With the birth of his Lafayette Street restaurant, Gato, Bobby Flay returns to New York City, and does so in the way an original gangster of the celebrity chef world should - with confidence and food that screams.
On a never-busier Nolita block, Gato emerged in a 100-year-old industrial building, with regal high ceilings and warm lighting that reflect its origins but are mindful of its reincarnation as a fine restaurant. Despite the space’s vast height, the acoustics in the dining room allow for a surprisingly intimate meal with friends, and the windowed open kitchen often reveals Flay himself, working to better the Mediterranean dishes that represent a shift in cuisine from his offerings at Bar Americain and the late Mesa Grill.
But the same Flay, known for his bold, unflinching flavors, appears in even the smallest of plates. The bar snacks, arriving three for $17, are complex, yet approachable. Our favorites included an artichoke heart, topped with delicate quail egg and uni, and an ice cream scoop’s worth of raw beef crudo, cubed with pickled chiles. Larger appetizers compete for their own attention, such as the tender octopus, smoky with bacon and tart with citrus. The three spreads – yogurt, chickpea, and white bean – are enjoyable for the table to share.
But the same Flay, known for his bold, unflinching flavors, appears in even the smallest of plates. The bar snacks, arriving three for $17, are complex, yet approachable. Our favorites included an artichoke heart, topped with delicate quail egg and uni, and an ice cream scoop’s worth of raw beef crudo, cubed with pickled chiles. Larger appetizers compete for their own attention, such as the tender octopus, smoky with bacon and tart with citrus. The three spreads – yogurt, chickpea, and white bean – are enjoyable for the table to share.
Perhaps the bar snacks and appetizers draw in diners approachably, but only for the sake of the entrées slapping us in the face. Colossal in size and taste, that is what they do. The “porterhouse” pork chop is named such for a reason, charred and thickly seasoned more like a steak than the other white meat and settled in a moat of creamy polenta. The fettuccine, densely slathered in squid ink that turned my husband’s mouth black for an hour, managed to leave space for giant, red prawns to have their own shining moment on top. Even the side of cauliflower, roasted in a super-sweet reduction of red wine vinegar and honey, made vegetables a conversation.
Flay wasn’t there during my midweek visit with friends. But if he was, I would have finagled a way to see him, shake his hand, and welcome him back.
Flay wasn’t there during my midweek visit with friends. But if he was, I would have finagled a way to see him, shake his hand, and welcome him back.
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