Perhaps it is redundant to note that as we entered the building, still adjusting to East Coast daylight and the unrelenting crush of bodies – that essential quality of New York City that we delight in then try to escape from – I felt acutely out of place. I’m from Portland, right? Where I go out to eat, they only ask that patrons be dressed, not that we dress in a particular fashion. Honestly, I don’t know what Asiate’s “Smart Business” is even supposed to mean.

Asiate, and what I saw of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in which it is housed, is beautiful. Their interiors are modern and clean and made me feel sort of special just because I was inside, enjoying the view and using the fancy soaps in the luxurious restrooms. The massive glass wall of wine bottles at the entry to the restaurant welcomes guests with a not-so-subtle insistence: drink our wine. And then, from the thirty-fifth floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides of the space, the views of Central Park and downtown are even more impressive. We would have liked to sit next to a window, but the hostess evidently didn’t think we warranted a view. I do not wish to sound whiny here — in her place, I wouldn’t have given our bunch the greatest table either.

Our server, a woman who achieved a demeanor at once stern and cheery, was about forty and spoke with a nondescript European accent. She appeared not long after we were seated and offered to help me choose a glass of wine. I told her I that like dry reds and she steered me towards a St. Julien wine from the Bordeaux region in France. I heard her say the word “figs” in describing the nose or the aroma or something — then I stopped listening. I figured that, compared to the five-to-ten dollar-per-bottle brews I usually drink, anything she’d serve me would taste pretty great. Also, I do not have a firm command of wine-speak and I’d rather not bother trying to sound like I know what I am talking about when I am perfectly comfortable admitting that I do not. Having lunch out at a fancy restaurant is not about working hard.

I regret not paying more attention to the wine list, but I was counting on finding it on their website. Whatever it was that I had was delicious – more than delicious. It tasted of dried figs and was so subtly sweet. I’d tell you more about it, but I’ve already said that I don’t know what I am talking about. Suffice it to say that whatever was in my glass sort of rocked my world. I would have liked to track down a bottle for a special occasion, but, alas, neither the menu nor the wine list are published in the Interwebs.

Soon after we were served our wine and had placed our orders, there were little gruyere-filled herbed pâte à choux puffs. Then prawn goyza and panko-crusted salt cod fritters (served with spicy watercress and a rather bland sauce), then demitasses of red bell pepper soup. A waiter wandered the dining room carrying a wooden box of baguette pieces, brioche rolls, and focaccia squares. He served each customer individually, using a pair of spoons like tongs to place bread on square glass plates. At one o’clock the dining room was nearly full. Four Blackberry-toting young businessmen were seated at the table next to ours. They joked in French while their phones flashed on the tablecloth next to their soup bowls.

For our main courses, the Squeeze and I ordered wild salmon and duck wontons, respectively. The piece of salmon that came on his plate couldn’t have weighed less than eight ounces, the tapered ends of the filet flopping over the rim of the plate before him. It was glazed in a too-sweet honey sauce and cooked in such a way that it became utterly mushy. Underneath the sauce the fish itself tasted good, despite the distracting texture. Perhaps this is salmon cookery en vogue, but I could not help but wonder if this particular fish had been on it’s way to spawn when it was plucked from the ocean and made into lunch. The duck filling in my wantons was, as far as I could judge, unseasoned. The wontons sat in a shallow bowl of rich herbed coconut broth, along with carrots chunks and quartered pattypan squashes. The vegetables were perfectly al dente. I appreciated that.

Both the restaurant and the food we ate were very pretty. The staff was well turned out, the dining room tastefully and attractively appointed — it’s a nice place to be. But my only conclusion after having lunch there is that I am certainly not the sort of person that the restaurant exists for. I would have been much happier to pay the same amount of money for food that was more delicious and less handled. I’ve realized, too, that a place like Asiate is not a restaurant where one goes for top-of-the-line cuisine. There are other places in New York City for that, places like Thomas Keller’s Per Se, just a few doors down. A gal would go see Keller if she wanted to have a gastronomic experience. She goes to Asiate for the view of the City and the Park, for the totally adorable (and perfectly fine) demis of bell pepper soup, for the roaming waiter with his shiny spoons and box of brioche. And, compared to Keller’s prix-fixe prices, Asiate’s a bargain.

Asiate Restaurant
80 Columbus Circle at 60th Street
New York, New York 10023
212 805 8800

Occasionally, however, I stumble upon an eatery that I feel compelled to rant about. One such recent trainwreck of a meal was from Pizza A Go Go on N. Williams Avenue.

When I tell people that I had a disappointing pie from Pizza A Go Go, further stating that my allegiance in neighborhood pizzerias is henceforth firmly planted with the Mississippi Pizza Pub, the only response I’ve heard has been “well, at least they deliver.” That’s right, not a single person has come to the defense of A Go Go with anything more convincing than their after-four delivery service. Indeed, it is a draw. On the very day that the Squeeze and I had out pie from A Go Go, our first priority was to set on a meal that someone would bring to the house. That it was a new place that neither of us had eaten at was an extra-special bonus. That is was pizza was inconsequential. What I mean to convey here, is that I did not head out into the world on one chirpy spring day looking for culinary delight. I was merely home on a weekday afternoon, too busy to cook for myself and desperately hungry. To disappoint when the standards are set so low is quite an accomplishment, I’d say.

Strike one: While the website hawks their delivery service, nowhere does it say “but only after four p.m.” Then again, their website also states that they make the “Freshiest, tastiest, kickiest combos around.” I should have known. I would have been much happier making this discovery in print, before I called to place my order. When the polite young man apologized for not being able to deliver my pie, I was unable to admit that my choice of eateries was based wholly around my own laziness, not a desire to eat one of their “kickiest” pizzas.

Strike two: We picked up the pizza twenty-five-to-thirty minutes after placing the order, as instructed. The shop – small and hip and attractive on the corner of N. Williams and N. Cook – smelled incredible. As soon as I stepped through the door, I felt relief, assurance. We were in for a treat, I was certain, if the pizza shack smelled so good. The perfect pizza triad of tomato, garlic and oregano wafted into my expectant nostrils. The pie was sitting on top of the oven when we arrived. The transaction was smooth, speedy and satisfactory, inasmuch as paying twenty-two bucks for a pizza can be. When we got outside and lifted the cardboard lid I noticed the cheese had begun to congeal. This is something that happens, as we all know, when melted cheese begins to cool once it’s been brought out of the oven, boxed, sliced, and set to rest for the customer. This is why I make it a point to be as prompt as possible according to the readiness instructions I am given over the phone. So, the pie had been kept waiting, languishing, dying.

Strike Three: It tasted awful. This, really, is what it’s all about. The rest of my complaints are just straws, small annoyances that only serve to highlight this one unforgivable problem. The pizza was bad. The toppings were wrong. Not incorrect per my order, but just so badly done. The red onion was sliced so thin that, once surrounded by cheese (too much) and baked, they disappeared both in texture and in flavor. The cheese, as I mentioned, was too thick, and too cool by the time it got to us. And, I swear, the “parmesan” that came already sprinkled over the pie had to have been shaken out of a green cardboard canister. The “herbed chicken breast” was neither herbed, nor was it breast. It was unseasoned chicken meat, full of tendons and globules of fat. Futhermore, it was dried out and stringy and, it seemed to me, old. The crust, underbaked and flat, had a texture suggestive of partially-dried white glue. It was thin, but not crisp on the bottom and did not rise at all underneath the avalanche of cheese and soupçon of chicken, onions, and garlic paste.

We ate it, because we were hungry and we’d paid twenty-two dollars for it. But next time – I don’t care if they deliver – I am going elsewhere. In fact, I’d rather just be hungry than gnaw on another pizza a go-go.

      The meal we ate, however, did not reflect this common Monday night mentality. Aside from the thinly populated dining room and the absent Chef (my dining companion, an especially outgoing fellow, asked after him), I wouldn’t have guessed that it was a slow night. The food was many things, but not maimed or neglected or hung over.

      I am still working to shake the bonds of child-picky-eater-hood and sometimes it is a little hard for me to find something that does not contain a scary ingredient. In Italian restaurants, avoiding cheese, cream sauces, cured meats and most tomato preparations is not easy, let me tell you. The good news is that I am practicing surrender, and I haven’t been too badly burned. The way I see it, if this Daniel Mondok fellow, this résumé chef (just whisper Thomas Keller and watch the table go silent), has decided that I will have chantrelles under my scallops, then who I am to argue? Do I wear an embroidered chef’s coat? Do people make reservations to eat in my dining room, and then happily pay obscene sums for my squab? They do not. When a body goes to all that trouble to craft a plate, as is obviously done here, you don’t suppose for a moment that he is the messiah returned, but do you take it the way he wants to give it to you.

      It’s easy to forget that this whole show – from the burnished concrete floor to the flatware to the fixtures in the bathroom – is designed, hopefully – to set off the meal. And if the food would be any less tasty eaten out of a pie plate next to a drainage ditch, then it could be that priorities ought to be reordered. Suffice it to say that the interior of the restaurant is just lovely. It’s a little manly and dark without being overbearing at all. The waitstaff is well turned out in crisp black, toe to head, and topped with a trendy hairdo. There aren’t many visual distractions. It is easy, in fact, to let the dining room just fade back until the your table becomes the whole world.

      So, the food.

      Appetizer, first: Westcott Bay Mussels. I heart mussels. My regular consumption of said seafood began as a way to unsettle my dining companions and make up for not liking clams. But it turns out those little suckers really do ring my chimes. A good mussel is an awe-making sensory experience. The mussels we had at Carlyle were big and fat and poufy, lounging in the most gorgeous, smoky tomato sauce in the history of ever. The sauce tasted like the grill, like fire, like all the best parts of burning without any of the bitter tongue gouges. It was mysterious and strong. It was simple. Slices of hard chorizo sausage and confit garlic cloves appeared once in a while, lending a little spice and a welcome variation in texture from the slick bivalves. The mussels themselves were perfectly executed; and by this I mean to suggest that they could taste like anything, but they were handled and cooked exactly right. A bad mussel is a horror. Aside from it being impossible to appear graceful or cute whilst trying to pry a hesitant mussel off its shell, even using one of those painfully lovable three-tined mini forks, they can get gummy, chewy, and/or crunchy if they aren’t cooked right, if they’re not so fresh, or if they’re of substandard quality to begin with. When you are eating a good mussel, you should not be able to discern its parts during mastication. No grit, no “beard,” no wobbly innards. I am pleased to write that these were the best-executed mussels I have ever had the pleasure to chew and swallow. (and I’d like to add that if they are asking $14. for a starter, then they’d darned well better be great.)

      Our second appetizer – for we were foolish, greedy children and ordered too much food – was a big ol’ plate of fried. On the menu, it’s Crispy Calamari Fritto Misto – “mixed fried.” Squid tentacles are another thing I love to munch for the contorted faces the act sometimes inspires. They don’t taste like much, but they’re fun. Tossed with the squid were preserved lemon (an unexpected and very, very happy surprise for the palate), pieces of something passing for cod, green beans, and parsley. Parsley, my friends. If this is something we’re doing now, I am definitely, woefully out of the loop. Fried basil is pretty normal for garnish, but I have never seen leaves of parsley battered and deep-fried. To my delight, they were not soggy or greasy or heavy: that bright twang was completely intact – even, as with the lemon, amplified.

      The scallops came next, after a little break to digest (another bonus for going when it’s not busy). They were silver dollar-sized, naked, seared on one side only, laid out in a neat row of three over a potato hash, ringed with sauce, and hugged in an oval dish. [Breathe.] And the best part – they felt and tasted just like scallops.

      I was impressed with the dessert menu. In crafting a menu, it’s important, obviously, to make sure there is something – at least one thing – that should appeal to anyone, within reason I guess. For American and European dessert menus, I make sure always to include a chocolate, a fruit, an ice cream, and a pastry. Coffee’s good too, but not essential in my book. From there you can play – highlight seasonal fruit or a signature dish. I’m not so hard to please in the dessert department, however, at least as far as choices go. I’ll take the persimmon crème caramel, the wine poached bosc, or the chocolate and passion fruit mousse cake – just so long as it’s perfect. Since the sweet kitchen is where I’ve spent most of my time, I am much less forgiving there. If I can do it as good or better myself, then there’s really no reason to eat out, eh?

      After a quick state-of-the-stomach conference wherein we decided to push the limits and maybe not eat for the next few days, we chose the chestnut soufflé. It came in a sea of vanilla crème anglaise studded with chocolate sauce so thick it was almost ganache. The soufflé itself sat humbly in the middle, dusted with confectioner’s sugar. It put on no airs and made no apologies. The outside was light and firm and just a little crunchy on account of the granulated sugar used to line the mould. As our spoons made their way inward, the soufflé yielded to a soft, just-baked center. It wasn’t gooey, exactly, just warm and loose and spectacularly tasty.

      I find that I cannot properly explain what a chestnut tastes like, let alone a chestnut soufflé. They are vaguely sweet and earthy, and the texture of the nut itself is surprising. The only other time I’ve met with a chestnut was in Spain, in the Plaça Major en Palma de Mallorca. A viejo had a small cart in one corner selling hot roasted chestnuts – castañas – in paper cones, y la única decisión: entre grande o pequeño. I think I could not have loved them more or felt any more content as I walked slowly down the narrow cobbled streets nibbling on my simple treasure. And so with this soufflé. I suppose you will have to go try it yourself.

      I am hesitant to overtly recommend Carlyle. It’s darned expensive. There’s a blurb on the website about their being dedicated to locally farmed stuff, which I like. I hear, also, that the Chef is a good tipper and likes to play table tennis in his kitchen. This suggests to me that he’s a swell enough guy who deserves success just as much as the rest of us. High-end designer food is a tricky thing, though. It obviously isn’t just a meal and that’s where I get hung up. It’s an experience. It’s being able to pay ungodly sums for dinner. It’s enjoying being coddled and wooed by the attentive waitstaff. It’s the shiny bar and the linen napkins. It’s knowing that someone wants you to have all of this, because you are special. Dinner here was a nice vacation from the real for me. Life isn’t and won’t be about eating divinely perfect mussels every week, or about “house infused habanero pepper vodka” – but it’s a nice trip once in a while.

Check ‘em:
www.carlylerestaurant.com
1632 NW Thurman/PDX/97209