SUMILE
½ (two and one half stars)
154 W. 13TH ST. (212) 989-7699
DINERS at Sumile on Saturday night of Memorial Day weekend were treated to a sight increasingly rare in New York restaurants: the chef. What was Josh DeChellis doing there on a holiday, when practically every joint had turned its kitchen over to a lowly line cook?
Sumile opened last fall to puffball writeups and strong demand for its 60 seats – the kind of instant success that jinxes many a place after six months of glory. But sleek little fusion factory Sumile is in no danger of going stale.
Sumile’s menu famously prices all of its smallish dishes, with a few exceptions, at $14. Although the waiters tell you each diner should order three (not including dessert), I’ve found that five shared by two people will easily suffice.
It’s what’s on those plates that’s the real news. New Jersey-raised DeChellis, who’s worked for a squillion restaurants in Europe and the U.S. (including Union Pacific in better days), is a truly original talent.
He applies time-consuming French technique to American and Japanese elements – a claim made at scores of places. But few can boast the ingenuity or flavor calibrations that make Sumile special. Each dish is a self-contained little world, as precise in its effect as a Joseph Cornell box sculpture.
The dining room is precise, too: hard-edged and contemporary, cool but not cold. Wood tables are aligned under a peaked roof. Walls are bare white, softened by green-glass panels at either end and leather sofas with pillows less cozy than they look.
The menu gets you over any minor discomfort. Bite into rice crackers dusted with sea salt and powdered nori and the crackle travels across the room. They’re a terse introduction to clever dishes of nouvelle-French/modern Japanese inspiration, many possessed of a teasing, pleasing sting.
Broths are a Sumile strength. Chilled horseradish consommé lends its coquettish tingle to braised shrimp. “Chatham cod on sea-scented spinach” arrives flaky and firm, under a quilt of ground toasted pumpkin seeds dusted with nori powder.
The cod, poached in duck fat to a preternatural richness, comes in clam broth tinted with XO sauce and yuzu, and spiked with Japanese pepper. The result is neither American nor Asian but as nuanced as a great French chef might devise and adroitly exoticized.
Chicken with morels, ramps and snails is so suffused in natural moisture as to be drinkable. But for sheer luxury, nothing tops soft egg custard with duck confit and morels – a glam turn on the steamed Japanese custard chowan mushi.
DeChellis entwines it in a rhapsodic clam dashi complexioned with seaweed, bonito, white soy sauce and herbs – even a whiff of yuzu and Fuji apple. The effect is a supernova of lush, overlapping flavors and lascivious mouth-feel.
The duds include unexceptional steak with wasabi and a spoonful of chu toro (tuna belly) tartar with tiny abalone cubes – at $29, a ripoff like most every chu toro I’ve ever had. For dessert, go with gianduja tuilles, the hazelnut filling smartly complemented by light espresso foam.
DeChellis previously propped up the stars of some famous kitchens; at Sumile he’s finally king, but of a modest domain.
It would be fun one day to see him run the show on a truly grand stage.
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