My girlfriend doesn't eat.
Well, she eats. But she doesn't Eat. When I started courting her, I plied her with all sorts of meals in the hope she'd be won over. But from Recette to Yakitori Totto, nothing elicited much more than mild appreciation. When I finally got it through my head that the way to her heart did not pass through her stomach, I despaired. The one arena where I thought I knew how to impress, and this gorgeous girl who I'd been falling for since day #1? Just. Didn't. Care. In fact, she found my fixation on food a little crazy.
Fine, a lotta crazy.
We got through two years of shared meals that way. Nearly 100 separate times, my dining enjoyment outstripped hers by orders of magnitude. 100 times, my dream to see her pupils dilate from eating faded a little more. By the time we got to Fedora, it was almost dead.
Two hours later, she was kissing me in the street.
What kind of Jedi mind trick had Fedora pulled?! Cocktails helped, so well-balanced that we excused the overly whimsical names. Our server/bartender's sheer competence was disarming too, menus and glasses smoothly gliding in and out of our hands.
The bar he tended was quasi-historic, kept mostly unchanged from the property's previous life as a watering hole gone to seed. Many preservationist bloggers had been outraged, seeing this as a token gesture; to them, remaking the space for hipster appeal smacked of co-opting the past. But what co-opting! The decor was like catnip to my girlfriend, admirer of all things low-lit, wood-floored, tin-ceilinged, B&W-picture-walled.
We puzzled over the menu -- "everything sounds good," she said -- until hearing the specials. I can't tell you if her pupils dilated, but mine sure did. We ordered two, salmon belly and beef tongue. I confess to looking daggers at her when she asked for her belly to be done medium, not medium-rare; she reassured me, "It'll be OK."
"But, but... you eat sushi, so what's the dif..."
"Shhh, it'll be alright, love," she said, patting me on the hand. I couldn't know that the word "alright" would not cross my mind again that night.
The salmon belly: Maybe thinking of pork belly, we thought the portion would be the size of a deck of cards. What came, however, was more like four decks. The look on her face was somewhere between desire and terror. After all, this lady had once termed half a grilled cheese, a few fries, and a third of a dessert "a huge lunch". For once, I sympathized with the plight of the dainty eater.
I was distracted by the arrival of my tongue, another slab of protein plus a small moat of gravy and a fence of wonderfully crisp sweet potato fries. I wanted to check whether I'd need a knife, so I slid my fork through the tongue.
I slid my fork THROUGH the tongue.
That is, it felt like I wasn't cutting anything, like the fork was just passing through a hologram. This tactile absence was so incongruous that my brain short-circuited. I looked up to my girlfriend, eager to share the discovery.
Somehow she'd already eaten two decks' worth. She guiltily whispered: "It's... so good." Yes, this is what Fedora reduced my Harvard-educated companion to.
Even in retrospect, it's hard to be more cogent. The belly was like... the burnt ends of the ocean. Fatty, pink sea candy, dissolving in the mouth like the body didn't want to bother waiting for it to hit the stomach. There was some citrus note and some herb, but the details were lost on me. Like subtly applied makeup, the real art was in making it seem like added accents weren't even there.
The tongue was just as tender as the forking had implied. The deeply flavored gravy actually made me a little mad that they hadn't included a spoon, as I had to lap it up with the fork instead.
After those mains, dessert might've slipped into an afterthought. But cheesecake panna cotta with passionfruit caught our attention anew, with the... Agh, you get the idea. I loved the damn food at Fedora. Let the cynics cite Gabe Stulman's mini-empire as sign of runaway gentrification. But acknowledge that, even after the crackling atmosphere, the classy service, the alcohol... what was on the plate spoke for itself. Great is great.
Even my girlfriend, so resistant to foodstuff charm, had to admit that. The spring in her step on W 4th Street afterwards -- I'd never seen her find so much joy in being so full. The silver bullet I'd sought had been in the West Village all along. Once I'd imagined telling her, "Who's crazy NOW?", but now that the moment was here, I felt only loving warmth for her, and gratitude for the spot of enchantment that a perfect meal can conjure.
So, yup, maybe this review is biased. Maybe it's influenced by the fact that, out of those many many meals we've shared, Fedora is one of only two that my girlfriend has ever brought up again later. (The other? John Brown Smokehouse. Hey, she may not Eat, but the girl's got taste.)
Maybe you should find out for yourself.
Probability of return within 1 year: 99% read more