makes it perfect for romantic rites and revels, aging Don Juans with expensive women, almost any monkey business. Definitely worth saving up for the splurge.
I like to sip a flute of champagne before dinner in the red-and-black sitting room with its zebra rug and the jazz musician painted by James Dean. (Yes, that James Dean, not long before he shuffled off.) Surprise -- good painting. To be frank, art by celebrities is a gimmick the place doesn't need. Phyllis Diller. Pierce Brosnan. Elke Sommer. Their works are for sale now and then, profits to charity. Somehow, almost all seem bearable, a few even wildly appropriate, dramatic as the kitchen itself, a theater behind glass. Even the neon of 58th Street blurs through strategic greenery. Shaded lamps on every table are kind to aging epidermises, and serious, grown-up waiters practice the niceties of proper service. Soft rolls -- olive, walnut, whole-grain, classic French -- baked every afternoon at three, are instantly replaced again and again till you beg for mercy.
Ah, the truffles. Well, why not? It's the season and our host's weakness. The chef's gift, caramelle pasta (actually shaped like a cellophane-wrapped Kraft candy), is masked with truffled cream. And we are sharing not one but two "crushed potatoes" laced with butter and buried in a rubble of black truffles, $30. The mysterious fungus also perfumes wondrous warm lobster salad with red bliss potatoes and leeks. Giant shrimp, perfectly cooked, perch atop saffron risotto heaped into a crisp pancake bowl. Wild mushrooms and a glaze of chicken jus elevate humble gnocchi to sainthood. Caviar is just the final fillip to a napoleon layered with especially savory salmon. Even a simple toss of roasted cêpes, haricots verts, and young asparagus has extraordinary élan. (Oh, all right, so it's an $18 salad and ought to stand up and tap-dance.)
Delouvrier has added alicuit of duck legs and magret to the menu, a hearty dish braised and roasted with giant carrot and potato cuts inspired by his Gascony childhood. Of course we must have it. But what's an evening here without the mythic honey-orange-lacquered duck, sweet and moist with hints of cumin and coriander? We'll have that, too -- it's a legacy of Delouvrier's days under Alain Senderens, at L'Archestrate in Paris and, later, at Maurice in the Parker Meridien. Senderens was tough. "But that was the greatest experience," he says. Duck and duck, you protest. Absolutely. Trust me.
Like so many of our town's visionary chefs, Delouvrier has been seized with a mania for the eclectic. His cooking is a sophisticated babble of cuisines, though he still sauces with a strong French accent. Smoked salmon and cod in a fluffy potato cake sits in classic cream sauce with the tang of grape juice. The oyster soup blends cream and lemongrass. Crisp-skinned salmon on leek compote is wreathed in Oriental spicing. Squab comes with garlic confit, rosemary-roasted artichokes, and truffled polenta. The rack of lamb is classic, perfect for the unadventurous, and the pepper steak is so good that I might have listed it in the sirloin hall of fame a month ago.
But the lobster medallions with green lentils have been roasted to rubber. And a stinginess of sole curls in embarrassment. If only the chef's heart were in it, as in tonight's special of miraculously fresh, barely gelled yellowfin, sprinkled with points of coarse salt -- yet not too salty at all.
Everything about an outing to Les Célèbrités cries out for Petrus. If you're feeling flush or with a fat cat who loves you, by all means. But there are more than enough wines from California and France at fair prices, even some drinkable bargains. A six-course tasting costs $85. For winter, there's a $95 dégustation de la chasse, a hunt dinner that, for $135, can be served with the Rhone wines of Guigal.
If only all of pâtissier André Renard's desserts were as glorious as they look. Tiramisu even with Kahlúa and a sugar swan, is still tiramisu. And "Tiffany Surprise," a quarter inch of crème brûlée with apples under a caramelized pastry dome, is too much ado. Give me the tang of grapefruit or passion-fruit sorbet. But if you just can't bear to end the excess, ask for deep, dark chocolate soufflé. It comes with luscious praline ice cream in a chewy almond tuile, followed promptly by irresistible chocolates encircling a pulled-sugar bouquet. About now, a panel from the old S.S. Normandie will drop out of nowhere, hiding the kitchen for the night. You're all alone. Nest against a tapestry pillow, sip a sweet Sauternes. And raise a glass to Doris Duke.
Les Célèbrités, Essex House, 160 Central Park South (484-5113).
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