It’s no secret that New Yorkers think they’re the coolest people in the world.
And there is nothing quite so uncool as being smooshed into line with ordinary people at an eatery that has recently passed its hipster prime.
A spot that has started attracting tourists.
Suburbanites.
Conventioneers.
That may be why some of the hottest reservations in New York City are for its underground restaurants — where you really have to know somebody to get in.
These places operate on referral only, screen the clientele and announce their avail-ability through exclusive e-mail lists. They feel like half-dinner party, half-speakeasy.
Some are run by those who want to play restaurant without dealing with municipal restrictions, and others are just side ventures for the amateur chef.
Reports of these restaurants have popped up in Oregon, Vancouver, San Francisco and Paris, but most recently in New York. And because of their covert nature, no one really knows how many there are.
Whether they are illegal — or just secret — is confusing. When we called Sid Dinsay, spokesman for the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene, he admitted that underground restaurants weren’t on the department’s radar. Still, he was concerned about, “What would happen if there was a fire or a food-borne illness outbreak?” and wondered if “the staff has been trained in food safety.”
Dinsay said that if diners’ payments are considered “donations,” then they can’t be considered a legitimate food service establishment. But added, “if we got complaints, we’d investigate.”
Concerns thrown to the wind, we headed to New York to find out what all the fuss was about.
With the help of a couple of pals, we ferreted out phone numbers and e-mail ad-dresses for two places in short order. And after agreeing to protect certain details — mostly names and locations — of their operations, we were booked for dinner.
403 in SoHo
It’s a steamy Thursday night in SoHo as we approach the industrial brick building whose address we were e-mailed earlier that day. Upon entering the small glass lobby, we call the designated number and are told to ride the elevator to the fourth floor.
At the end of the hallway a doorman welcomes us, efficiently collects our $20 “donation” and shows us in. Candles light the rooms, the speakers breathe soft lounge music and seared meat perfumes the air. The place feels like a dinner party with artsy friends — albeit ones we’ve never met.
Co-host and chef Yves-Claude mans a saute pan with one hand and waves us in with the other. He introduces us to his restaurant partner, Lelaine, who leads us to the couches and explains that the two of them have been carrying out this weekly experiment since early June.
“I had friends who used to go out a lot but were looking for something more,” says Lelaine, whose background is in nightclubs and public relations. “Restaurants and clubs just didn’t appeal to them as much.”
Suddenly Yves-Claude collapses into the chair next to me. He has been shopping and cooking all day. Glasses of sangria arrive, and the amateur chef tells us that he’s been having large dinner parties in the loft for years — although those were free. But 403 has allowed him to turn the parties into a slight moneymaking venture that also brings together a wider range of people to network and exchange ideas — thus the salon part of the equation.
Eventually, he says he wants to open three underground restaurant/salons with different chefs — Italian, Asian and French — in various parts of Manhattan. He says he doesn’t lose money on the $20 admission/donation (and the $6-per-drink fee) but knows he will need to raise it at some point. The fiftysomething former hairdresser now works as a busy kitchen designer when he is not whipping up meals for 403.
The buffet-style dinner of pork tenderloin with honey mustard, beef tenderloin in a peppercorn sauce, chicken thighs (the chef describes himself as a thigh zealot) wrapped in pancetta, beet salad, Caprese salad and broccoli rabe is divine. As guests arrive, they start with a cocktail and then visit the buffet, carrying their plates back to the couches or tables set up around the loft.
Roughly 40 people come and go all night, striking up conversations between sips, bites and puffs. Most 403 dinners feature a short presentation by a filmmaker, researcher or activist as well as a rotating art exhibit.But the evening is less about brainy debate than mingling with other Manhattanites.
“I mean how often do you go to a restaurant and talk to the person sitting behind you,” says Jenny Gering, a 37-year-old fashion stylist who was planted on the couch with her new acquaintance, Justin Shaffer, 23. “And I kind of like that they screen the guests.”
Everyone in attendance has either been invited by one of the hosts or referred by an original invitee.
“That way if I serve shrimp one week and some guy comes and eats 25 of them, we all know where he came from and who referred him,” says Yves-Claude.
While all of the guests appreciated the social aspect of the 403, others said they were just grateful for a place in New York where they could eat and drink and smoke all at once.
Before we leave, we settle up the bill, er, donation, for our cocktails, whose quantity is subtly but unfailingly noted by the staff.
Still, this blend of commerce and “friendliness” works. For all its brainy, icy, salony potential, 403 ends up creating an odd sense of bonhomie, community and even warmth on this island full of strangers.
Brooklyn’s Coach Peaches
Like urban tumbleweeds, scraps of garbage blow by the graffiti-stained door on Flatbush Avenue. Can this possibly be the right address? A quick phone call to the secret number assures us that it is.
And soon enough our co-host (who asked that we not use his real name, and who would like to be identified as Marjoram Butterfront) emerges wearing baggy shorts, a worn T-shirt and a big smile.
The former personal chef welcomes us in and takes us up an elevator to the loft. The stereo is set up in an old fridge, and a whole wall is covered in empty frames. A table near the front door holds a collection box where diners are asked to pay $40 (for five courses, wine and pre-dinner drinks).
The Pernice Brothers and Dinah Washington drift out of the iPod stereo, and half a dozen tables await the expected 40 diners.
Marjoram’s partner (who asked to be identified as Pumpkins) shows us to the roof — with a view of the Statue of Liberty — where he’s smoking trout on the grill. He explains that when they are going to be open for dinner, they “send e-mail to about 700 people and choose 40 based on the speed of the response, giving priority to first-time diners.”
At 7 p.m. the youngish crowd of journalists, lawyers and photographers, filmmakers and teachers starts streaming in.
Many are from Brooklyn, but a few, including BBC correspondent Tom Brook — who has arrived with his partner and two terriers — have come in from Manhattan.
“[Brooklyn] is like a big adventure, like unfamiliar territory,” says Brook who like most here was referred by a friend. “When we came here and saw this big industrial building I couldn’t believe this is where we were going to have dinner.”
Most agree the $40 is a bargain in New York for a five-course meal with cocktails and unlimited wine. “It’s great,” says attorney Jonas Blank. “Forty dollars is usually my drink bill alone.”
For some, the draw is the cheap, funky, friendly experience, but for others it’s all about escaping the hoi polloi.
“New Yorkers like things that are secret and hard to get into,” says lawyer Kristy Hong. “And so this is perfect way to escape the tourists.”
Unlike the casual buffet set up of 403, Coach Peaches is a strictly sit-down affair. Most guests dine at a large communal table surrounded by a half a dozen smaller ones. Servers deliver one lovely course at a time.
Bottles of wine (tonight, among them is a superb Cote de Saint Mont 2004 rose) are replenished as quickly as they are drained.
Dinner starts with smoked trout, avocado and endive crostini followed by a cool, velvety corn soup harboring a lovely dollop of roasted tomatoes. The meal continues with a green salad and seared shell steak layered on arugula, shaved Parmesan and beefsteak tomatoes. It finishes with a fine selection of artisanal cheeses and a luscious fruit crisp a la mode.
As dinner winds down, the hosts encourage everyone to linger and finish the wine stash before they have to vacate the building. It is being sold, and thus this is the last night that Coach Peaches will host a meal here. They plan to relocate soon, but the new spot remains a mystery to even them — they swear.
As we leave around 10:30 p.m., at least two dozen guests remain tablehopping, yakking and exchanging e-mail addresses with people who are or have recently become their friends.
And as we ride the elevator down, all I can think of is how cool it would be if we had places like this in Chicago.
Postscript: Since our visit to New York, Lelaine and Yves Claude have dissolved their partnership and gone their separate ways. She will continue presenting a weekly salon in various New York locations with food remaining “an integral part.” Yves Claude wants to partner with a restaurant to offer meals “in a setting geared towards relaxed conversation,” several days a week.
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meng@tribune.com
