Alison Is Back, On Eighteenth

A menu that is “casual” yet “refined;” décor details that are “sophisticated” yet “playful;” a restaurant that is both “simple” and “elegant.” These are just some of the oxymoronic descriptions used by Alison Price Becker and the team behind her latest restaurant, Alison Eighteen (on 18th Street), to describe what marks her first return to the Manhattan dining scene after a nine-year hiatus (her last New York venture was the beloved ’90s hit Alison on Dominick). The restaurant is nestled smack in the heart of the Flatiron District, an area of town we’re tempted to say—it can’t be resisted—is neither uptown nor downtown.

Maybe it is these rather contradictory juxtapositions at Alison Eighteen that make us ask if the restaurant is this or that, fish or foul, fancy or footloose? None of which is a bad thing, since the question begs for multiple return trips.

All ambiguities aside, one thing is for sure: executive chef Robert Gurvich knows good food. This being a semi-homage to the French brasserie, herb steamed mussels and sautéed foie gras occupy a rightful place at the front of the menu, but the grilled Portuguese octopus and the polenta with foraged mushrooms are so exceptional that your taste buds won’t know what hit them (you’ll have to ask the waiter yourself how they strip the octopus of any rubber-like consistency). The rotisserie delivers formidable spit-roasted chicken and lamb shoulder (no-questions-asked winners), but the poached halibut with fennel marmalade capers, blood oranges, and pistachios flakes onto your fork like little divots of divinity. And where else besides France will you find chestnut crème (an acquired taste, perhaps) with caramelized apples, chantilly, and meringue sticks?

Price Becker teamed up with Asfour Guzy Architects to create a relaxed, open, and timeless space inspired by the classic brasseries of Paris. And so there are eggplant-colored tufted banquettes, light terrazzo floors, warm walnut tables, and bronze sconces and chandeliers everywhere. The French inspiration carries through in the toile wallpaper, though this isn’t Bunny’s toile; instead, a custom print presents caricatured animals, New York scenes, and Alison herself. The effect is to stir up a seemingly relaxed space. Still, as a recent review noted, men aren’t obliged to wear blazers, but most of the clientele seems to come with a self-imposed, semi-formal dress code. And the friendly brasserie-like waiter service can be punctuated by overly attentive water pourers scared to let a glass dip below the “half empty” mark—thereby constantly interrupting gossipy tables from figuring out if the couple sitting across from them is a business man with his mistress or merely a regular with his art dealer who hasn’t gotten the memo that even Debbie Harry wouldn’t try pulling off the Blondie look after a certain age.

With a solid menu at stake, though, maybe it doesn’t matter what mix of dress-up, dress-down Alison is going for here. 

Our Leading Lady

When Flora Collins, the daughter of style authority Amy Fine Collins, needed a dress for her coming out last November at the legendary Bal des Débutantes de Paris, there was no question as to which designer she would wear. Collins knew assuredly that it would be Carolina Herrera. The Crillon Ball, as it’s known, is a decidedly high-stakes moment not only for the young women who are invited to participate, but also for the designers whose labels make that magical entrance onto the world stage. As such, it’s no surprise that usually only the official couture houses are represented: Chanel, Dior, Givenchy (the ball was once even dubbed “Le Bal de la Haute Couture”). But when a designer reaches that couture-like status, he or she is also invited to the ball. So it’s no surprise that Carolina Herrera—a standard-bearer for ultimate quality and elegance—was a rightful choice for the young Collins, who also happened to grow up knowing Herrera personally.

In the months leading up to the ball, Herrera picked out ten dresses for Collins to choose from. On the day she made her decision, Collins walked into the showroom to find Herrera’s selections on display in their full glory. She immediately gravitated toward one, and that was it: a two-tone strapless blush tulle gown with a consummate ball-gown skirt fit for a fairytale princess. “I knew that would be the one,” Herrera admitted, even though she didn’t direct Flora’s decision. That, according to longtime fan Amy Fine Collins, is one of Herrera’s gifts as a designer: she knows exactly what her clients want, and unfailingly delivers what they need. Her omniscience, in this respect, is one of the many reasons she is so beloved.

Her gift to fashion and to women, as the story of Collins mère and fille illustrates, is that she resonates with every generation—and manages to suit them all. Every girl who wants to feel like a woman looks to Carolina Herrera; so does every woman who wants to feel like a lady. The Venezuelan-born, New York-based designer has always represented the epitome of a certain kind of grace and gracefulness: she is a semi-mythic combination of glamour, beauty, worldliness, and culture, and her clothing has always reflected that. Carolina Herrera New York, the luxury label that she launched in 1980, has consistently summoned an instant sense of sophistication, but without ever being dull.

This spring, her collection showcases Carolina Herrera at its best, with a vibrant palette ranging from spring greens and yellows to sober reds and reassuring silvers and neutrals—all with signature modern takes on classic form. The feminine is always at home with Carolina Herrera, but never overly precious; somehow, sparrow prints in Herrera’s hands manage to stay winningly charming, without any cloying cutesiness.

Herrera consistently honors the female form, and this season is no exception. Interestingly, she introduces geometric shapes to contrast the natural, fluid, and curvy shapes of a woman’s body. For instance, a form-hugging red silk seersucker gown is offset by geometric embroidery running up and down like a print motif; a yellow silk gazar gown fit for the ballroom is broken up by rectangular appliqué bands. And black-and-white shirt dresses show off this blocky geometry as only monochromatic tones can. Her risk-taking always reaches a certain limit and remains knowingly in step. This might be due to the fact that Herrera is a master of both propriety and proportion. As Amy Fine Collins puts it: “Carolina has an eye for proportion like no one else,” which can be something of a “neglected art” in fashion today.

In a nod to the multigenerational appeal that is Carolina Herrera New York, the spring runway featured models carrying the Mini Matryoshka bag, which was designed by her daughter Carolina Herrera Baez. Baez (known affectionately as “Carolina, Jr.”) shares her mother’s intangible style savvy and has been consulting for her on the lifestyle brand CH. Baez’s bags for this season, which are really bucket totes made of color-blocked Goya leather, marked a seamless yet very apparent bridge between not just two labels, but two women and two generations.

Carolina Herrera, like her collections themselves, is an alluring combination of contrasts. With her iconic short-cropped, swooped-to-one-side hairstyle and crisp, constructed white shirts, she is a modern woman with her sleeves rolled up, ready for business. Spotted at the opera or the ballet in evening gowns of her own design, she is a stunning and perpetually reincarnated version of a regal, international lady of another time. Carolina—as both her close friends and anonymous fans alike feel free to call her—speaks endlessly to a certain kind of ideal: the timeless yet modern figure whom every woman aspires to be.

A Slice of France, Bite By Bite

As February rolls out and March inches in, New Yorkers can reach something of a breaking point. Spring sometimes creeps in the air, but temperatures often dip to new lows, and memories of Valentine’s Day remind us that we’re not living in a city as romantic and rouge-smooched as, say, Paris. The panacea for all of this might very well be in chef Jody Williams’s latest gastronomic venture, Buvette, a self-styled “gastroteque” serving up small plates that are big on flavor and performance.

Roughly translated, a buvette is a sort of food or coffee stall: the relaxed, easy kind of place where you can pop in, unannounced, for an early-morning espresso, a mid-afternoon sandwich, an after-work drink, or some late-night nosh. With friends, or by yourself. For a group gathering in the semi-private back room, or a dîner à deux in the front window (it’s the perfect date spot). And Buvette is certainly all that; it has the pleasingly calibrated bustle of a Rive Gauche café or brasserie, but with all the comfort and fixings of grand-mère’s Provençal kitchen (not to mention her French countryside comfort food).

The morning hours at Buvette are rather special, if not downright sacred. With significantly lighter foot traffic than at dinner or in the after-hours, breakfast and early lunch are comfy and cozy. The warm smell of toasts and coffee (Williams uses Philadelphia-based favorite La Colombe) almost makes you forget that you have appointments lined up for the rest of the day. It is also in the daylight that the details shine through: woven Provençal baskets skattered among antique-finished serving trays and salt-and-pepper shakers; page-boy hats hanging from the bar’s side (and from the bartenders’ heads); the gray-chalked aprons wrapped around the bright-eyed waitresses. Though cappuccinos are available in sufficiently large sizes (don’t ask for skim milk or extra foam: they’re served only one way, which you can take or leave), portions remain true to Buvette’s small-place character and feel (a chocolate croissant actually comes as two finger-food-size delicacies of puffed pastry filled with chocolate rich enough to wake you up if the coffee hasn’t already).

Come nightfall, Buvette transforms into quite a boisterous bistro. A “gastronomo” (a word coined by chef-proprietor Williams to describe the jack-of-all-trades host-cum-waiter-cum-cook-cum-sommelier-cum-bartender) is likely to greet you at the door in a friendly French accent, and then take care of you from cocktails through dessert (mousse au chocolat is tempting, but the tarte tatin will leave you in a state of bewilderment). As for the small plates, there’s seemingly no wrong combination, nor too many nor too few. A suggestion: the butter-slabbed anchovy toasts, the whipped brandade de morue, the gratin of cauliflower, and both the coq au vin and the cassoulet (where else can you order both but not leave as heavy as a Pinkerton guard?).

Reservations are unnecessary—or, more correctly, can’t be had—though when walking past the crowded bar scene that nearly pours out onto the street at prime dinner hours, you wish they’d take a reservation or few, even if it were to involve haggling for a VIP email or number. Then again, this isn’t Manhattan anymore; at Buvette, at least, you won’t want it to be.

The Ivy League

Coming this April and available for pre-order now: my new book, The Ivy League (Assouline).

Yuletide Callings

Christmas cards have been called “little messengers of goodwill,” but that description, charming though it may be, is perhaps an oversimplification. In an age when the human is slowly being displaced by the digital—when the handwritten note is being forsaken for Facebook, and emotions are being expressed more expediantly in an email, a text, or even a tweet—the Christmas card stands strong as that occasion-specific form of correspondence that even the prophets and proponents of Paperless Post refuse to submit with a click of the Send button. When it comes to Christmas cards, cardstock is still king.

Indeed, nothing combines both words and images, or conveys both greetings and feelings, better than a Christmas card. And, in a new book, American Christmas Cards: 1900-1960 (published by the Bard Graduate Center of Decorative Arts, Design History, and Material Culture, and distributed by Yale University Press), we are treated to a walk back in time via Christmas cards past.

The book, edited by Kenneth L. Ames, is the first to offer a systematic survey of Christmas card imagery, and traces trends and themes from throughout the first six decades of the 20th century. Like Christmas itself, which embraces disparate beliefs, customs, and activities of multiple origins, the cards featured here are numerous and varied, from candles and poinsettias to Santa Claus and three kings, from snowy scenes to warm-weather locales, from Medieval revels to modes of transportation. This, in the end, turns out to be more than the mere exploration of images and cards, but rather is a historical survey of the American Christmas and of the larger American culture over time. Along the way, we learn why we feel an almost compulsory need to partake in the ritual of exchange, especially at this time of year.

From calling cards to family photos, from the religious to the humorous, in handwritten notes and engraved fonts alike, Christmas Cards, like its subject, is a pictorial playground of the past—a joyful journey into the world of imagination, benevolence, and beauty that is that little messenger of goodwill.

Images courtesy of Bard Graduate Center