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FORKPLAY September 26, 2016
Dear Friends and Family,
King is tiny, bright, and clean like the mostly
Mediterranean food coming out of the open kitchen where three women bend over their work and a small Latino runner keeps out of their way. The colors are
ivory and cream, with whitewashed bricks and panels of woven cane to keep passersby from peering in.
It's just the latest aspiration on this village corner. What lures me now is a duo of chefs from the River Café in London and a New Yorker they met there who runs the dining room. I'll admit I find it appealing that they are a trio of women.
But I am even more moved by their rich malfatti clumps in a puddle of sage butter, gently salted with grated
Parmesan. And the thin slices of veal slow-cooked in Soave, delivered on polenta with a ladylike gremolata. (Forgive my sexism as I report not getting much of a gremolata's usual raw garlic punch.)
The guinea hen for two is a special triumph. The bird's velvet flesh is exciting all by itself on first bite,  but I need another quick mouthful dipped into the lemony rosemary sauce with bits of spinach. The $42 serving is meant to share, of course, and I fear my enthusiasm may be drawing too much attention, but never mind. I'll have another tendril of meat dotted with mascarpone.
King is less than a week old when friends and I first arrive at 7:30 and the room is almost empty. I like the old-fashioned gesture of tablecloths -- and more,  the padding that tables are supposed to have under cloths, but rarely do in these flippant times. There are small dishes of salt and ground pepper on the table, too. Perhaps London cooks are less arrogant than ours.
Our various servers are on their toes, but the busser is on our toes on both sides of the table and delivers the wrong dishes all around as the server smiles indulgently and we rearrange. Forgiven, of course, at this early stage.
The refined seduction begins quickly with the toasted crackling crisp that arrives at the table like the  winged sail of a toy boat. Perhaps, the chickpea fritters are boring that first night. They're livelier a few nights later, sent as an amuse with anchovy croquettes on top.
"I just popped these in the oven,"
confides
chef Jess Shadbolt, handsome and blonde, as she delivers three large charred prawns to our table. Were these on the menu? I wonder. "No. It's a dish we're working on," she says.
Elegance and simplicity reign here. A perfectly cooked quail, maybe not as rare as I like it, is tender  and juicy, bathed in a warm tapenade and festooned with watercress. These energetic London imports have mastered the Greenmarket, of course. Foliage gets a workout on their very brief menu.
My friends are not sure what to order. What is malfatti? they ask.
"How about the steak?" I suggest, pointing to the listing. "The onglet. That's a hanger steak." Onglet is
not translated either for non-French speakers.
Giant arugula fronds almost hide the sliced beef, and that is indeed as rare as we asked and bathed in a tangy Etruscan green sauce. Peter the steak maven thinks it should have been marinated longer. I cut off another chewy
morsel and find I don't really care.
I could be content here with just vegetables any time I'm in a mood to resist whatever bird is on the daily-changing menu. Baby artichoke leaves Romana  are planted in salt cod or served with radicchio and prosciutto. Wilted dandelion lies across roasted Honeynut pumpkin, with a surprise whack of peppery heat not totally cooled by crème fraîche. The county fair-winning pumpkin on display in the bar could be the star of tomorrow's din
ner and the day after that.
At the end, a server carefully pours Prosecco on top of the Concord grape granita. And I find the
house's unusual plum and almond tart -- mostly a fruity stickiness of crumbs -- enchanting.
That weekend, I contemplate rushing to write a first impression. I'm not sure if it's professional caution
or unbridled appetite, but I decide to taste more first. Arriving early a few days later, I wait at a table in the bar near the door, watching waiters and manager Annie Shi pressed together in a small space just outside the dining room in what seems to be the only service area.
My $20 flip phone sounds the arrival of a text - "You're due at King in 30 minutes," it reads. "Pro-tip: Order the cochonnet cocktail. Very refreshing."
Ruth Reichl arrives with a friend (surprise, hello) and then my three pals. We are seated close enough
that I can see what Ruth is eating and watch the three cooks - bunned hair bobbing -- in the kitchen watching us. It's a full house and the air conditioning isn't powerful enough to hit my corner against the wall. But the crew is more practiced now, a definite plus. Liam, our waiter, takes no notes on our order, blaming his Irish heritage as a curse for the need to show off.
I order the cochonnet as instructed: gin, cognac, Cocchi Americano and Crème de Pêche. Not as boozy
as it sounds. The house's signature crisp sails onto the table quickly. And then thin petals of fennel sausage, and that panisse amuse again -- chickpea fries tarted up deliciously with anchovy fritters.
About half the menu is new to me. My friends order malfatti and the roasted Honeynut pumpkin, and everyone shares my veal carne cruda - a sensuous tartare laced with Fontodi (2015), a Chianti Classico, and draped with giant arugula and shards of Parmesan.
I taste the bright green stew of zucchini and their flowers with flageolet beans, basil and Capezzana 2015,
an olive oil so important it gets dated. There's a large half of lobster,
carefully cooked, littleneck clams, fluke and tomato in our host's Provençal fish stew. I find it a tad bland. I want to paint its saffron aioli on everything.
But that's the evening of the guinea hen, and I've already had more than my share. The designated
sharer is a tall, very slender woman who apparently stays that way by not eating the last four bites as I do. It's a discipline I never cease to admire but am glad it's too late for me to acquire. Before anyone can reconsider, I offer to take the leftover bird home.
The Concord grape granita comes as a gift with the cognac-spiked chocolate cake we order. I watch my
restrained neighbor piling bits of "Madame Moriatz's chèvre" on shards of crostini. Helping myself, too. It's a pretty, original presentation. No, Madame Moriatz is not a cheesemaker you need to know about. She's someone the owners like who owns a hotel in the south of France. The menu is booby-trapped with untranslated information and unknowable asides.
I'm still thinking how different King is. Confident, professional, pretty. It strikes me as feminine. Jess  Shadbolt disagrees. "It's more London," she says. I can't argue. I haven't been to London for decades. Soon, the more traveled will chime in, I suppose. For now, the kicker is simply that King has arrived and it's wonderful.
King Street on the SW corner of Sixth Avenue. 917 825 1618. Monday to Wednesday 5:30 pm to midnight. Thursday to Saturday to 1 am. Closed Sunday.
Today's mise en scène is pumpkin and concord grape.
***
Photographs of King's sculptural crisp, three cooks in the kitchen, the malfatti, the miraculous guinea hen, pumpkin with dandelion, chickpea fritters with anchovy croquettes, the impromptu shrimp, veal shin on polenta, the steak, veal tartare, zucchini and its flowers, the Provençal fish stew, the boozy chocolate cake, and Madame Moriatz's goat cheese may not be used without permission from Gael Greene. Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.
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