BY ALEXA ALTMAN 37 BY BRADLEY HAWKS It is not your typical steakhouse. The newest arrival in the M. Wells family of restaurants is anything and everything besides just a steakhouse. The wallpaper is a brilliant metallic tapestry strewn with hidden fowl. Where the ceiling turns upward into skylights, the patterns of the paper stretch out into larger beasts, fl owers, and plants. It’s as if the entire ceiling is swimming around, and the four vaulted skylights are like escape ways for the hidden creatures to retreat back into the wild—or to simply sit perched staring down at curious carnivores and pescetarians. In a Napoleonic tradition of aristocracy, corks—still attached to the severed neck of the champagne bottle— clunk to the fl oor at the swing of a sabre. A couple at the Chef’s Counter sips glasses of Nero Né while trout swim beneath the glass countertop. Beside the trout tank sit four panoramas—two yet-to-be decorated. One of the designs—perhaps representing Chef Hugue Dufour and his wife, Sarah Obraitis—is of a couple relaxing by their cabin in the mountains, surrounded by grapes and mushrooms, and decorations of nuts and berries, as if to celebrate the fruits of their labor. The entire space is like a breathtaking tribute to the dichotomy between work and play. From the outside, the space is merely an old rundown garage, while in actuality it is an epicurean sanctuary on the inside. The menu is equally brilliant and baffl ing. Appetizers can easily pass for full meals, and there is so much more than simply steak—though it is very much a presence, with or without the bone, intended to serve just one, or an entire party. My experiences there have been somewhat surreal, as is everything touched by the chef and is wife. My fi rst visit, a bag secured by a drawstring was the fi rst thing presented at the table, and we stare at it, almost waiting for something to crawl out. Nothing does—of course—and so we pass out the warm pretzel rolls which are served with a tiny pitcher of mustard, as well as a warm pat of butter. From the raw bar, we order the ‘Dog Bowl’, which essentially could have served as our meal. The lobster tails were exquisitely smoky and sweet after being grilled, then slathered in an herbed aioli. Pickled smelt lay across potato waffl es with crème fraiche, smothered in salty golden orbs of trout roe. Hackleback caviar is pressed into sheets and served on brioche like tea sandwiches. A decadent lobster roll arrives next, dripping in tarragon aioli. Escargot is lined up and roasted alongside bone marrow. Everything is luxurious. Potato gnocchi are stuffed with foie gras medallions, and poutine is served with straws of crispy golden French fries loaded with melted cheese curds, all drizzled in brown gravy. The Grassfed Cowboy is as exquisite as any steak I have ever enjoyed, the juices bursting in my mouth as I bite. And I have never, ever had potatoes like these before—almost two parts butter and cheddar to a single portion of spud—stringing from the spoon playfully as I draw my fork. The meal is outstanding in every possible way. And there are so many things that still I want to try. The beef butter sounds divine. The Caesar salad looks remarkable, covered in a snowfall of pecorino shavings. At just $15, the bone-in burger looks delicious. And the Coquilles St. Féréol is supposed to be like a seafood shepherd’s pie, with scallops buried beneath an afghan of mashed potatoes which have been carefully piped onto the plate. We pay the bill without even considering dessert. Our waitress, who has been incredible, smiles as she hands me the leftovers in a brown bag. “I snuck in a piece of cheese cake,” she winks, which I had been eye-ing on the dessert cart, swimming in a vanilla bean sauce. I suck my stomach in, to no avail, and step out into the cold street and turn the corner. Behind me is just a closed, rusty garage door, and I am already wandering if that meal truly just happened. 43-15 Crescent St Long Island City, NY 11101 Neighborhood: Long Island City (718) 786-9060 magasinwells.com
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