RECETTE...tative?

In this week's NY Magazine, Adam Platt reviewed the new Recette on Greenwich Street (a hop, skip away from the Martin Margiela boutique). "By the time the third dish arrived (a deliciously soft block of halibut, set over a creamy morel sauce), I felt like an opera buff who’d stumbled on a group of world-class tenors singing arias in their garage." Could Adam be referring to tenor Roberto Alagna in the Met’s newest production of Carmen? Playing Don Jose this past season, it was my first time hearing Alagna live; to my greatest delight, his tonality reminded me of a young Luciano Pavarotti.

(Pictured above: the army barracks scene from Act I - images from NY Times)

Also starring the staggering Elina Garanca in the title role, this innovative production by Richard Eyre was the most contemporary and relevant Carmen that I have seen to date (I have waited for a production to deem Zeffirelli's passé and out-of-touch version obsolete; Eyre’s just might do the trick). In his sets, far from a derelict garage, Eyre wove the apropos metaphor of a red ripped slash throughout: the violent lightning bolt that carves the stage curtain, the morphing silhouette of the rotating set, and the appliqué on Carmen's final gown. The latter, however, was not the most ingenious use of the metaphor, as it made the soprano look like a walking embodiment of the curtain.

(Images from NY Times)

Carmen's final garb is the symbol of the conclusive disparity that resides within Carmen herself: a recluse, passionate lover and arbiter of selfish control.  Dolce & Gabbana's transparent, lace dress with opaque undergarment-maillot would serve as an example of such contemporary manipulation of duality in fashion; while the silhouette is drawn from classical conservatism, the reveal of the woman underneath speaks to her undressed personality.

(Images from NY Times and NY Magazine)

Getting back to Recette; while I found it appealing, homey and quaint with refined French offerings that reminded me of food that your French grandmother could make, it didn't quite live up to Platt's applauding review. I started with the Cod Fritters, which were disappointingly overly breaded, and proceeded to the Daurade with sunchoke puree. While the Daurade was rather flavorless, I did sneak a taste of my mother's Halibut in a saffron beure blanc sauce (and quickly became envious that I did not order it myself). Perhaps a more thorough review would have addressed the inconsistency in this fare, instead of just applauding a restaurant for its big diva dish. After all, an opera critic can’t just stick around for the "La fleur que tu m'avais jetee" aria and fall asleep throughout the important plot recitatives.