december dinner: jojo
11 December 2007
Last week, Nicole and I had our monthly dinner at JoJo on the Upper East Side.
I was excited for this because Jean-Georges Vongerichten is not only my favorite NYC restaurateur, but also my second favorite Frenchman (a distance second behind Guy de Maupassant, who was made insane by syphilis and began telling people he was the younger wealthy son of the Virgin Mary, which is just about the craziest and awesomest shit I ever heard). And sure, I’ve only eaten at two of his (Jean-Georges’) places, Mercer Kitchen and Perry Street, but the food was excellent at both and the latter is among my top five restaurants in NYC. Also, I just feel so cultured saying his name: Jean-Georges. Jean-Georges. Croissant. God, I’m classy.
[Side note: One of the funniest times of my life involved a random night in college when a bunch of my buddies and I were high and went to our local IHOP, in the middle of the night and in the dead of the New England winter. We ordered from the poor waitress by saying, "Yes, I'll have the country omelet and on the side, I would like a...CROISSANT!", screaming "croissant" in our loudest and most awful and obnoxious French accents, each guy trying to out-do the one before. The rest of the table would burst into the uncontrollable laughter of the stoned, real tears-pouring-out, grabbing-of-sides, saying-"I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" laughter as the waitress went from one of us to the other, each of us ending his order with a thundering faux-French CROISSANT! And yes, I got laid more back then than I do now. So I ask: Where is the justice, people? WTF?]
What you need to know about JoJo, aside from that it’s Jean-Georges first restaurant and is so named because "JoJo" was his nickname is a child, is that’s a beautiful converted townhouse. That means it’s very small and intimate. That also means that if every month at dinner you find yourself defending your theory about how you believe that when you’re drunk, your sperm is also drunk, and therefore you and your sperm can’t impregnate anyone while drunk since, I mean, the sperm has to work and find the egg and all, this is not the restaurant for you. Also, it’s filled with UES old people – men in their 70′s in bowtie and women who put on so much lipstick you feel uncomfortable around them.
Nicole and I sat down and she ordered a vodka drink and I ordered a bourbon. I should have taken it as a sign when I was brought my bourbon, which cost $12, and saw that it was probably measured out by a teaspoon. Honestly, I have accidentally snorted more bourbon in the course of a night than the amount they gave me for $12, and I could easily wring more bourbon out of my work pants than was in this glass. I was tempted to scream "Oh my god – look over there!", pound the bourbon quickly and ask, "What is this, some kind of joke? I mean, you bring an empty glass? I want to speak to your manager!"
We started with the special appetizer, some leek-type flaky tart with some type of cheese, and the sweet potato ravioli with marjoram and balsamic brown butter. Both were excellent and complemented each other perfectly; the flaky pastry and cheese going perfectly with the warm sweetness of the sweet potato, encased in arguably the most delicate pasta I’ve ever had (seriously). Say what you want about J-G’s portions, but Nicole and I were blown away.
We finished our drinks and ordered a bottle of wine and our entrees. Nicole went with the lobster, poached, with lemon risotto and caramelized fennel and I got the short rib vinaigrette, with carrot puree and hon shimeji mushrooms. We split a side of chick pea fries.
Again, say what you want about J-G’s portions, but the mother fucker really brings it. I tried only a little bit of Nicole’s dish due to my aversion to all foods with lemon, but the lobster was silky – smooth, delicate but fleshy, buttery, rich. Decadent. When I tried it for the first time, I actually blushed, because it felt like I was doing something I shouldn’t.
Here’s all you need to know about my short ribs: They were so tender that I didn’t have to cut them; instead I merely looked at them, shook my fist in an angry manner, and said, "Yoouuuuu!!!" and they immediately feel apart into perfect pieces. The vinaigrette was rich and maybe (maybe) a little (a very little) salty, but the quality of the meat was breathtaking – literally, I stopped breathing for four minutes while eating. I can’t remember eating any meat of any kind as tender as those short ribs, which were easily the best ribs I’ve ever had.
Now is where I say something about the sides, but as mentioned, I didn’t try Nicole’s lemon risotto (I like lemon in my drinks only, thank you). My mushrooms were good, I guess, but were in a small portion and I could have eaten all of them by pinching them between my thumb and pinkie and picking them off the plate. The carrot puree was good, but again, it was the size of about one-fourth of the amount of cream cheese an average person puts on a bagel. The chick pea fries were nice, but there’s only so much you can do with fries, I think, and they were basically used to sop up the vinaigrette that came with the short ribs.
Next came dessert, and after mulling it over, Nicole and I went with our standard: the warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream. I know, it’s a total p-ssy move, but it’s a guaranteed delicious dessert; you can’t fuck up warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream at an expensive restaurant. And we were right – the cake was spectacular, it’s warm chocolate gooey center oozing out over the spongy cake, which was paired each bite with a dollop of ice cream. But again, I could have eaten four of these things. Splitting such a small dessert between two people could easily end some friendships, but Nicole and I managed (and by “managed” I mean I rub the chocolate cake on my beard as soon as we got it and Nicole then didn’t want any).
************
Here’s my final verdict: JoJo was delicious. Absolutely, 100% no doubt about that. But – and maybe this is my not-quite-luxurious-enoughness talking – if I drop $300 on a meal for two, I want you to have to roll my ass out of that restaurant. I want some sort of pulley and/or slingshot system needed to help me up from my chair. I want to have to take a Bayer to prevent a possible heart attack. I want, while telling the cabbie my address on the way home, food to roll lamely out of my mouth, because there was just no room left in my body. And hell, for $300, I want all this – and leftovers to take home.
(I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a fattie, but I’m not that much of a fattie. I think.)
So if you’re a 65 year old banker, rich, or have a small appetite, JoJo is the place for you. Otherwise, while it’s still a very good restaurant, there are a number of other options I would choose. And Jean-Georges does not have to worry about falling from his number two spot on my list of favorite French people. Although he might want to get syphilis, just to be safe.
I was excited for this because Jean-Georges Vongerichten is not only my favorite NYC restaurateur, but also my second favorite Frenchman (a distance second behind Guy de Maupassant, who was made insane by syphilis and began telling people he was the younger wealthy son of the Virgin Mary, which is just about the craziest and awesomest shit I ever heard). And sure, I’ve only eaten at two of his (Jean-Georges’) places, Mercer Kitchen and Perry Street, but the food was excellent at both and the latter is among my top five restaurants in NYC. Also, I just feel so cultured saying his name: Jean-Georges. Jean-Georges. Croissant. God, I’m classy.
[Side note: One of the funniest times of my life involved a random night in college when a bunch of my buddies and I were high and went to our local IHOP, in the middle of the night and in the dead of the New England winter. We ordered from the poor waitress by saying, "Yes, I'll have the country omelet and on the side, I would like a...CROISSANT!", screaming "croissant" in our loudest and most awful and obnoxious French accents, each guy trying to out-do the one before. The rest of the table would burst into the uncontrollable laughter of the stoned, real tears-pouring-out, grabbing-of-sides, saying-"I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" laughter as the waitress went from one of us to the other, each of us ending his order with a thundering faux-French CROISSANT! And yes, I got laid more back then than I do now. So I ask: Where is the justice, people? WTF?]
What you need to know about JoJo, aside from that it’s Jean-Georges first restaurant and is so named because "JoJo" was his nickname is a child, is that’s a beautiful converted townhouse. That means it’s very small and intimate. That also means that if every month at dinner you find yourself defending your theory about how you believe that when you’re drunk, your sperm is also drunk, and therefore you and your sperm can’t impregnate anyone while drunk since, I mean, the sperm has to work and find the egg and all, this is not the restaurant for you. Also, it’s filled with UES old people – men in their 70′s in bowtie and women who put on so much lipstick you feel uncomfortable around them.
Nicole and I sat down and she ordered a vodka drink and I ordered a bourbon. I should have taken it as a sign when I was brought my bourbon, which cost $12, and saw that it was probably measured out by a teaspoon. Honestly, I have accidentally snorted more bourbon in the course of a night than the amount they gave me for $12, and I could easily wring more bourbon out of my work pants than was in this glass. I was tempted to scream "Oh my god – look over there!", pound the bourbon quickly and ask, "What is this, some kind of joke? I mean, you bring an empty glass? I want to speak to your manager!"
We started with the special appetizer, some leek-type flaky tart with some type of cheese, and the sweet potato ravioli with marjoram and balsamic brown butter. Both were excellent and complemented each other perfectly; the flaky pastry and cheese going perfectly with the warm sweetness of the sweet potato, encased in arguably the most delicate pasta I’ve ever had (seriously). Say what you want about J-G’s portions, but Nicole and I were blown away.
We finished our drinks and ordered a bottle of wine and our entrees. Nicole went with the lobster, poached, with lemon risotto and caramelized fennel and I got the short rib vinaigrette, with carrot puree and hon shimeji mushrooms. We split a side of chick pea fries.
Again, say what you want about J-G’s portions, but the mother fucker really brings it. I tried only a little bit of Nicole’s dish due to my aversion to all foods with lemon, but the lobster was silky – smooth, delicate but fleshy, buttery, rich. Decadent. When I tried it for the first time, I actually blushed, because it felt like I was doing something I shouldn’t.
Here’s all you need to know about my short ribs: They were so tender that I didn’t have to cut them; instead I merely looked at them, shook my fist in an angry manner, and said, "Yoouuuuu!!!" and they immediately feel apart into perfect pieces. The vinaigrette was rich and maybe (maybe) a little (a very little) salty, but the quality of the meat was breathtaking – literally, I stopped breathing for four minutes while eating. I can’t remember eating any meat of any kind as tender as those short ribs, which were easily the best ribs I’ve ever had.
Now is where I say something about the sides, but as mentioned, I didn’t try Nicole’s lemon risotto (I like lemon in my drinks only, thank you). My mushrooms were good, I guess, but were in a small portion and I could have eaten all of them by pinching them between my thumb and pinkie and picking them off the plate. The carrot puree was good, but again, it was the size of about one-fourth of the amount of cream cheese an average person puts on a bagel. The chick pea fries were nice, but there’s only so much you can do with fries, I think, and they were basically used to sop up the vinaigrette that came with the short ribs.
Next came dessert, and after mulling it over, Nicole and I went with our standard: the warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream. I know, it’s a total p-ssy move, but it’s a guaranteed delicious dessert; you can’t fuck up warm chocolate cake with vanilla ice cream at an expensive restaurant. And we were right – the cake was spectacular, it’s warm chocolate gooey center oozing out over the spongy cake, which was paired each bite with a dollop of ice cream. But again, I could have eaten four of these things. Splitting such a small dessert between two people could easily end some friendships, but Nicole and I managed (and by “managed” I mean I rub the chocolate cake on my beard as soon as we got it and Nicole then didn’t want any).
************
Here’s my final verdict: JoJo was delicious. Absolutely, 100% no doubt about that. But – and maybe this is my not-quite-luxurious-enoughness talking – if I drop $300 on a meal for two, I want you to have to roll my ass out of that restaurant. I want some sort of pulley and/or slingshot system needed to help me up from my chair. I want to have to take a Bayer to prevent a possible heart attack. I want, while telling the cabbie my address on the way home, food to roll lamely out of my mouth, because there was just no room left in my body. And hell, for $300, I want all this – and leftovers to take home.
(I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a fattie, but I’m not that much of a fattie. I think.)
So if you’re a 65 year old banker, rich, or have a small appetite, JoJo is the place for you. Otherwise, while it’s still a very good restaurant, there are a number of other options I would choose. And Jean-Georges does not have to worry about falling from his number two spot on my list of favorite French people. Although he might want to get syphilis, just to be safe.
