Tartine, W 11th and 4th Street, Greenwich Village, New York
Keeping with my theme of reviewing French restaurants, lend me your eyes and I'll tell you the tale of Tartine.
Tartine. What does it mean? I had to look it up, but it seems to translate as "slice of bread." The offerings are certainly much more than a simple slice of bread, but maybe the name is an homage to where it all began, French food that is, with a damn good slice of bread (and grew into sourdough and flaky croissants and crusty baguettes.)
Blake and I arrived at 8pm to a small crowd of fans gathered out front, watching the lucky friends at tables enjoying their meals. I had read that there is no 'putting your name in' tradition at Tartine, but rather you stand in a line. Tonight, however, the line was nonexistent, but one of the servers kept us in mind and magically knew when it was our turn to sit and so we all did, eventually. The other people waiting were just as excited as we were and what's more, they were our people. They were kind and curious and quick with a smile. This isn't Balthazar where you breathe only when absolutely necessary and hope you don't slip on a rogue mussel. Here, we were at home with the other 20 or 30 diners (if only because we were all essentially eating together because the room was so tight, but then again, that's Paris.)
The food. We began with goat cheese croutons. They were simply divine. The toasted French bread slices were coated (goated) with the cheese and accompanied by marinated and grilled red peppers and bits of basil. Thankfully, there were three slices and three of us, or else we may not have gotten out of there alive.
For our entrees: Kristin had grilled sausage with potatoes, Blake had a chicken and mushroom dish served in puff pastry and I, again, ordered mussels (with french fries!) I was so involved with eating my mussels, I accidentally wore them all the way home on my shirt. I suppose that all's fair in love and war and French cooking and I was wearing brown, the most forgiving of colors.
My mussels were exquisite. Blake said he had the best pot pie of his life and Kristin was very happy with her entrée. We didn’t order dessert, but instead, we walked a block to the Magnolia Bakery in search of their famous cupcakes. I have never had a richer frosting experience, I may never be the same. It was like biting into a stick of butter. I said that I was fine never going there again, but it was worth a try.
Tartine is BYOB. We picked up a nice and affordable French Bordeaux on our way.
I highly recommend Tartine. We are thinking of moving to the Village to be able to see it each and every day.
Tartine. What does it mean? I had to look it up, but it seems to translate as "slice of bread." The offerings are certainly much more than a simple slice of bread, but maybe the name is an homage to where it all began, French food that is, with a damn good slice of bread (and grew into sourdough and flaky croissants and crusty baguettes.)
Blake and I arrived at 8pm to a small crowd of fans gathered out front, watching the lucky friends at tables enjoying their meals. I had read that there is no 'putting your name in' tradition at Tartine, but rather you stand in a line. Tonight, however, the line was nonexistent, but one of the servers kept us in mind and magically knew when it was our turn to sit and so we all did, eventually. The other people waiting were just as excited as we were and what's more, they were our people. They were kind and curious and quick with a smile. This isn't Balthazar where you breathe only when absolutely necessary and hope you don't slip on a rogue mussel. Here, we were at home with the other 20 or 30 diners (if only because we were all essentially eating together because the room was so tight, but then again, that's Paris.)
The food. We began with goat cheese croutons. They were simply divine. The toasted French bread slices were coated (goated) with the cheese and accompanied by marinated and grilled red peppers and bits of basil. Thankfully, there were three slices and three of us, or else we may not have gotten out of there alive.
For our entrees: Kristin had grilled sausage with potatoes, Blake had a chicken and mushroom dish served in puff pastry and I, again, ordered mussels (with french fries!) I was so involved with eating my mussels, I accidentally wore them all the way home on my shirt. I suppose that all's fair in love and war and French cooking and I was wearing brown, the most forgiving of colors.
My mussels were exquisite. Blake said he had the best pot pie of his life and Kristin was very happy with her entrée. We didn’t order dessert, but instead, we walked a block to the Magnolia Bakery in search of their famous cupcakes. I have never had a richer frosting experience, I may never be the same. It was like biting into a stick of butter. I said that I was fine never going there again, but it was worth a try.
Tartine is BYOB. We picked up a nice and affordable French Bordeaux on our way.
I highly recommend Tartine. We are thinking of moving to the Village to be able to see it each and every day.
posted by Elin at 3:53 AM
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