Jean-Georges

Michelin Rating: ***

Photo credit: Francesco Tonelli for Jean-Georges

This is it. The storied Jean-Georges. Standard-bearer of New York fine dining. Unscathed survivor of Pete Wells’s scrutiny. The womb from whence came the ubiquitous, inescapable, oft-imitated and unjustly degenerated molten chocolate cake.

Walking up the stairs of the Trump International building, it’s easy to forget that this is, on paper, a hotel restaurant.

There is a door issue at Jean-Georges. They don’t like to open. Perhaps this is metaphor (there are so many trails to follow this thought that I leave it to you to explore them). The cold weather pressure vacuum takes credit for the doors into the vestibule, but there is a hapless server who serves as bridge troll holding the door closed in your face as you try to enter Nougatine (the less formal–only relatively speaking–sister restaurant that you must traverse to enter the JG dining room). He gestures at you through the dark glass. You stare back confused, wondering what riddles you’re expected to answer. He tries to make himself understood, using words you can’t hear. You gesture helplessly, desperately, when he opens the door. “Wind tunnel,” he explains, nodding accusingly towards the open entryway. You walk through in a sweat, maybe thanking him or maybe not, who can remember. It’s a rather emotional start to the evening.

Once seated, however, moods lighten. J, B, M, and 4 bathe in the soft light of a sourceless, focused glow. The rest of the dining room is dimly lit and mostly angular, though embellished with curves that travel in long, leisurely arches; the color scheme is monochromatic with discreet touches of burnished gold. The aesthetic approach to luxury is more Star Trek than Versailles, but this allows the presentation of food to pop, competing with nothing but the array of flowers arranged in small, lush bouquets on each table. There are no mirrors or ceiling fans or paintings; stimuli is kept to a minimum. Plates are white and exhibit tasteful elan with frills restrained just to the edges. The sound level is subdued, the clientele well-heeled and unhurried, and tables are distributed so that looking furtively is difficult and eavesdropping nearly impossible. Nothing is obviously extravagant, things barely register as upscale–this is indulgence in pressed linen, not ermine cloaks–but if one were to lean to the side, poke a neighbor in her rib and whisper/ask if they were moneyed, the look of controlled contempt and insulted blinking would convey: “Very.”

All this being said, the general tone of the place is not intimidating. It is a little starchy, in a benevolent kind of way–our server seemed to want to smile more than he was allowed, the young sommelier seemed nervous and eager to please, the bread server was gracious enough when M asked for two pieces–but this kind of exacting solicitude is entirely in line with the general demeanor of the commander-in-chef, whom J pointed out was in the house. Catching a glimpse through a narrow aperture, Chef Vongerichten himself was in intense conference with someone, presumably a manager. This was not the body language of a bon vivant, a jolly inn keeper; this was the vessel of a compact coil of culinary talent. And when he springs (if springing isn’t considered vulgar in the JG world), there is nary a boundary he would not sail over–whether it be food cultures or codified recipes.

This is so evident in the food that it is almost entirely a personal dissertation of a single man’s vision. This is common now, in a world of chefs bellowing their points of view from every dishsoap-box, and we take it for granted that this is what dining is. But regional fare has little to do with an individual chef at all, and signature dishes in landmark restaurants continue even after nameless inventors have long gone. There is great joy to eating the anonymously collective efforts of culinary tradition–but this is not that. This is one guy’s hallucinatory food dreams come to life. So is he worth listening to?

He is. The dishes are as tightly wound as the man, structured and deliberate, solemn, leaning towards acidic and away from sweetness when the choice arises. Choices are what makes artists out of men, and the ones made here indicate an artist that recoils from both convention and vulgarity, finds an uncomfortable place somewhere in between, and sleeps on a bed of needles covered in silk sheets. Yuzu appeared insistently at the table on more than one occasion, as did fussy, aggressively-flavored gelees–both deserve more flattering descriptions, but the food in general does not lend itself to simple characterizations. Jalapenos barged in where they were initially not welcome. Porcinis so fat Smurfs could have lived in them had their rumps branded with grill marks, chewing the scenery in a play that was supposed to star the arctic char. The Alsatian chef has an appreciation for American portions which he manages to marry with misleadingly dainty presentation.

This all sounds like criticism. It’s not.

These choices do not shock but are not devoid of controversy. Reading about lime and coconut paired with parsnip on the menu talked M out of it, but J delighted in the soup. Layering an opulent canopy of wild mushrooms over a subtle risotto had 4 longing for a heartier, cheesier dish, while B found it delicious–though he noted that the abundance of mushrooms functioned as “a natural appetite suppressant.” Glazed chestnuts defending M’s sweetbreads from a truffle vinaigrette formed an impenetrable fort that was impossible to finish, but nevertheless gave the dish masculine charisma–the kind found among, say, Russian fur trappers.

It’s normal to expect perfection to come out of a kitchen this well-regarded and experienced, but that’s not going to happen. Perhaps that’s not even fair. There is no standardized scale to measure fine dining against, and tastes are–as remarked upon before ad nauseum, but nevertheless requires repeating, ad infinitum–subjective. And when one is a chef of such elevated reputation and expansive reach, one changes the very landscape of competition one grew up in; Jean-Georges was a pioneer who was imitated to the point of diluting his essential originality. It is not surprising that his work is, perhaps, no longer very surprising. As B rather devastatingly put it: “delicious but boring.”

If there are two elements a professional kitchen should be able to manage consistently, they are fire and salt. Mastery of both can ensure one-ingredient dishes that are worth leaving home and paying for. They are the foundations of culinary competence. A diner has a right to expect a working kitchen to have these in the bedrock, with pillars of more advanced technique erected in good restaurants, and layers of artistry stacked above in the great ones. It seems the Jean-George kitchen slipped a little in its fundamentals. While everything came out perfectly cooked to the proper temperature and texture, more than once we commented on the saltiness of the dish: 4 was insistent over the course of the evening, while J refrained until afterwards, when she finally confessed that the rabbit was truly over-seasoned. The most disappointing criticism of the evening was also one of the most demolishing.

Dessert didn’t stand a chance with J, who is agnostic on sweets and was too full to partake. Even 4, who is a dessert enthusiast, felt his senses dulled from being overwhelmed. M could only manage courteous nibbles, but could intuit the talent of the pastry chef who managed to find the essence of the ingredients and make them taste, at the very least, expensive. B found this the highlight of the meal, having worked his way through the diversity of intense flavors in his winter-inspired tasting: pomegranate sorbet with port wine reduction, a miniature spiced-squash linzer with brown butter powder and cream cheese ice cream, green apple confit, and Gewurtztraminer-poached pear. The rest of the table was clearly missing out

In the end, M walked out the most impressed and satisfied with her meal–her expectations were met, and she found moments of greatness that went beyond mere culinary cleverness in her dishes. 4 discovered much to remark upon but conceded a good meal, though rebelled at the prices. J and B, both veteran fine diners with deep resumes, found little to reproach but nevertheless left with nothing particularly impressive to attach memories to.

A few notes for the destination: men should wear jackets (though the loaner provided fit B so beautifully he was encouraged by everyone else to walk out with it–he didn’t). As the party arrives separately the hostess may check your coats together under one ticket (she rather impressively called out the number from memory when M checked in), but when you leave the coats trickle out individually if you don’t tell them how many to look for. Specify whether the reservation was for Nougatine or Jean-Georges to prevent confusion. Be prepared for a fight with the doors, something to keep in mind at the gym the week prior to your meal.

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