Exclusivity, similar immoderate product, gets much invaluable the much radical privation it; it is some the cruellest and the astir honorable happening that a edifice tin sell. The Eighty-Six, a mega-swank steak location that opened successful the West Village past fall, was, from Day One, clubby, celeb-packed, and intolerable to get into—no surprise, arsenic it’s the latest from Catch Hospitality Group, which antecedently brought america the impossible-to-get-into Corner Store. There are conscionable eleven tables, and for a agelong portion I had nary involvement successful occupying immoderate of them. That is, until a person of mine—a precise fancy friend—mentioned that she mightiness beryllium capable to get maine a reservation, and I was transformed, astir instantly, rather embarrassingly, into a idiosyncratic who had ne'er wanted to beryllium successful immoderate edifice much urgently successful my life. This is the assurance instrumentality of exclusivity, and I americium seemingly a full mark: is determination thing much alluring than a closed doorway that opens conscionable for you?
The door, here, is greenish and weighty, with a wrought-iron grille implicit a cardinal peephole, and has been present for ages. The gathering is the erstwhile location of the infamous speakeasy Chumley’s, and its address, 86 Bedford Street, is said to beryllium the root of “eighty-six,” Prohibition-era slang for “Get lost.” Like 4 Charles Prime Rib, different well-guarded mega-luxury oubliette successful the West Village, with which it draws inevitable comparison, the Eighty-Six is simply a precise bully steak house. The Catch squad has wholly remade the abstraction successful weighty, affluent tones—dark woods, bronzed mirrors, copper velvets. A two-top, tucked into an alcove by the (working) fireplace, was purportedly the favored array of F. Scott Fitzgerald. You could, arsenic helium presumably did, get full-on blotto—an applewood-smoked Martini, theatrically poured tableside atop a stalagmite of crystal grown, science-fair-style, from hyper-chilled water, is excellent, and potent arsenic hell—but, successful the show lines of truthful galore diners’ iPhones filming truthful overmuch faux-blasé vertical content, it mightiness beryllium ill-advised.
Potato croquettes are topped with caviar.
While you’re browsing the menu, your server mightiness shimmer implicit bearing a lacquered box, which opens to uncover gustatory treasures arranged arsenic if for a Flemish still-life: a gracefully long-limbed Icelandic langoustine, a fewer extra-special cuts of beef. One of those steaks, truthful tightly filigreed with achromatic abdominous that it glows similar roseate quartz, is simply a cross-breed of Spanish dairy cattle and Japanese Wagyu which is available, our server assured us, lone astatine the Eighty-Six—a triumph of sourcing for the chef, Michael Vignola, Catch Group’s culinary manager and a bona-fide nutrient nerd. I was, for my sins, eating with a vegetarian, and 20 ounces felt excessively ambitious to tackle alone, truthful I went alternatively for the New York strip, served bone-in. The exterior, salted and peppered, crackled from a hard sear; the wrong was tender pinkish from borderline to edge. The sauces I’d ordered alongside were hardly necessary: an eggy, vinegar-tart béarnaise, and a wiggly, wobbly gelée-adjacent steak condiment made with veal demi-glace. I dipped my fries into them, astatine least, and enjoyed a full phalanx of steak-house sides: garlicky spinach; butter-laden mashed potatoes; a strikingly photogenic creamed-corn potpie with a swirly croissant top; snappy greenish and yellowish agelong beans, dressed successful a crisp citrus vinaigrette that sliced done the density of the remainder of the food.
Not each crockery achieved adept levels of precision. A duo of stone-crab claws were fractional sublime, 1 pincer tender and sweet, the different stringy and bland. My companion’s sweet-potato ravioli—the lone vegetarian dish, too sides, though immoderate meatless options are disposable off-menu—had a sugary filling held betwixt oddly stiff, cardboardy sheets of pasta. There is mixed messaging, too, successful the communicative that the Eighty-Six is telling, a hostility betwixt Old New York brawn and modern glitz—the speakeasy vibes and complimentary pickles versus the swoops of caviar atop lukewarm Mimolette croquettes, the cut-glass decanters for pat water, and the vintage French steak knives. But this is the dissonance of each steak houses, really; the rough-and-ready cowboy mythology is everlastingly astatine likelihood with the cardinal frilliness of the show of wealth, which is built connected that slightest manly-man of things: caring what different radical think.
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