‘I wouldn’t,” our Wednesday night waiter replies to our question about So Slow Roast Dry Rub Buttah Ribs. He shakes his head severely. Then this friendly fellow – “I’m trying out with Alvin Ailey” – breaks into a table-length smile, and all is right with the world.
Or, at least, with the vibe at B. Smith’s. Manhattan restaurants don’t come more mellow than this. But as everyone knows, Barbara Smith, superstar restaurateur/model/magazine publisher, had to transplant her namesake eatery from Eighth Avenue after a bitter feud with her former landlord and partner.
To publicize the move last November, she led a mock New Orleans-style funeral procession around the corner to Restaurant Row. It’s the kitchen that perished – notwithstanding the odd thrill like $7 Idaho potato crisps that might be the best in town.
How can a place whose menu promises all sorts of Southern and traditional African-American fire muck up its ribs, much less a dish so mouth-wateringly named?
Actually, those $21 ribs, on another evening, are not so bad, even if “Booker’s bourbon black strap lacquer and moppin’ sauce” are as mild as a supermarket bottle’s. The menu, replete with colorful names and hints of global fire, blows more smoke than any of the actual dishes.
It’s all the more disappointing in a place so friendly and attractive. The new B. Smith’s, on the site of the old Dorsay’s, has a warmer mood than the original, with muted brown and yellow colors and a high ceiling gently barrel-vaulted over two dining levels.
At lunch time, it’s mobbed with tourist busloads: On matinee Wednesday, “Happy Birthday” choruses butt into your conversation like garbled subway announcements. After dark, B. Smith’s hosts mid-Manhattan’s most happily integrated dining scene, mingling staff and customers of all colors.
Cabaret singer Julie Wilson pops in after her Friday night show and dines with three others. A jazz combo plays from the balcony. Women at the bar flash calf and shoulder; the men sport vintage hats.
“Hi, I’m B. Smith,” the proprietress flatters us one night, smiling and shaking hands at every table. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves.”
We are. But if we took her literally, we’d have said the food does not compare with what it was on Eighth Avenue.
We send back lamb osso bucco ($21) that’s all cartilage. Tutu Man’s Chicken ($16) is tutu bland, with “charred banana chutney” hard to detect.
And if Saigon shrimp spring rolls ($8) with fiery chili sauce are crisp and fresh, why are “taquitas” of duck chorizo and Machengo ($8) soggy and oily?
We miss the original restaurant’s pageful of delightful small plates. And it’s fine that portions are enormous, but we’d be happier with less if dishes, especially meat, arrived at the table in better condition.
The place ought to:
* Delete “Fancy Man’s” from the title of $25 Sirloin Steak, lest Fancy Men everywhere file a class-action suit over this impenetrably tough number.
* Give us more duck in “Twin Spiced Ginger Molasses Phat Duck Breast” ($21) and cut back on red curry plantains, pea shoots and glass noodles that are a mess.
* Add seasoning to bland, thick “Penobscot” Lobster chowder.
* Devise a way for $18 Pan Tanned Smothered Pork Chops to retain their tanned and smothered glaze after a minute or two of eating.
Some dishes are perfectly OK, like $9 steamed Manila clams, and Algier’s Seared Salmon ($20) with beluga lentils and harissa. But if only more of B. Smith’s cooking lived up to its new setting – or to its old flair.
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B. SMITH’S ½
320 W. 46TH ST. (212) 315-1100
