I’ve found the food of Southern Florida to be somewhat uninspired as of late, so when I heard my daughter was trying Smithereens, a new, trendy East Village restaurant that has been on my hit list since it opened, I asked her if she was interested in attempting to replace my culinary review skills this week. And let me tell you, not only did she say yes, she lets it burn.
I am one proud momma. Her writing skills, repartee, humor and sarcasm warm my heart.
The Devil’s spawn (perhaps better known as the daughter) reporting for duty.
I wish my inaugural review could bring some much needed positivity to the world, but instead, it’s a reflection of my mood in Trump’s America…RAGE.
When I spotted a much coveted reservation at Smithereens on RESY, I immediately nabbed it.
5:45pm early bird be damned, this restaurant had been on my radar for some time and I was excited to try it.
Smithereens comes from chef/owner Nick Tamburo, formerly of Claud (excellent), and partner and beverage director Nikita Malhotra, formerly of Momofuku Ko.
I was quickly seated at a banquette, thoughtfully designed with a back that was high enough for a toddler.
This aesthetic is echoed throughout the restaurant. Low backed seats abound in the muted grey, personalityless subterranean box. I’m told Tamburo was going for a modern tavern, but it reads more like a TSA holding room.
With the smell of low tide wafting through the air, our man-bunned waiter emerged, greeting us with a “is tap ok?”
What a welcome! When asked for his favorite cocktails and dishes, he apathetically replied that everything on the diminutive menu is exceptional. This is going to be a shocking revelation…it was not.
On his meek recommendation, I ordered an apple white negroni, which to my surprise was made with tequila and tasted like a slightly boozy apple lollipop. I couldn’t decide whether I liked or disliked it, which frankly set the tone for the evening.
Everything was meh. The food and the beverages lacked a definitive point of view, temperature and taste profile.
The first course selection arrived, a Buckwheat Pancake with Smoked fFsh. I can only guess that they prepared the menu item in advance of service because it arrived lukewarm and congealed, placed over what can be best described as a plop of undeterminable white fish. The few crispy bits around the edges were tasty, but that’s pushing the limit of my kindness. The dish was highly recommended by many on the internet, so I can only hope this was a bad night for the kitchen ($21).
The pancake was followed by Cured Fluke with rhubarb and kelp. You could have told me it was grapefruit and bark. It was fine, much like a million other raw white fish preparations in New York City. It was at least fresh and clean and totally mediocre.
Next came the only item that I can recommend, a $36 Lobster Roll. While it could have been no larger than the size of my fist, it was sweet, creamy and sandwiched in a well toasted, buttered roll. The accompanying pickles were better left untested.
Semi-seared Scallops with white asparagus followed. I tracked down the server to ask about the intended temperature. It was neither hot nor cold, seared nor raw. That is how they’re supposed to be evidently. There is a kernel of an idea here..sweet fresh scallops in burnt butter foam (I think?), but the indecisiveness of the restaurant was apparent again in this dish. It was…okay ($19).
The scallops were supposed to be followed by the Anadama Bread (which the internet purports is excellent) and beans with red shrimp, squid and sea urchin. But, alas, these dishes never arrived.
The first three items were flung at us in a matter of 15 minutes but after waiting another 30 without nary a bean in sight, I questioned our Temu Justin Baldoni lookalike server as to their whereabouts. His response, “Oh, ah, I just checked on the beans and they’re coming. Should I wrap them up for you to go?”
I must admit to being impressed by my own restraint as I sat in my child sized throne and answered calmly, “I think we’ll forgo the beans.” His retort, “I guess I won’t charge you.” Be still my beating heart…what a man, what a man, what a mighty good man. He then proudly placed the check on the table, sans beans of course.
I tipped a generous 15% and apologized to my friend for asking her to take the trip from Brooklyn (a $57 Uber ride no less) to try this truly disappointing restaurant.
Devilish readers…I can report that one of the only apt things about the restaurant is the name. Because as I walked out of Smithereens, past the humorless and braless hostess, back into the pot tinged East Village air, the only thing I wanted to do was get smashed.
Smithereens 414 East 9th Street New York City. Open Tuesday-Saturday 530-10pm. Reservations on RESY.
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