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
Backlit glass walls of cascading water greet diners as they enter the $20-million, 42,000-square-foot lollapalooza of a restaurant (which includes the plush indoor and outdoor spaces of the gorgeous Y Ultralounge). Prominent floor-to-ceiling bronze wall panels created by Montreal artist Richard Boprae richly bookend Karu's lofty 126-seat dining room, the visual centerpiece of which is Blue Icicle, an illuminated Dale Chihuly "chandelier" of spiked glass. Other visual highlights include two bars ensconced in blue marble, a hallway with flat-screen monitors displaying moving images, and a "wall of wine" exhibiting some 400 selections from major grape-growing regions around the world. Shiny tabletops are each striped with two strips of elegant custom linens by London-based Gayle Warwick, but these proved more pretty than practical they kept slipping all over the place. The delicate flatware is stunning.
According to a press release, Karu & Y is meant to appeal to "a chic, international audience of foodies, style mavens, and trendsetters." This means patrons who can afford to fly into town this week to pick up some product during Art Basel, or, in general, those well-off enough not to flinch at an $18 cocktail, $24 starter, or $75 Australian Wagyu steak (although, truth be told, you can also get a filet for $46). Then again, bottled water is on the house, as is a "welcome cocktail" champagne with a shot of pomegranate juice. So is bread, parceled out piecemeal by an attentive, well-meaning, well-dressed (cool couture uniforms created by local Dulce de Leche), but not especially well-trained waitstaff. Whole-grain rolls were fresh and tasty enough, but flimsy slices of pumpernickel and white were less than noteworthy ($20 million to open and they serve white bread?). On a return visit, we were given the choice of three types of rolls, but none was all that great.
Karu's cuisine is billed as "alta cocina." This is a nicer name for molecular gastronomy, whereby chefs and scientists tinker with the chemical makeup of foods to create new and startling combinations of texture, temperature, and taste dishes such as snail porridge, or codfish foam with sea-urchin mousse, or smoked bacon-and-egg ice cream with tomato jam. Many readers will probably breathe a sigh of relief to know that Karu's chef, Alberto Cabrera, does not delve deeply into these radical gastronomic waters, but rather skims a few stones across the surface. In fact, comparing the cuisine here to alta cocina because of some foams and gels is like equating Ringling Bros. with Cirque du Soleil because they both feature clowns.
The most alta cocina-ish notion of the night was a hot and highly aromatic cinnamon water bath our waiter poured into a large bowl around a smaller bowl containing "Spanish clambake." While effectively stimulating the olfactory senses, the heat of the water only hastened the melting of a smidgen of piquillo-pepper granita that was on the side of the seafood. Into the bottom of the bowl the ice slid, joining a cluster of popcorn kernels that floated like buoys in the "potato water" below. In essence, the diner ends up with two razor clams (our amuse-bouchée featured the same shellfish in a delicious saffron sauce), two horridly puny mussels, and two regular old shrimp billed as "langoustines" a substitution that all but sealed the perception of this being a shockingly shabby starter for $24.
Things got better. Pristine, paper-thin shavings of octopus carpaccio were paired with Meyer lemon sorbet in a delicately delectable manner, but the dish would have packed a bigger wow if the promised caper salt and duck cracklings had materialized to contribute their respective contrasts. The best starter brought nutty nuggets of roasted veal sweetbreads scattered with a tiny dice of golden beets and accompanied by preciously soft slices of wild porcini carpaccio capped with salty Serrano ham bits. If only the rest of the cuisine here were so divinely and precisely prepared.
Alta cocina is, after all, about precision. For instance, if a shot glass of celery juice is presented alongside a fish dish and the waiter recommends you drink it first to cleanse and excite the palate, it is because celery juice is deemed exactly the right flavor to kick off the other components. Meaning, in other words, substituting a shot of pineapple juice just doesn't cut it. Be that as it may, the opah entrée was otherwise anchored by a pan-seared loin of the Hawaiian fish rich, pink slices whose soft texture is reminiscent of tuna. Aside the fish lay a luscious diced sashimi of buttery opah belly. Centering the composition were a few fiery cayenne-capped pineapple squares (redundant after the shot of juice) and a few droplets of fluffy coconut meringue. Almost everything on the plate was cold, and the overall impact of the dish was not so hot either.