Artisanal

"What kind of cheeses do you like?" Swimster once asked me.

"I like them hard and aged," I answered, without a second thought.

There was a brief moment of silence, followed by laughter, followed by more laughter and streaming tears. In two years I never lived down that comment. I found out Swimster asked my cheese preference so he could prepare a cheese picnic for my birthday two years ago. Thus began my foray into the world of Artisanal.

There's no excuse why it took me so long to eat at Artisanal. I am a cheese freak. I eat about a dozen slices a day: fresh provolone, Emmenthal, Gruyere, goat cheese, mozzarella, and some whose names I don't even know but I try them at the cheese counter and I go home with them. Besides Murray's Cheese Shop, which I stumbled upon with Hawkeye, Artisanal is the other Mecca of cheese in the Big Apple and it was about time I made my pilgrimage there.



When Winette heard about Hawkeye coming to visit, we planned a dinner at Artisanal. Winette and her husband HefeWeisen were meeting us at 8:30. Surprise, surprise, I was running late and squirming in a cab again, leaving poor Winette to sit at the bar by her lonesome sipping on a great big chalice of red. Unfortunately, her husband was sick and couldn't join us. Fortunately for me, more cheese.

Artisanal's dining room is a large open space with high ceilings and typical bistro-esque windows from floor to ceiling looking out on 32nd Street. There is one main dining area and we sat in a smaller section with wooden dividers in between clusters of tables. Artisanal is the claustrophobe's alternative to Balthazar. At Balthazar you squeeze in and out of tables to get to your table, which isn't really your table at all. You end up sitting an arm's length from your neighbors. At Artisanal the tables are less packed and there is more room to have your own private dinner, though as Hawkeye pointed out, the noise level was very high.

Our server came immediately to the table and left us with the enormous menus: one for dinner and one for wine. I felt like a little kid holding them in my hands, because of their size and my excitement. Before our eyes even left the first batch of wines at the top of the wine list, our server came back to take our drink order. "Not even close to deciding, thank you," we said.

Besides the menus being daunting, it took us a while to focus on the reason we came to Artisanal: to feast. It was the first time Winette had ever met Hawkeye in person. She, like myself, works with him on occasion and they know each other through phone conversations and instant messaging. As it was fun for me, I know it was fun for them to finally have a face with the name. Funny how technology works these days.

Once we ordered our wines, Winette insisted we try the gougeres. I speak fractional French (it wasn't always like that, I swear) and I did not know what they were. With one bite I learned gougeres means pockets full of loveliness. Well, not literally, but servers kept bringing us cone after cone of these dainty, subtle cheese puffs. Cheese wasn't melting off them, or even melting inside them, but they smelt and tasted like the dough was rolled in fairy cheese dust. I didn't need to eat anything else for the rest of the night.

For an appetizer, I ordered the French onion soup. It reduced every French onion soup I'd eaten to that point to a mere soup, perhaps because Artisanal makes theirs with three onions and three cheeses. Next time I order French onion soup I'm in trouble. How am I going to ask a server to make mine the same way Artisanal does? The broth was dark brown and thick with onions and the cheese dribbled over the bowl like a witch's cauldron.



For the entree, Winette and I shared a pot of fondue with fingerling potatoes, kielbasa (for my mouth only), and crudites. All that was missing were the cowbells, our snow hats, a warm cozy fire and we were in a restaurant in Zermatt. The fondue was fabulous. The cheese was thick and gooey and held on to every piece of sausage or vegetable we dipped in. Hawkeye tried the chicken cooked under a brick (has a nice elegant ring to it) with root vegetables, pureed potatoes, and sweet garlic juice. I can't recall getting a bite of the chicken, but from what I didn't see on his plate when he finished, it was good.

I was stuffed. Winette was stuffed. Hawkeye was stuffed. We were all so stuffed we stuffed chocolate fondue in too. It was a first for Hawkeye and I enjoyed watching him decipher that the little white and pink cubes were homemade marshmallows. I did a little fondue relay putting together every combination I could of the marshmallows, strawberries, and madeleines.

I was like a turophile in a cheese shop at Artisanal, from start to finish. At the end of the night it was hard to tell if our perma-grins were from the wine, the food, or the company, but regardless, it was a fabulous night. I can't wait to bring my parents to Artisanal. I can't wait for another warm gougere. I can't wait for another dip in the fondue tub. But most of all, I can't wait to see Hawkeye and Winette again.

Cheese, anyone?

2 Park Ave., entrance on 32nd Street between Park and Madison
212-725-8585