Please don't call it signature cuisine: instead, it is a style exceeding the usual geographic boundaries, that of Tatiana, the most hype restaurant in NYC. Amid impossible reservations, perfoming arts and the richness of African-American culture, we managed to find out more about Kwame Onwuachi's sign.
Vox Populi sells it as the best restaurant in New York City. It's on the residential Upper East Side, a stone's throw from Central Park, and we, to put it bluntly, would trade mom and grandkids to have it on our doorstep. So many warned us. Beware, so tightly to book you certainly won't make it. It is the most coveted in Manhattan and the 50 Dis-United States, sold out on the website until the coming year. Also: at Tatiana's they never do anyone any favors. Zero invitations and even fewer sallies to the written press. The walk-in option remains, but people line up for hours, seats are a handful. Desperate times call for desperate measures: we then questioned powerful and famous flankers.
René Redzepi :“I try, but I myself never succeeded.”
Alberto Landgraf : “I moved heaven and earth, not only for you, but also for me: I wanted to eat there one night during my three-day step over in NYC on the way to the 50 Best in Las Vegas. Worse than going at night."
Victoria Blamey , Blanca's great soloist in Brooklynn, sounded hopeful: “I see it as difficult. I'll try to hear from my lawyer who is the same one who looks after the interests of Kwame Onwuachi, Tatiana's chef." Cold shower there, too.
We should have heeded the huge red flag: we knew of no one in our near or distant entourage, of all those registered as journalists with the speckled napkin on their lap, who had already dined at Tatiana's in New York. You know who they are, too, the usual subscribers to press trips, suitcase packed for Asia, Peru or Dubai, always invited to four-hands dinners or self-referenced on Instagram among voters on hierarchical lists. Just what Pierre Gagnaire has been calling for lustrums the “pique-assiette,” the freeloaders. All around us, old or young, anorexic or gaudy, unrepentant masculine or lady feminist, everyone retorted, "Tatiana? Apparently it's extraordinary, but I don't know anyone who has dined there yet."
Not even an old pure-blooded New Yorker friend, Adam Sachs, God rest his soul, a great writer, soil journalist and former editor-in-chief of Saveurs as well as the Deus-ex-Machina who finally managed to pull off the miracle: “It was complicated and no small amount, however, it is safe, you have a table on Tuesday, June 18 at 7PM sharp. Mind you, so as not to create diplomatic incidents, officially the reservation is in the name of Phil Baltz, Tatiana's PR. The chef is not aware, but at the restaurant they know it is actually you. With Phil, I had to insist, tell him what kind of temperament you are and he finally moved mountains. Tomorrow, then, you really tell me what it's like." So here we are, shaved and exfoliated after showering, just past snack time, wondering: how do you dress for Tatiana? Discarding the tie, leather shoes or not, will it take the dark jacket of light wool or the more summery one of crumpled linen? What is the dress code standing of the restaurant? Is it fine dining, and therefore it needs sartorial respect. Or will one need to get more smart casual like the well un-Eurocentric cuisine of chef Kwame Onwuachi, who sinks deep into the Caribbean of his affective biogeography?
Perhaps still unknown in Matera or in the backwoods of the Black Forest, the head of the stove is a 30-something handsome, a past with the big boys - Thomas Keller's Per sé, the Eleven Madison - and winner of TV contests - who at the time of taking the Big Apple by storm followed the tip of his late mentor, Daniel Humm: "In New York, don't replicate what already exists. Look for the innovative formula, take the right path. Tell your story, who you are, where you come from."
The restaurant
Ipso facto, well before Tatiana's opening, Kwame Onwuachi delivered it all in two books disinclined to editorial orthodoxy: “Notes from a Young Black Chef” (2019) and “My America: Recipes” (2022), two volumes conceived and written for real, thus not just about recipes, exploring his culinary diaspora cradled by childhood in the Bronx, the matrix of his first two restaurants opened in Washington DC, Bijou and Kith/Kin. A festival of personal memories, of experiences lived on his own skin, among bicultural subsidies, with his dad half Nigerian and half Jamaican, growing up in a habitat of influences among Dominican, Indian and Puerto Rican neighbors. It is an introspective journey that the James Beard Foundation graduate recounts, with an abundance of detail, contributing to the identitary definition of a cuisine that exceeds the usual geographical boundaries. Please don't call it "of auteur". Kwame seems to lack the rictus of ego. The cultural depth of his flavors gladly dispenses with it; if anything, the personal story tends toward the collective. And this, without any recourse to storytelling: there is no need for it because it is placed in an exceptional context.
“Tatiana” is NY's most hype restaurant, an offshoot of Lincoln Center, a cultural center and institution globally celebrated for its groundbreaking research into the richness of African-American culture. Multimedia lab, film, music, ballet, opera, performing arts: it is at Lincoln Center that trumpeter Wynton Marsalis has animated the eponymous jazz orchestra for decades. It is here on its esplanade that on June 18 at 6h45pm we cross, with 35° in the nonexistent shade, the sound installation of Nona Hendrix, a vocalist many will remember alongside the Talking Heads at the time of the world tours of Remain in Light. In short, Tatiana's location, the choice of its chef, the project more cultural than just culinary, is anything but merely coincidental. To give voice to the jagged culture of a large segment of the population, and to reflect at the table what it means to be Black today, in the U.S., in this era of political and social contrasts (with the unknown of the November elections just around the corner, we add).
But let's resume: chosen the outfit - a dark jacket, houndstooth pants, vichy shirt and white leather Santoni baskets - we finally push Tatiana's door. Entrance which is very difficult to find. There are no big signs, we search in vain for the magic sesame, at first trying Lincoln Center, then sorting across the street, we spot the disguised glass door. In the mini-boudoir that greets us, the ambiance is subdued, the balmy tones of the decor, the restrained cackling of guests in the dining room just past the aisle. And already the funky music coming in below decibels at the highest levels. The air conditioning pushed hard, North Pole initiation (besides the undershirt, don't spare on a jacket) might cool the ardors, but the two girls maybe not even in their twenties behind the desk, are dressed flamboyantly in an ad hoc ethnic tartan. And they smile, complicitly, at our, “Good evening, there's a reservation for two under Phil Baltz's name,” replying, “Sure, just a second while we check to see if your table is ready.” Off to the side, to the right of the aisle, in the private room barred by two tall men in double-breasted dark glasses, there is perhaps a super VIP. But in the main pièce, where the busy open kitchen towers, we are all celebrities.
It is good to see an audience so inclusive in age and social background. There's the table with five black girls on their third cocktail, the one for two - he from Taiwan in cargo pants and satin tank top, she Latin American in high heels and evening dress - and further on a black family, dad, mom and three teenagers, skimming the menu offerings in full. Next to us we notice a super-Senior, all dressed-up to dine with her 40-year-old grandson, quite distinguished in his blue blazer to please his grandmother, who may one day bequeath him the large apartment overlooking Central Park. In short, what a pleasure to be in a beautiful dining hall where all or almost all ages and social categories are represented, where there is no uniformity or obligation to belong to a single caste. Starting with the restaurant itself, number One overall on New York Times critic Peter Wells' list of 100 favorite restaurants. But still free of the Damocles sword of a Michelin star. And even absent from the 50 Best sliding scale. A free zone then, without the moral injunctions of world publicity, where you come after and informed choice - on the condition of finding a seat - because here, free will is guaranteed to all citizens.
The experience
How long have you too dreamed of a restaurant without the tentacles of the tasting menu? Where there is no unspoken obligation to argue gibberish with the chef, ubiquitous third wheel and traveling salesman from table to table. Lots of substance and little waffling: eight appetizers (called starters to share) and six dishes (which Americans persist in calling “entrées”). Oh my, we would order everything, this world and beyond, including even the five desserts. But the evening's guardian angel disagrees. We introduce him to you, his name is Neo (like the Matrix's Keanu Reeves), dark pants and tight jacket, he has a wicked smile and a sound cadence from the very long vowels of South Carolina, a mellifluous gutturality (“Good evening Ma'm”) reminiscent of young Matthew McConaughey in his early days.
-I know this is your first time at Tatiana's.
- Had it been easier we would have arrived even earlier.
- We will do our best for next time. In the meantime, would you like the cocktail list before you even study the menu?
-Yes gladly, we have already perused it on the Internet, but how does it work?
- Ma'am ...it's quite simple, the appetizers are meant to be shared, one each, at most three for two, because then the dishes themselves are consequential, certainly not in tasting portions.
- So can those be shared as well?
- Absolutely Ma'am...
It becomes clearer as we sip a Tatiana Gin Tonic with exquisitely herbaceous overtones and a Spicy Margarita to good savoury effect, with salt bouncing off the Japaleno ($18 each). Around us the hubbub is joyous, accompanied by the patter of forks and knives sinking into generous if not overflowing portions. The giant Mom Duke Shrimp served whole with its brioche and Creole butter trespasses, as we with our feet out of bed, from the circumference of the bowl. We spot en passant the roasted chicken Shawarma with Lamb Rice and Turmeric, heart-punching. And as well, interdicted, so many people leave with a small package tight against their laps. Who? The table at the back with its quartet of middle-aged black men. Even, closer to us, the Upper East Side matriarch with her grandson. And even the little couple at the next table, he hugging her and she her doggy bag. Stop the world, that we might get off: either we are bottomless gods or else since when did Americans go to restaurants even without hunger? At Tatiana's the food is delicious, the room ideal for socializing, but explain to us: what's the point of going to a restaurant to not eat?
-Maybe this is too much, Ma'am....
- What do you mean?
-Four appetizers for two seems excessive to me. Depending on your appetite, I would recommend no more than three.
- Which ones? We don't move from here without tasting the crispy Okra ($16) with honey, mustard and “peppa” sauce that we imagine to be well peppered
-Great choice, Sir
- What about the Crab Egusi Dumplings ($22) do you recommend?
-They are part of the chef's signature dishes. I would say so, Ma'am
-And between the Mutton Galettes with aioli and mango chutney ($27) and and the Slaughtered Tuna with yozu, ricotta and shrimp chicharrons, what do you say?
-Great both, I would be more for the patties....
So be it. One better than the other, millimeter cooking, lightness and depth of taste always intelligible. Flavors from elsewhere, between family recipes and transcultural reworkings. Nothing gratuitous, nothing approximate. Tatiana is a marvel of high-class brasserie and even more of the highest level: of Haute Cuisine made for everyone. Look around, there is not a dull face, an aphasic couple, not even one with a sulky face, everyone has the air of contradicting the Antonioni of incommunicability. The air is saturated with good vibrations. Why isn't there such a festive restaurant elsewhere? Not in Milan, not in London, and certainly not in Paris or Berlin. Who wouldn't endorse a cuisine at the highest level with still low prices for about eighty covers and renovated tables following the rhythm of the evening? It resembles, and not a little, what a real restaurant in phase with the times should be. A meeting place, a culinary agora. And we already find ourselves scrambling to catch Neo's attention on the fly. Who comes trotting in, intrigued by so much Neapolitan attentiveness.
-We don't want to make life difficult for you, if it's not possible no problem, but would we still be in time to order an additional appetizer?
-What?
-With your agreement, we'd like the Spiced Lamb Bean Hummous ($26) with raisin pickles and Maghreb crepes?
-I fly to the kitchen to stall with the next dish!
Neo is kind, he really goes out of his way because in the United States, in fact, tipping is mandatory. And the tip, if you want it high, you have to sweat it. To the client to assess in good conscience the performance: 15, 18, 20 or even a good 22 percent. We, as delegated ambassadors of Old Europe, militate for a guaranteed wage for all, and with the abolition of tip also slavery. Yet, this evening Neo really deserved the tip. He didn't even try to force our hand, suggesting a more prestigious, more expensive bottle, when we asked for advice about the Malbec Solar del Alma, Argentine natural wine of a pleasant empathy. A rare pearl it is not, you can easily find it in the store, better yet on the Internet: the price ranges from $24 to $30 a bottle. At Tatiana's, a high-end restaurant, it is taxed only $59, we can't believe our eyes, perhaps it is the least expensive bottle repertorized in 10 well-spent New York days.
-This is a wine about fruit, more subtle than complex. It should also go well on your main course.
Correction: it goes well on everything. When a red neither swells the pectorals nor claims to the role of primadonna, little soloist but shrewd accompanist, tempering better than a Tempranillo, the ardors of spices. With the Hummous of black beans spins perfect love, a contest of which is more velvety than the other. And when the Braised Oxtail arrives with thumbelina carrots (those are the round ones, best eaten unpeeled) and chayote puree - maybe Tatiana's most famous signature - the communion is perfect. An oxtail with an imperfectly long cooking time (other than the horrors of low temperatures), a texture to sear but that holds up well to the knife. It melts in the mouth, chewed is even better, degreased of any excess (of sauce, of wine), doesn't bedevil you at the second bite but trumpets awakening of appetite. All would be for the best in the best of all possible worlds if the side dish, by Rice & Peas, fluffy and crunchy, a poetic inclusive tour to the Caribbean but dreamed up by Harlem, were not so resoundingly outstanding as to almost rival the Veal Tail: the bowl for two ends in marital hostility over who gets the last grain of rice.
And here we are again ranting to urge the timely Neo:
-Do you really want another Rice & Peas?
The double portion bis arrives shortly after, better even than the first, and rightly priced ($12 for the double, never was money better spent). There are new people in the room, in an hour or so the late eaters will arrive then the post-theater people. The service, choreographed, carburets to the max, keeps a pulse on things. On the Mercalli scale of high ratings, no subsidence on the horizon. The new neighbors, 30-somethings probably regulars - she Wasp, the other three all Black - order a plate each and all the appetizers to share, later quaffing and the Okra and Dumplings. We are not at the theater, the script is not fixed, life, cravings, hunger, thirst, different wallets, outside temperature, unplanned desiderata from out of the plot innervate the fluid unfolding of the play as they please. We had forgotten, too, that a restaurant could resemble all this. A surprising bang for the buck. But in knowledge we already anticipate the epilogue.
-Eventually a dessert, Sir?
- Sure, but one to share. Which one do you recommend?
Once again Neo is right. The Golden Rum Cake ($18) and dried gooseberry with honey cream is an exquisite cover of our Baba but with an almost cheesecake-like texture. We applaud, without giving in to the temptation of another dessert. We will return at the first opportunity for the Cosmic Sorrel Brownie and Donut Sugar Ice Cream as well as everything else. Now that we have Phil Baltz's private contact, we know where to find him. In a little while we're out, in America, the happy ending - predictable - comes in leaps and bounds. Neo approaches, and with a nonchalant air he says to us:
-A coffee? A tea? A herbal tea perhaps?
-No thanks, we sip the last few drops of the Malbec.
And smiling (“Sure, Ma'am...”) he pulls out of his right trouser pocket -like his peers condoms at every opportunity - the bill already nice and ready even if not asked for. Which we are overjoyed to settle. That's how it prevails in the US, the denouement is always a bit brutal, from the moment you stop consuming they don't put on the white gloves. And they drop the foreplay. Maybe we would have prolonged the gratification a little bit with one last cocktail, digestif or whiskey to accompany the tempting Harlem Chocolate Cheescake. But it's time for the tip, the pesky additions: the bill is $274, plus $24.33 local tax to which we gladly add this time the tip for a total of 352.03. Throw in the commission - €9.20 according to the conversion rate at 1.0708 - never did we expect that €337.95, a pittance for so much pleasure, could reconcile us with the idea of persevering to attend restaurants.
The first time we meet Kwame Onwuachi in person, at the very least we give him a grateful hug. Peter Wells was so right. For what it's worth to us, it really is the No. 1 restaurant in New York (ex-aequo with Victoria Blamey's “Blanca,” though). An hour and fifty-five minutes later (the average length of a movie), at 8:55 PM sharp, we cross the Lincoln Center plaza again. Still hot as hell, we venture a few steps through Manhattan with our tongues hanging out. In exactly one hour, at 10 PM, begins the second set of wonder saxophonist Illinois Wilkins playing with his quintet at the Village Vanguard. Just call an Uber...
Contacts
Tatiana By Kwame Onwuachi
10 Lincoln Center Plaza, New York, NY 10023, Stati Uniti
+1 212-875-5222
