Inside Edition

The dinner menu isn't categorized into appetizers and main courses but is rather a compilation of 30 to 35 dishes offered as half or full orders. Some of the listings are more starterlike than others, such as ceviche, carpaccios, salads, and raw bar selections, the last served from the dining room. Half orders are priced around $6 to $12, and most full entrée-size meals run $14 to $22, which is inexpensive enough to encourage the sampling of numerous items. This leads to creative ordering from customers, who might start off with a series of half orders followed by full orders, or divide their meal into three courses of halves and fulls, or just order a slew of halves; the potential variations seem infinite.

This system also lends itself to a somewhat complex call-off of dishes by the expediter (Bernstein), which during dinner rush works like this: A little ticker-tape machine in the kitchen spits tickets out like news bulletins during a crisis, and the chef/expediter must instantaneously read, analyze, total, and assign the assorted menu items in her head and then holler them out. Each line cook repeats his respective orders back to confirm he has it right, so the kitchen ends up sounding like a fast-talking country auctioneer in a roomful of enthusiastic bidders:

"Order and fire [begin cooking] one half quail, half a hankie, half sweetbread" (which would be Southern fried quail with black-eyed peas, honey, and peaches; handkerchief pasta with wild mushrooms in cognac and tarragon; and sour orange-glazed sweetbreads with bacon).

"Ordering one full cod, one full lamb, one half torchon. Fire one half salmon. Fire one full confit, two full ducks. Pick up one full scallops, two full rabbits...." and on and on and on, with the cooks' echoes, as the 50 seats fill, empty, fill, empty, and sometimes fill again.

I did not need to concern myself with any of this. My main focus was to revel in whatever dishes Bernstein or one of the line cooks would pass me from time to time. Turks and Caicos conch fillets "escargot style" was the first hand-off, tender fillets tucked into mini conch shells and bathed in garlic, parsley, and butter. Airy potato gnocchi in a Bolognese sauce flecked with duck sausage came next, followed by polenta capped with crisp bacon bits, a softly poached egg, and grated Pecorino and truffles. The three dishes exemplify Michy's cuisine: simple, comforting, and rustic, with bold, quality flavors. A little bowl of the polenta goes for $7, and a larger serving for $12, which left me convinced I couldn't find a better plate of food for the money — that is, until I tried the salad of watercress tossed with fresh tarragon leaves, halved green grapes, goat cheese, caramelized shallots, and a light balsamic dressing ($7/$11).

Tickets were still clicking into the kitchen, pans still clacking on the stove, voices still volleying orders back and forth above the din as I walked out the back door at 9:00 p.m. The thought has since occurred to me that maybe Bernstein was more crafty than courageous in letting me witness Michy's kitchen. After all, she must have known her ingredients are so unquestionably honest, the process of preparing them so pure, the food so rife with integrity that I wouldn't be able to criticize any of it. I think it's safe to say she was correct.