Perry Street

It was restaurant week and the e-mails started trickling in. A few friends wanted to brainstorm some reservations for the week-long event of cheaper fare.

No matter what names came up, I wasn't convinced. I trusted my anti-restaurant week instincts and refused the offers. It wasn't like I had better things lined up like hot dates or swanky parties, but I prefer eating what I want, when I want it and being able to pick from more than three items per course (and often eating more than three items per course). Shh, don't tell my nutrition coach. Oh wait, I don't have one.

I'm about to leave work on Monday afternoon and I receive this e-mail. There's no body, just a subject line. I love these kinds of e-mails. They convey a sort of urgency and it made me feel important.

"plans tonight????"

I hadn't spoken a word of restaurant week to FunStar. The girl loves pitching day-of plans. I'm all about being spontaneous, but I'll admit to being more of a planner. Whenever I throw parties, I get very frustrated with guys and the typical "game-time decision." What is that? I've disappointed FunStar one too many times, and I didn't feel like disappointing her again.

"no, what you got?" I replied.

"come eat with me. have a reservation at perry street!!!! was going with c-town but he can't go last minute!!!"


Last minute? I'll say. Had I left a few minutes earlier, I would have missed the invitation all together.


"what time?"


"early. six-ish."


"done and done."


I'd never heard of Perry Street and I wasn't sure what I was getting into. When I realized it was a Jean Georges restaurant I freaked. Abort! Abort! Jean Georges is the fanciest restaurant I've ever eaten in in Manhattan and I was dressed like a paup-ress that day. I barely made it out of my apartment in a wrinkled polo shirt, a V-neck sweater and old ripped jeans. Not to mention my baggo, but favorite, Barbour that looks like it was my grandfather's.

I called FunStar on my way to the gym to inquire about the dress code and she insisted I'd be fine. I was tempted to run into the local Club Monaco for some new duds, but figured I'd save the money for dinner. When I read that Perry Street kisses the Hudson, they weren't kidding. Besides driving down the West Side Highway from Connecticut, I'd never been so far west on the island. Every time I crossed another street I thought to myself, "It must be on this corner, it must be on this corner." Finally the numbers were matching up and I could see the cars flying by on the HH. I wasn't sure what the appeal was, of looking out on the highway, but I was curious to see what this place was all about.

Lately, I've been walking into a lot of wrong doors. And Monday was no different. I walked into an apartment lobby, confused and awkward, "Is this Perry Street?" You know you've been there. The handsome doorman, in his heavy, charcoal-gray, golden-lined overcoat said, "Nah, around the coo-wuh-nuh."

"Thank you!"

I walked in and the place was empty, except for a couple of tables. It was early for a New York City dinner, but I still expected the place to be a little more happening. I walked to the back and checked my coat-- my petpeeve of all petpeeves in restaurants these days. Is the coat check really necessary? Please discuss. It's not like Perry Street has the same negative square feet as A or 'ino and needed to conserve space.

I beat FunStar in proud fashion. It's been a New Year's resolution of mine to be more punctual. So far it's going pretty well. Instead of being a half hour late, I'm showing up early or only a few minutes tardy. Baby steps, baby steps.

I went right to the bar and ordered a cocktail from the funky bartender. He was a cross between Steve Urkell (a white version) and Sesame Street's Count Dracula. He had long hair, a long nose to match, big ears, and dark shaggy hair to his chin. He wore thick-rimmed, black glasses, and his thin tie stopped way above his pant line, even though they were hiked up to his belly button. I couldn't see his shoes, but I would bet my life on it he finished his British rocker look with short pants revealing bleach white socks.

As I was slurping down my beverage, FunStar arrived and we made our way to our table. Perry Street has a nice space -- large windows all around -- but I wasn't really feeling the atmosphere. It was stark and cold and too industrial-like for me. I wished I hadn't handed over my coat. There are lounge pods to your left when you walk in that slowly filled up throughout the night, for those who like to eat/drink hunched over. The bar was long and sleek, and with more people, I think it would be enjoyable to relax and hang out there for a while. It's separated from the tables so you don't feel like you're in the face of the seated patrons.


We made our selections and a server brought us our amuse-bouches. It's been a while since I'd had one of these. I had to ask a couple of times what it was because I couldn't get my tastebuds wrapped around the flavors. I think this is a good thing -- it made me think a little and not just inhale. It was a celery root soup with raspberry foam and it was definitely one of the best things brought to the table the entire night.

FunStar and I both ordered the ricotta and beet salad with wasabi for an appetizer. The best thing about this dish were the thick crunchy croutons. Other than that it was totally bland. Ricotta needs something with a lot more kick than plain ol' beets.

Again, lacking all originality, we ordered the same dish: hanger steak with a bed of jalapeno and steamed spinach. Hanger steak is usually hit or miss and I have to say I was pleasantly surprised by Perry Street's hanger steak. I would definitely get it again. It was tender and juicy and the outer layer was packed with a peppery-sweet flavor. It reminded me of my favorite dish growing up-- flank steak grilled by Dad on the patio. Even the spinach was cooked perfectly. I could taste each leaf-- it wasn't a big gob of mush. The age old problem with restaurant week is the portion sizes. I wanted more steak and, as you can see in the image below, there was only enough for a few forkfuls.

For dessert, I ordered the chocolate pudding with cream and crystalized violets for dessert. The violets tasted like a sort of cookie crumble and they saved this dessert from being a flat out disappointment. The pudding didn't have the richness of flavor I was expecting. It was like they whipped all the flavor right out of it.

FunStar ordered the white chocolate and mint meringue concoction. It was certainly pretty to look at and the more exciting of the two desserts, but nothing I'd write home to Mom about.

Poor FunStar is never going to invite me to dinner again...

When asked what my favorite dining experience in the city has been, I will, without a doubt, say Jean Georges. Swimster and I felt like a king and queen when we ate there a few years ago, and this feeling has yet to be replicated anywhere, in this city and beyond. It is one of my top five, if not the top five, dining experiences I've had in my life. I was hoping to leave Perry Street with a similar sensation of awe and bewilderment of what my eyes and tongue did behold. But alas, I did not. I enjoyed seeing FunStar and I was flattered she chose me to be her date that evening, but yet again, I was left with fear and loathing of restaurant week.

176 Perry St., at West Street
(212) 352-1900