Bobo

At Chez Bobo, beauty runs only skin deep.

181 W. 10th St., at Seventh Ave.
(212) 488-2626
Dinner: Mon.-Thur., 6 p.m.-11 p.m., Fri-Sat, 6 p.m.-12 a.m., closed Sundays.
CUISINE  European bistro
VIBE  Brownstone chic
OCCASION  See-and-be-seen dinner; cocktails.
DON’T-MISS DISH  Tarte flambee
PRICE  Appetizers, $8-16; entrees, $18-26; desserts, $7.
RESERVATIONS  Recommended

Checking in for dinner at Bobo feels like you’re checking into a bed
and breakfast – in the West Village. Reservationists answer the phone,
“Bobo residence.” Hosts greet from behind an antique desk. The only
thing missing is the little bell on the counter.

Once you pass
the hostess desk, you feel as if you’ve entered a European dinner party
or a chic supper club with homespun charms. Chef Nicolas Cantrel’s
European bistro menu similarly follows suit: bouillabaisse, steak
frites and tarte flambee.

Owner Carlos Suarez has also enlisted
his cousin, designer Dolores Suarez, and Caroline Grant (Dekar) to
decorate this two-story brownstone. The subterranean first floor is
quaintly trimmed with brass candlesticks, an antique organ and books
from Carlos’ personal collection.

I suggest you first make a
pit stop for a drink. The dinner party starts as the fashionable swarm
around an even more fashionable hound’s-tooth-clad bar. There’s also an
impressive selection of cocktails: The most spirited was the Bobo’s
Mead, a gin-based libation, fragrantly infused with lavender honey and
lemon.

Upstairs, you’ll encounter a formal dining room,
romantically lavished with red silk curtains, fireplaces and waterfall
chandeliers that cascade from the ceiling. It’s a notably “see and be
seen” crowd, table-hopping between the two floors.

Unfortunately,
the food stands in striking disharmony with the attractive ambience.
The majority of the Pan-European fare neither looked nor tasted
particularly appetizing, which is perplexing considering the chef’s
impressive pedigree.

After all, Cantrel diligently trained
under Alain Ducasse for nine years and recently served as the executive
sous chef at Country. Perhaps Cantrel had checked out of this “bed
& breakfast” early, or was busy mingling with guests. Or even
skipped the dinner party altogether.

A safe start is the tarte
flambee. A warm, crunchy flatbread showcases smoky bacon, onion and a
rich crème fraiche. But this is as good as it gets – a diamond in the
rough – among a very rough run of sub-standard dishes.

The chef
couldn’t possibly have laid eyes on the emaciated chicken presented to
our table one evening, or let such a perilously fishy branzino pass
through the kitchen doors on another visit.

To get to the tuna
confit in a Mediterranean salad, I had to peel a gelatinous shield off
the egregiously salty fish. Even then, I was left with little more than
a grim mix of diced tomatoes, celery leaves and a lone anchovy. Steak
tartare amassed gamy tenderloin chunks that all but surrendered to
unrelenting waves of vinegar.

The chicken grandmere (a classic
French fricassee) looked like it had been on a reality show for weight
loss – and won. All skin and bones, this floppy-skinned bird was easily
upstaged by a side of buttery whipped potatoes.

Stiff almond
pappardelle wore a gloppy cloak; lamb chops were tough; and chestnut
soup panned out to be no thicker than water. Unappealing plates were
par for the course and even mediocre ones were too few and far between.

If you’re not the eating type – or particularly hungry – then
Bobo’s beguiling setting is a perfect way to spend the evening in
someone else’s home. For those more concerned with culinary matters,
you may want to eat before you check into this house of style.

The chef couldn’t possibly
have laid eyes on the emaciated chicken presented to our table one
evening, or let such a perilously fishy branzino pass through the
kitchen doors on another visit.

To get to the tuna confit in a
Mediterranean salad, I had to peel a gelatinous shield off the
egregiously salty fish. Even then, I was left with little more than a
grim mix of diced tomatoes, celery leaves and a lone anchovy. Steak
tartare amassed gamy tenderloin chunks that all but surrendered to
unrelenting waves of vinegar.

The chicken grandmere (a classic
French fricassee) looked like it had been on a reality show for weight
loss – and won. All skin and bones, this floppy-skinned bird was easily
upstaged by a side of buttery whipped potatoes.

Stiff almond
pappardelle wore a gloppy cloak; lamb chops were tough; and chestnut
soup panned out to be no thicker than water. Unappealing plates were
par for the course and even mediocre ones were too few and far between.

If you’re not the eating type – or particularly hungry – then
Bobo’s beguiling setting is a perfect way to spend the evening in
someone else’s home. For those more concerned with culinary matters,
you may want to eat before you check into this house of style.

Until we eat again,
Restaurant Girl
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