Among the many reasons I restrain myself from interacting digitally anywhere but at my desktop: Tweet in haste, repent at leisure. Never was that clearer than on our second visit to the Milling Room. Our first meal was fine; our second made me want to blast out a “why isn’t this joint packed?” iStorm.
And the food really was impressive, as were the waiters and the lively wine, a pinot bianco for only $40. The beet salad with those bloody roots set over pistachio and blue cheese was again fabulous; the hamachi tartare downtown-worthy. On our first visit, the mushroom risotto rivaled the roast chicken; on the second, Bob’s honking huge pork chop was on the same level as our friends’ rabbit with pappardelle and Scottish salmon set over caramelized endive. The service was spectacular, at least until the place filled up a bit more, and the space and the low noise level both had my fingers twitching to Tweet.
Luckily, I held off. Because my main, monkfish cheeks substituted for cod in combination with black trumpet mushrooms and celeriac puree, proved to be dazzling. Only on the walk home, when I said the fish was great but too rich, did my consort note: “Yeah, and it was $38.” My heart stopped and I turned right around. That wonderfully welcoming maitre d’ or host or whatever he was never mentioned a whopping surcharge for trash fish. And the confrontation at the reception desk was awkward, and slow, but Bob got the $12 overcharge off the bill.
Still, WIGB? Undoubtedly. Even though we had been gulled three times before by trying to book on OpenTable when it was supposedly always full; only after a friend who lives nearby emailed to say it was quiet and comfortable did we try walking right in. (Shades of the Jerry Della Femina strategy for filling a resto: tell ’em no till they beg to hear yes.) The cooking is typical Scott Bryan — skillful if not pyrotechnic — and the Endicott Hotel lobby-converted-into-dining room and noise level are almost as comfortable as eating at home. And, if you check the bill before you let your consort pay, the prices are very right.
And why did we and Dr. and Lady Bugs wind up at the Milling Room to chew over “Mr. Turner”? Because I stupidly thought we would be able to walk out of the theater at 6 and into the uptown Parm, little realizing that the olds we usually do battle with for tables would instead be outnumbered by young parents. The anticipated wait on that Sunday evening was an hour. A couple of weeks later Bob and I hit the same reality — if you want to walk right in, sit right down, eat early downtown. Uptown, wait till the stroller gridlock clears.