Was taken to Souen by a cancer survivor mindful of healthy habits who kept repeating "it's macrobiotic!" so I went along with it. I was sick within an hour with mild food poisoning: bloat, gas, and water instead of poo -- unmistakable symptoms -- into the next day. Nowhere near as severe as, say, Delhi Belly or Montezuma's Revenge, but in that direction. One becomes generally used to not worrying about eating uncooked and lightly-cooked food in the US, but once every few years one is reminded of the perils of complacency.
No big whoop -- a little loperamide hydrochloride and a cast iron constitution had me right in no time, but having failed at the one paramount job of not poisoning the guests, this establishment earning more than one star here is not possible.
Even with that, as a veteran of eating out at every stratum of restaurant in New York for decades, I am entirely capable of fondly relating the positives of the whole experience where they occur, and look to find small pleasures where they can be found.
But at Souen the food is ridiculously bland, dry, overcooked, just tossed on the plate -- like decades of innovation in vegetarian cuisine preparation and presentation simply passed them by.
Their "Macro-Plate" -- "brown rice, steamed kale, broccoli, kabocha squash, carrot, wakame, and bean of the day with choice of dressing" is shamelessly priced even at $11. Everything tastes the same -- like munching cardboard spiced with hay. The "bean of the day" is a sad little puddle of black beans out of a can, congealed in a plop of canned-bean drippings looking like cat-sick (from either end). The "broccoli" is one big stiff stalk of it -- and when I say stalk I mean STALK -- plopped on the middle of the plate. The "choice of dressing" arrives in a single, pitiful little plastic take-out thing -- you know, like comes attached to a bottle of Nyquil. The Miso Soup was thin and salty, but otherwise inoffensive. The carrot and burdock Kinpira ("kimpira" here) felt unloved and wanting -- not privileged with something like flavor in this lifetime.
There's no salt, pepper, sesame, hot sauce -- nothing on the table to augment the dull substance. We (old friends) decided holiday catching-up took priority over figuring out how to train an elusive waiter apparently uninterested in fundamentals.
Not for nothing -- but a buck-and-a-quarter retail bottle of watery commercial ginger ale here will set you back $3.75.
The space is cramped and narrow -- so, the whole time you eat, people coming and going jostle you, and staff continually order them not to stand here or there, and ongoing petty arguments about the finer points of that ensue a few inches from your ear.
While emphasizing old-school vegetarian austerity, they cook and serve fish, imbuing the place with its sometimes overpowering redolence (perhaps this is the sort of thing that misinforms so many carnivores into repeating, for life: "Ah, you're vegetarian -- have the fish.")
Waiter is all youthful, weary, wan -- withering-glance condescension commensurate with cluelessness, but otherwise not Dickensian enough for a good story at least. Either he or the kitchen do not know how to time appetizers, soup, entree -- or even know that is actually a thing; thus courses arrive at table -- with a soupçon of attitude -- fairly well on top of each other. Foreseeably, the entree is cold by the time you get to it, and amid a table crowded with dirty dishes. Nothing is bused till after you leave.
All this meh -- with no wine or other alcohol -- set us back seventy-something bucks for two, including 20% tip (at least *we* can be civilized and charitable in the face of abject meanness).
So, yes, there was nothing savory nor ambient to ameliorate the minor poison served to me here -- my Souen experience was entirely all of a piece. read more