In the eye of the beholder | Review: Beautique, New York

“Oysters are oysters,” said my wife, Ulrika, as we sat perusing the appetizers at recently opened Beautique in midtown Manhattan. “What the hell are you going to write about oysters?” She had a point. I love oysters, but I opted for the octopus in the hope that it’d yield a better word-to-mouthful ratio.

I needn’t have worried; there was plenty to write about. Dish after glorious dish arrived at our table on pristine, slate rectangles, and everything, I mean everything, was orgasmically good. The octopus with peach glaze and avocado mousse turned out to be a showstopper, and Ulrika’s cauliflower soup with coconut, quinoa and hazelnut was creamy-sweet and warming on this freezing February night. The mains were exceptional too: the flat iron steak was firm and buttery, and Ulrika’s Arctic char was – according to her – some of the best fish she’d ever tasted.

The scene is at once surreal, grotesque and utterly mesmerizing. I revel in the weirdness of the place

Looking at Beautique’s stellar credentials, it’s easy to see why the food’s so good. Head chef, Carlos Letona, is a veteran of the much-lauded Per Se; and dessert chef, Joho Kim, cut his teeth at Gordon Ramsay’s The London. The décor, on the other hand, may not be to everyone’s taste. Descending the mirrored staircase into the twinkling black and grey dining room is like walking onto the set of a 1980s soap opera. A dash of Dynasty here, a soupçon of Dallas there, and before I knew it I was picturing Bobby Ewing snorting high-quality cocaine off Alexis Carrington’s cleavage. The black mirrors; the velvet wallpaper and the backlit display of crystal decanters: these wouldn’t be details I would choose to decorate my apartment, but they do create a warmly cocooning environment in which to spend (and I mean spend) a debauched if eye-wateringly expensive evening.

Not that we were complaining. According to The New York Post, Beautique is one of Leo De Caprio’s new favourite haunts, and Ulrika was busy wondering whether his toned buttocks had graced this very table. “We’re rubbing bottoms with the stars,” she grins, sipping earnestly on a Deauville Julep.

A gaggle of Russian nymphettes clutch identical LV handbags, while a leathery man in a leopard skin hat writhes to the strains of Ace Of Bass

It’s midnight now, and Edith Piaf gives way somewhat harshly to pumping techno. The message is clearer than a kick drum: it’s time to vacate our tables and head to the cocktail lounge. Led past the kitchens through a narrow, low-lit corridor, we arrive at a bar of such pretentious excess, I’m tempted to strip off my shirt and start doing the running man. A gaggle of Russian nymphettes clutch identical LV handbags, while a leathery man in a leopard skin hat writhes to the strains of Ace Of Bass. “All that she wants is another baby!” he lip-synchs with gusto. “All that she wants is another $11,500 bottle of Dom Perignon” might be closer to the mark.

The scene is at once surreal, grotesque and utterly mesmerizing. I revel in the weirdness of the place – and the top-grade alcohol. Salvador Dali’s stained-glass face leers at me from the adjacent wall, as I attempt to spark conversation with the table opposite. But words have ceased to form. The half-dozen, James Beard-nominated cocktails have taken their toll on my motor skills.

At precisely the right moment, Ulrika scoops me up from my shiny leather perch, steers me towards the exit, and dumps me into the back of a cab, where I promptly pass out and begin to snore. Tomorrow’s hangover will be monumental. But it’s been worth every dollar-drenched minute. C
Beautique, 8 West 58th Street, New York, USA
+1 212-753-1200; beautiquedining.com