The Hard-Boiled Restaurateur Visits David Burke Kitchen

The Hard-Boiled Restaurateur dives into David Burke’s SoHo Spot.

First published at The Rec-Room.

The Hard-Boiled Restaurateur:
This world is turning to shit. There’s nothing left but crime and corruption–and food. There’s always good food, especially in the vice-filled urban areas known as Manhattan and Brooklyn. The Hard-Boiled Restaurateur is dedicated to rooting out the wheat from the chaff, the good from the bad, the best from the rest, all in the name of finding the top restaurants this decaying metropolis can offer.

I had a choice: ascend or descend. It was a bit early to be so optimistic, so I took the right hand staircase that lead me down further into the fire. I ignored the brunette hostess at the podium and walked to the bar. Wicker seats greeted me with indifference as I shifted and situated myself opposite a window letting in some light. A moment later a green-eyed belle came over and asked what I wanted. I told her to fetch me a two fingers of Bulleit.

She started to grab a few cold, clear stones, before I corrected her. “Neat, sweetheart. Neat.”

She gave me a sideways glance before fetching a fresh glass. Good girl, I thought.

She returned a minute later with a heavy pour that served as her apology for the prior faux pas. This girl’s alright.

She asked me if I wanted anything to eat. I told her I’m meeting someone for lunch. Her eyes flitted away as a comrade-in-arms arrived with what looked like an overly complicated drink order.

I glanced at my watch. 1:45. I was early. I like to arrive early. It lets me take in the scene. Never arrive late; that’s how you people surprise you, and in my line of work it’s never good to be surprised.

I glanced down the bar to my right. It continued its slate grey surface until it hit a corner, at which point it jutted right to form that quintessential ninety degree angle. I imagined this place full on a Thursday night, the regulars having claimed their rightful seats amongst the bridge and tunnel crowd that flocked to SoHo like oh-so-many tourists during the day.

I shook off that image and turned left. The square dining room was filled with two types: artists and businessmen. It looked to me like the usual crowd for a Tuesday around two, I guess. Pictures of chefs in their proper uniforms doing chef-ly things lined the walls. One held a string of lobsters ready to be boiled. Another had just set up his mise en place. The patrons chatted about their vapid lives in their trendy clothing amongst their bored waiters.

I took another drink. The glass was lighter than expected so I called out for another. I’m going to be great company, I thought.

I finished my second tumbler just as Elizabeth arrived. This dame has got me under her thumb. We’ve rarely spoken for extended periods of time. I couldn’t remember when last we met for a meal, but here we were.

I got up and left a pair of twenties at the bar; if I came back, that should secure me a nice heavy-handed pour. Elizabeth looked me over and extended her cheek.

“How’s it going, doll?” I said as I gave her a kiss and pulled her in close.

She pulled away and playfully tapped my cheek with her cool hands. Her hands always were cold. We followed the hostess to our seats and Elizabeth took a look around. She liked the center column and the bus station made of bronze and wicker. We were seated in the left-hand corner of the restaurant, an ideal spot as we can see everyone. Only the entrance to the wine cellar is behind us. Each of us parsed the menus and we settled on a bottle of wine to share right as the bearded waiter arrived.

“Hi. What can I bring you two to drink?” he asked nonchalantly.

“A bottle of Chateau Montelana Riesling. Thanks, Jack.”

He whisked himself away, seemingly happy that we’re not the type to order wine by the glass. I just turned a two-top afternoon lunch into a decent tab.

Elizabeth coyly eyed me. I turned from my menu to her. She looked good. Form fitting black dress and a pair of ruby-red heels. Her hair looked like fall foliage and her dark, wire framed glasses made me think of my past infatuation with librarians. Her eyes shined through the rims, and I avoided gazing too deeply for fear of falling for her. We’ve always worked best on physical terms, not emotional.

The waiter returned, bottle in tow. Elizabeth smiled at him warmly. Girl knew how to pour on the charm, that’s for sure. As he served, I went through the motions and upheld that sacred tasting ritual that seems so important to some but meaningless to others.

“The wine is perfect. Thanks.”

He placed the bottle in a bucket and asked if we were ready to order. Elizabeth nodded slowly and nudged my knee. I took the hint. “I’ll go first. Let me have the duo of lobster and beef followed by the prosciutto pizzette.”

“I’d like the lobster bisque and a mozzarella pizette,” Elizabeth said. She touched my knee under the table. I took her meaning and reached under her dress and grabbed her upper thigh. Every once in awhile she likes to tease, especially when she thinks no one else can see.

After the waiter left, I sipped some wine. “So, what’s been goin’ on darlin?” I asked.

“Work is work. Life is life. The days continue on.” She waved her hand demurely and edged her chin downward while reciting that last part.

She looked around the room. I followed her gaze. She was fixated on another couple sitting diagonal to us on the other end of the room. I couldn’t really seem them; the center column was in my way. Maybe she knew them. Maybe they caught her eye for another reason. Who knows? All I know is that our appetizers arrived and I was ready for two pairs of braised beef and lobster dumplings.

Tiny claws protruded from the lobster dumplings, tempting me to pick them up and drop them into my mouth. I resisted and settled on using the civilized utensils provided.

First up, the lobster. Sitting in some kind of reinvented tartare sauce that tinged with spice, the first taste was like kissing a broad after going at it, simultaneously intimate and purposeful. The second bite was familiar and comforting, the third routine but nevertheless exciting. All in all, a damn good choice to start the meal. The tone was set, my expectations met.

Elizabeth carefully transported her soup to her mouth. Each sip, savored. Each tidbit of lobster, tasted. Appreciated. She sat upright and still in a somewhat sensual pose. I could tell she was enjoying it; we barely spoke.

The waiter came over and nodded. I gave him a look to communicate the quality of the experience. He smiled back, knowingly. This wasn’t a secret to him, he knew how good David Burke was.

Our plates were cleared away and we were granted a reprieve; we drank to it. The place was clearing out, leaving Elizabeth and I as the solitary pair amongst the the bare banquette. She told me about her work. I listened absentmindedly. Something about contracts, redlines, and a boss that called her out on her faults.

I kissed her. No need for discussion about work. We both skipped out early for this meal and time together. The entrees arrived and, perhaps unsurprisingly, they were unremarkable. The amount of prosciutto that lined the flatbread was generous, the egg on top soft and moist, but the arugula was dry. I think a drizzle of olive oil would’ve helped.

We made up for the subpar entrees with dessert. Elizabeth ordered a deconstructed lemonade and I had a traditional chocolate tort. My companions eyes turned outward when the mason-jar of sea-salt, spun sugar, and lemon sorbet arrived. Mine turned inward as a dome of deathly dark chocolate, caramel, and raspberry gelato was placed in front of us. Elizabeth had the winning hand this time, no doubt about it.

We tasted, traded, and treated until the I pulled out my card for the check. Our gruff waiter came over, bowed deferentially, and then retreated to the bus station to prepare for the dinner shift. Elizabeth and I got up.

“Did you enjoy that?” I asked, more as a courtesy than actually caring.

“Oh yes. It was lovely,” she replied with matched coolness.

We ascended the stairs and I opened the door. Elizabeth stepped out, locked her arm in mine, and we proceeded down the street towards another set of stairs that led us into a tunnel filled with a misty humidity and slender silver bullets — that unwillingly transported us across the borough, under the bridge, and toward my apartment in Brooklyn.

Should you go to David Burke Kitchen?
Yes, but skip the comfort food. It’s got a great vibe, the service is unobtrusive and professional, and the menu has plenty of creative bites ready to be tasted. Try something bold and new; skip the mundane.