The Cheese Stands Alone

Artisanal Brasserie’s cheese spread is a regional treasure just waiting to be discovered.

By Kathryn Robinson

Photo: Lindsay Borden

Parisian stage set Art nouveau flair with hex tiles and mahogany accents.

And that is Artisanal Brasserie’s great missed opportunity, for this cheese spread is quite simply a regional treasure. Ordered in a flight of three seasonal varieties—which can be paired, exquisitely, with a flight of matched wines—one’s cheeses are served by a seasoned fromager, who in an improbable feat of sincerity can fire off descriptors like “spicy with a little barnyard in the finish” without a whiff of absurdity. (“This one’s a ‘Three-Day Lunchbox with a Hint of Gym Sock!’ ” cracked my companion, happily smearing a reeking La Tur onto her crusty bread.)

So it stands to reason that the cheese dishes are the stars of the menu. A crackle-crusted, bacon-loaded pizzette was quichelike with creamy onions and ricotta; a French onion soup exemplary in potency and refinement, with its sumptuous cap of three cheeses. We never made it to the celebrated fondue (is it even legal to chase three rich cheeses with a pot of fondue?), but even dishes merely embellished with cheese—terrific Parmesan potato chips, an arugula-beet salad with dollops of goat cheese, warming wild-mushroom gnocchi with chard and curls of Parmesan—were elevated by it.

The cheeseless stuff was chancier. For every delectable “chicken under a brick,” with perfect crisp skin and rustic pureed potatoes with spring vegetables in garlic sauce (for good reason, Brasserie’s signature dish) there’s a clunker like a lackluster plate of tough hanger steak frites. We relished a tender filet of wild salmon encrusted with horseradish, but sea scallops in a blood orange Grenobloise—a noble French sauce merging citrus with capers and brown butter—were tragically incoherent. Beignets were divine; chocolate mousse wan.

As a consequence of this inconsistency, Artisanal Brasserie feels more like the franchise restaurant it looks like than the boutique fromagerie Brennan envisioned. Next door in Italy, the situation’s even worse. Off a noshy, affordable menu of antipasti, pasta, and pizzas in the dim-lit, brick-walled, uberurban Artisanal Table, a few items shined—veal meatballs in a Pecorino sauce, a rich lamb ragout over delicate pappardelle. But beyond these blandness ruled the day, from a breathtakingly tasteless spaghetti aglio olio to a pizza starring guanciale, hot pepper, wild oregano, and clams. Exactly seven clams. On a 10-inch pizza. (On which, it must be said, the heavy crust was extremely flavorful. The most flavorful part of the pie.)

We ended up sipping wine and nibbling off a plate of formaggio. Which, of course, was stunning.


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