Review: Supper

My mother has a lot to live up to at her Passover Seder this year: Because of a recent meal at Supper, I fear that I might be even more judgmental at this week’s family gathering than usual. The bar, indeed, has been raised.

 

This is because the first Sunday of every month, Jennifer and Mitch Prensky host a “Sunday supper” at their restaurant, a prix fixe, set-menu, BYOB-permitted meal served family style.

 

Their April Sunday supper was a homage to the Passover Seder: the traditional Jewish meal that ushers in the holiday every spring. Of course, just because it took that meal as its inspiration doesn’t mean that it was either kosher–milk and meat were freely mixed–or followed all the rules of the holiday (deliriously yeasty homemade bread was served, which is forbidden during Passover).

 

But both the food and the spirit of the holiday were present in abundance, which I imagine is exactly what the Prenskys aim for at each of these dinners. And it was one of the best kind-of home-cooked meals I’ve had in a long time.

 

Shortly after arriving and being greeted by Jennifer Prensky, her husband, the executive chef, began making the rounds, personally welcoming everyone–a nice touch, and an invaluable mood-setter. The crowd was mixed with equal parts young professionals and grand-parently types. Just like a “real” family gathering, though here with better music (John Coltrane should be required, I think, for all family events).

 

The Sunday supper menu consists of three courses, which, for $35 a person (the price for May will be $38 because of the nature of ingredient costs), seems just about right. I wasn’t sure what to expect as I waited for the first course to arrive. When I called to make a reservation a few days earlier, Jennifer told me that before I commit to a table, I should first know what would be served, and proceeded to tell me all about the menu.

And I can honestly say that, outside of a select few deli-type establishments (and Marathon, of course), I had never thought to–or had the opportunity to–order matzo ball soup at a restaurant. But one look at the amber-hued soup and the three meatball-sized matzo balls set my mind at ease. This was no echo of the pale-yellow broth of most people’s childhood, of the boiled-to-death vegetables floating depressingly in a sea of salt and canned stock. This, indeed, was a matzo ball soup of an entirely different order.

 

And for once, here was a case of truth in advertising. As rich and glistening as that liquid looked, its flavor was even better. Not that Chef Chris Harkanson (a different member of the kitchen staff takes his or her turn each month working on the menu with Prensky and preparing the meal) had done anything terribly different with the soup; he had just done it better.

 

The broth itself possessed a depth that even the most kitchen-accomplished grandmother would have a hard time coaxing out of it. And the surprisingly peppery matzo balls–they were mixed with a spice blend that included sage, black pepper, thyme, and bay leaf–miraculously managed to remain light despite their notoriously heavy main ingredient (matzo, when mixed with water in the right ratio, usually makes glue). Even the vegetables, so often throwaway items employed to flavor the broth and inexplicably left in there to mire in all their flaccid, gray-toned torpor, had here been replaced with blanched ones of a more recent vintage, as well as fresh sprigs of dill, both of which brought a sense of texture and brightness to the soup.

 

The arrival of the latkes was heralded by the unmistakably heavy aroma of frying oil and crispy shredded potatoes, as Proustian a sensory experience as I’ve had all year. I felt like I should have been arguing with my baby sister in the basement while the grown-ups tended to their endless glasses of Beaujolais in the living room. These were made with caramelized leeks instead of the more traditional and biting onions, and served with sour cream and a subtly spiced homemade apple sauce lifted up by the heady brown notes of cinnamon, clove, star anise, and vanilla bean.

And then there was the brisket with its layer of what chef Prensky jokingly–and accurately–referred to as his Jewish barbecue sauce; a ketchup-based concoction given heft and a sense of purpose with the addition of red wine vinegar, caramelized onions, Worcestershire sauce, and beef stock. The brisket itself, like everything else, was given the chef-treatment. Each fist-sized chunk was braised for six hours in its own foil packet, and emerged from this meat-spa treatment the texture of a high-end short rib.

 

Like everything else at this meal, this was both a riff on a homemade classic and a respectful haut-ing up of it: Jewish traditionalism–in this case, Prensky’s mother’s recipes–benefiting from a chef’s touch. It was even served with a little side pile of green beans tossed with a San Marzano tomato (garlic) melted onion compote, and doled out by a service staff that came around offering seconds to anyone who wanted: Who says living in the city is cold and anonymous?

 

The meal ended with a sweet, streusel-topped sour cream coffee cake with a scoop of homemade vanilla ice cream, a decidedly straightforward way to end a deceptively simple meal. And, in fact, it was here that the uniqueness of the experience made itself most strongly felt. The restaurant is so artfully designed, so unabashedly urban–there’s a pipe running along the ceiling, and the light fixtures, with their curving lines and brushed metal construction, speak of the city more than anything else–that I found myself instantly charmed by the juxtaposition of enjoying such a traditional meal in these urbane surroundings.

 

That sense of excitement is what dining out is all about. What made this particular supper so special is that it not only faithfully recreated a tradition, but cast its constituent parts in a new and wholly unexpected light. That’s the kind of discovery so many of us look for when eating out, yet rarely ever experience.

 

Not a bad way to warm up for the holiday.

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