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FORKPLAY October 24, 2016
Gramercy Farmer & the Fish Goes Urban
This noisy fantasy arrived at the perfect moment. Just when the nastiness of the political stage has left us weeping to the therapist or collapsed in a fetal position, Gramercy Farmer & the Fish moves in to Park Avenue South. It's the timely alliance of finicky backyard farmers in Purdys, New York, with a fussy seafood wholesaler at Hunt's Point Market in The Bronx.
Just in time -- a prescription
for sanity. Aren't we all longing to grow lea
n and mean on scarlet turnips and fall raab and aggressive Sungold tomatoes? We know we need to eat more fish (even as we succumb to a crusty pork shank.) As my friend, a Gramercy-Flatiron-Photo District local, notes, this sprawling invasion of what use
d to be Tasca Chino, is exactly what the neighborhood needs.
The basic architecture is the same. The bar up front is crowded with drinkers, snackers and a dozen varieties oysters on ice with their shuckers. If there is no party boo
ked for the communal table, it's dressed for twos, with baguette trays marking boundaries. The skyscraper beauty at the welcome stand leads the way. At 7:30, when our quartet gathers, the hundred or so seats in the front room are sparsely occupied but it's already painfully noisy.
By 9, it's packed and
the din is torturous. "What did you say?" the waiter asks. The fuzz stuffed under our chairs is a feeble attempt at muffling the racket. "We've already
ordered the soundproofing panels," the manager assures us. The bookcases closi
ng off the back room are propped open, showing their painted stars and stripes.
It's too dark too. Two chandeliers, misplace
d in a rustic theme, do not penetrate the murkiness a
t our table. We need a flashlight to see the collection of fishing photographs on the bare brick wall above our heads. And as night falls with no remorse, we cannot see our food.
My local pal has co
me twice with her guy. "I like the look of the butter on this marble rectangle," she notes, as the waiter drops off warm rolls. She especially approves the salm
on
. "It didn't come with autumn squash
risotto last time," she notes.
She's not as fussy as I am. But after sampling more dishes than four of us can finish, I'm longing for a  farmer and a fishmonger to set up shop in my neighborhood. What's good is very good. "Bubby's Chopped Chicken Livers" come in a canning jar to spread on croutons with fresh pickled veggies from the farm. "The livers are sautéed and ground by hand for more mouth feel," executive chef Michael Kaphan tells me.
An attra
ctive tower wrapped in fried egg with seared sea scallops alongside gets pulled down, unleashing a delicious tumble of frisée with slices of fingerling potato and crisps o
f bacon. House-cured pancetta adds flavor to the bibb salad. The Montauk squid nested in grits gets a piggy oomph from chorizo. "Country Crostini," if you must ask, are classic crostini with alliteration.
The kitchen sends out a gift of "Farmer's Sushi." Alas, slivers of big eye tuna and salmon on small nests of chopped scarlet turnip laced with African blue basil suggests that farmers need to get out more often.
But order the fine Amish chicken, a large juicy bird on Fontina mashed potatoes, and you will quickly forget  the sushi. A whole local sole on the bone in brown butter with capers and cauliflower is excellent, too, fresh and not overcooked. A manager walking by stops and offers to bone it.
Here's a trend caught in the breading. Last week at Sistina I had swordfish Milanese. Tonight, it's monkfish  Milanese, with a luscious toss of salad -- arugula, shaved root vegetables and tangy yellow Sungold tomatoes. Maybe it's not such an inspired trend.
Asked to choose warm lobster with bone marrow or cold lobster with lemon aioli in her lob
ster
roll, my salmon-loving friend chooses the cool. "Why is this so boring?" I complain. "Where is the mayonnaise?" It seems the kitchen forgot the aioli. Both sides I choose
are winners: the Tumblewood cheese-pepped up grits and Brussels hearts with bacon. Trust in bacon.
The chef and his partner. Edward Taylor, met before thoughts of farming when Kaphan, a veteran of Coco Pazzo, La Goulue and Zoe found himself patronizing T
aylor's Down East Seafood. When they decided to do Purdys Farmer & The Fish together, they discovered ways to exploit the four-acre backyard to grow their own vegetables, prolonging
most growing seasons. (Box Tree Inn once lived here. Click to read of its wonderfully preposterous luxury in l977).
Like Marie Antoinette who had her milkmaid days, not long before they cut her head off, I'm enjoying  seduction by vegetables I've never heard of or rarely tasted. One of my new favorites, sunchokes, will be in very soon, Chef Kaphan promises temptingly. Gramercy Farmer's prices seem reasonable too. Starters from $10 and up. Oysters $3 and $3.50, clams just $2. Entrees $20 to $42 (for a 14 oz. strip). Sides $7. Desserts $7 to $10. The bill will arrive tucked into a Farmer's Almanac or a Fishing Guide.
Carrot mousse and a teensy island of spice cake is a  poor excuse for carrot cake, but the "Farmer's Sundae makes up for it. "Shall I pour on this chocolate?" the waitress asks, swirling a pitcher of excellent chocolate sauce onto a pileup of Neapolitan ice cream, walnut brittle, Amarena cherries and dried pineapple. I'm not sure where our mythical Purdys farmer is growing his dried pineapple. But way to go.
245 Park Avenue South 646 998 5991. Lunch Monday to Friday noon to 3 pm. Abbreviated bar menu from 3 to 5 pm. Dinner Monday to Friday 5 pm to 10 pm. Brunch Saturday and Sunday, noon to 3 pm. Dinner Friday and Saturday till 11 pm. Sunday to 9 pm. Late night bar menu every night.
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Today's Forkplay colors are broccolini green and scarlet turnip.
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The photographs of Gramercy farmers field green salad, the room, the bar and communal table, a wall of fishing photographs, Bubby's chopped chicken livers, scallop and frisée, the chorizo-stuffed squid, Amish chicken, monkfish Milanese, the lobster roll with fries, Brussels sprouts with bacon, carrot mousse with spice cake, and the farmers sundae may not be used without permission from Gael Greene. Copyright 2016. All rights reserved. Apologies for grease smudge on my camera lens.
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