Megu
This was a bit of a surprise Valentines choice. We eat a lot of Asian food,
but never Japanese. I havent tried any of the ten million new trendy
Japanese restaurants that seem to have sprouted everywhere below
14th Street. Mostly because I'm miserly and not fond of obnoxious
scenes, but there are exceptions to every rule.
Megu ended up being surprisingly fun–maybe thats just the alcohol
talking—somehow meals always become more fun in proportion to the
amount of imbibing that occurs. Yes, the food was tiny and expensive, but it
was creative and mostly satisfying. The service was gracious and completely
unpretentious. As might be expected there were plenty of white guy/Asian
girl and wizened male/nubile females combos dotted throughout the starkly
plush room (yeah, its possible to be simultaneously minimalist yet
decadent). The tables and white leather banquettes were pleasantly spaced
and intimate, which lent to the luxurious feeling. Arm room and the ability
to hold private dinner conversations are not inalienable rights in NYC. A
gargantuan iron bell hangs from the ceiling, hovering over a large ice
carved Buddha, but somehow it seems Ok, despite verging excessive.
We were seated near the sushi bar, which frankly made for a better view
than looking out over a sea of lovers. Raw fish beats painful attempts at
impressing dates, any day. We opted for the prix fixe, of which many of the
dishes and their proper names have vanished from my memory, not that they
were unmemorable. These things just tend to blur, particularly when
preparations have lots of little components. And hey, Megu is known for its
thirteen-page tome of a menu, they don't make it easy. We started with a
glass of complimentary Veuve Clicquot (which I couldnt turn down because,
well, its alcohol, but I'm so grossed out by all the recent press given to
their CEO the sepulchral author of French Women
Dont Get Fat).
Things progressed from there with an amuse of custard in an eggshell
that was flavored with the ol one-two punch of black truffles and foie gras.
Then came a champagne risotto dusted with gold leaf, a lobster ravioli, kobe
beef with six ground peppers (this was the funny part because while normally
non-questioning diners, we inquired about the differences between the
miniscule pillars of pepper positioned at the edge of the plate. The
waitress laughed, then admitted she didnt know and had to pull out her
notes. I don't know if that was unprofessional, but it made her seem more
human than many waitress-bots these places often employ), yellowtail sushi,
a rock shrimp tempura, I think, an edamame soup, perhaps another course was
in there. Like I said, it was a whirlwind and the sake and cocktails didnt
do much for bolstering brainpower.
There sort of were two desserts. I say sort of because I'm not sure that
“slightly sweet egg” counts or not. It came precariously
presented in this whimsical dish/cup combo that magnetically held the shell
at a 45-degree angle. While trying to crack the top to get to the tofu
custard I managed to drop the egg onto my lap and then the floor. The staff
was totally eagle-eyed because I thought I'd rectified the mishap before
anyone noticed, but a waiter immediately came over to replace my oddball
treat. A “real” dessert crafted into a heart and made of a
chocolate crme caramel covered in spun sugar followed it. I was also given
a small box of chocolates at dinners end, then managed to unexpectedly score
a second box while at the coat check. It's the little things, you know.
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