By David Minsky
By Jen Mangham
By Bill Wisser
By Laine Doss
By Bill Wisser
By Dana De Greff
By Laine Doss
By Zachary Fagenson
Eager to take part in the convivial ambiance and see what was behind the Continental aromas cooked up by executive chef Mitchell Maxwell (formerly hot stuff at Bang and Follia, then owner of Maxwell's American Bar & Grill), I moseyed up to the host station, out-of-town guests in tow, to secure a table for the upcoming weekend. My NYC friends are stargazers, constantly scanning the faces of strangers to see if they recognize any, and I knew they'd appreciate the opportunity to rub shoulders with Caine at the bar, not to mention John F. Kennedy, Jr., Gloria Estefan, and Sylvester Stallone, all of whom have wined and dined at the Brasserie recently.
"Can I help you?" the hostess asked, smiling sweetly.
"Yes, I'd like to make a reservation for this weekend," I returned with an equal amount of saccharin.
"Here." She handed me a South Beach Brasserie matchbook. "You can call us tomorrow."
I was astonished. "But I'm here now."
Her look said it all: For you, we'll be here tomorrow.
I argued halfheartedly for a few more minutes, but it was clear I wasn't going to get a reservation, and we both damn well knew it.
What I'm not sure of is why the superior attitude. My attire (denim and T-shirt)? Not likely: Half the patrons were clad in jeans. And it wasn't as if the restaurant was overwhelmed when I troubled the hostess to, well, host. Busy, yes. There's frequently a line for a sidewalk table, and walk-ins might wait at the bar for a seat inside. But when I did get around to calling a few weeks later, I had no trouble getting a table that very weekend, during peak dining hours.
By the time we arrived I had resolved to wipe the slate clean and start fresh with South Beach Brasserie. In fact, I wouldn't have even mentioned the hostess's rudeness had my party of five not been treated to a repeat performance almost from the get-go. Despite our reservation and the fact that several tables were quite visibly empty, we were directed to the bar while our table was "being readied." We headed willingly enough toward top-shelf alcohol; it was only after a second party of five walked in after us and was shown immediately to a table that we ventured a question.
"Oh, they had a reservation," another hostess, apparently hardened in the same mold as the first, said smugly.
"So did we."
"Well, you'll just have to be patient."
Having been scolded and sent away like schoolchildren, we didn't know what to think when she approached moments later. "We'll seat you, but you must be considerate of your waiter," she lectured us. "He has several tables sitting down at once." She then showed the five of us to a table for four, at which three of us had to squeeze in on one side. (Maxwell cites the difficulty of getting good help on the Beach: "We're aware there's an attitude that we don't want," he told me later on the phone. "But we pay them five dollars an hour and put our three-million-dollar business into their hands.")
The Brasserie's menu is upscale with a homestyle British edge. Entrees range from the relative familiarity of tempura-battered fish and chips to the sophistication of grilled ahi tuna with saffron couscous and arugula pesto. Prices, however, are anything but homestyle, with only four out of thirteen main courses checking in under twenty bucks, and appetizers ranging up to fourteen smackers. (Another indication, I suppose -- like the pink-painted sidewalks and imported palms -- that Lincoln Road is on the rise.)
We started with a couple of those pricey items -- and with a server as welcoming and competent as the hostess was off-putting. Escargots were worth their nine-dollar price tag. Dark and meaty snails were coiled in winy garlic butter, along with chopped fresh spinach and sauteed sliced mushrooms. Foie gras, too, was money well spent: a slice of pale, buttery goose liver terrine marinated in cognac, a delicacy if only because genuine foie gras is hard to find in the States; duck liver is typically substituted. Virtually unadorned aside from a sweet and vinegary chutneylike garnish, this dish veritably shone.
Two other appetizers weren't as successful. A Mediterranean fish soup was more like a puree, rendering unidentifiable whatever seafood it contained. A briny broth, based on tomato and highlighted by saffron, tasted like a bisque gone bad, a flavor that worsened as the soup cooled. While it sounded promising, a cold artichoke with focaccia crumbs and Parmesan cheese proved lacking in incorporation. A large and tender artichoke was spread invitingly on a plate, a few crumbs as big as croutons scattered here and there. The leaves were properly cooked and cooled, but they needed a tangy dip or some sort of sauce to complement them. Though a shaving or two of Parmesan gave the vegetable a spot-check of pungency, overall the ingredients never melded.