STRIP HOUSE
13 E. 12TH ST. (212) 328-0000
‘SHALL I surprise you?” the Strip House sommelier asks a table of three nerdily dressed guys and one bodacious babe in a slinky slip dress.
“I like that!” the woman declares. It’s a cute moment at this semi-sexy, “new kind of steak house” from the Glazier Group (Monkey Bar, Michael Jordan’s) on the old Asti’s site. Presumably, the “surprise” isn’t sticker shock over $250 for 1990 Lynch Bages, one of several Pauillacs on a wine list that’s racier than the menu.
Strip House promotes itself as “a place for lively celebration,” and you sure can whoop it up. The managers know their cellar, and it was a delight being led to 1996 Havens Reserve ($55), a smoky Sonoma number that made me forget a year’s worth of humdrum merlots.
But is a good but unexceptional steak dinner for four with one bottle of wine worth nearly $400?
In New York 2000, nobody flinches. Strip House buzzed on two of my three visits. The former haunt of singing waiters has shed its dowdy duds for a G-string.
In a graciously proportioned rectangle, David Rockwell has spun a decadent supper-club fantasy in crimson. The whole joint glistens red: the walls, diamond-pleated banquettes and booths. Photos of nude females hang with those of oodles of opera singers left behind by Asti’s that Rockwell cleverly kept.
But get past the licentious imagery and Strip House is a surprisingly chaste act. Without Rockwell’s magic, and the imprimatur of executive chef David Walzog, the limited menu would not draw a glance. The place is so design-driven, the food and service might as well be footnotes.
Like a broken radio, the sound track lurches from rock to New Age to rap. The staff, too, drift. Waiters hover. Servers mix up dishes. One bill included two bottles of the Havens, although we had only one. On another, we were charged for a side dish that, though ordered, never actually came.
Those little $6 sides are among the best things out of chef de cuisine Justin Pardo’s kitchen – melted heirloom tomatoes that taste of the summer we never had, ultrarich goose-fat potatoes and finger potatoes pureed to velvet bliss.
They clobbered starters like dull bibb salad ($9) and a forced marriage of skate to pointless, tiny escargots ($12). The only appetizer to catch is foie gras torchon ($26 to share) – two lasciviously rich, pink rounds.
Broiler meats are proud cuts, juicy and accurately done. My favorite was “menage a trois” ($28), tacky house lingo for lamb taken from loin, rib and shoulder, scrumptious in its juice and ornamented with a rosemary sprig.
Marrow in a hunk of bone reinforced businesslike filet mignon bordelaise ($30). House specialty New York strip ($31 for one, $58 for two) sufficiently satisfied.
Too much fat made sliced pork shoulder ($26) a chore, and rotisseried chicken ($22), though heartily seasoned, was dry. My favorite entree was a fish: sparkling pink Arctic char ($25) with crackling skin, lent a sweet, meaty dimension by artichoke juice. If everything here was as good, I’d eat nowhere else for a month.
“Totally childish,” my companion chuckled over chocolate-coconut poundcake fondue ($14 for two). Spearing the cake balls with a long fork was fun. Another retro-inspired dessert, raspberry “crepe suzettes” ($8) served without the traditional flame, failed to light my fire.
For a restaurant that tries so hard to look seductive, Strip House gets a lot of all-guy tables, like a rowdy bunch of seven last Friday. Maybe scarlet walls and nude women are not really the thing for romance. Or maybe you can’t hide an old kind of steak house in a crimson G-string.
You can e-mail comments to:
scuozzo@nypost.com
