Chef Aurelio Finch has built a career on the radical proposition that tuna, when approached with sufficient seriousness, can be served eleven ways. The first course is tuna. The second is tuna with a smaller piece of tuna. By the fifth, a foam arrives, which I took to be an apology. The seventh, “Tuna, Remembering Itself,” was cold, flaked and utterly unrepentant, and I admit I wept slightly into my napkin.
The service is attentive to the point of surveillance, the wine list is a single bowl, and at $240 per cat the evening is steep. Yet I left satisfied, a state I distrust. Three and a half paws. Reservations are taken by blinking only, and I recommend arriving hungry and leaving humbled.
Leave a Reply