Chapter 6 - Dervish

You know, I really wanted to like Dervish.  At only $27.95, the price was certainly right and and a fiver cheaper than most other prix fixe menus in the theatre district.  I like Mediterranean food, I love Turkish food, so I was really looking forward to this particular adventure.  The menu looked rather interesting, so Robby, Kel and I went over and decided to give it a go.

The restaurant itself is actually cavernous compared with some, and it is a pleasure not to have to shuffle between tables.  But I have to say I thought that for a restaurant called "dervish" there was a distinct lack of energy around putting this food together.  Traditional appetizers like the babaganoush were done fairly well, and the hummus made with walnuts and pine nuts was of a more robust texture than a traditional chickpea-only hummus, but the Turkish salad was merely some tomato and cucumber marinated in lemon juice, and the mihrap borek, what a Greek restaurant would just call spinach pie, was downright tough.

The main courses were even more disappointing.  The chicken skewers I ordered were as dry as chicken breast tends to be - I never know why people don't use thigh or leg meat when making skewers because they wouldn't dry out the way breast meat does.  The rice pilaf that comes with most of the entrees is just high-school cafeteria rice sprinkled with a bit of parsley, and there was a distinct lack of moisture there too.  Kel ordered the salmon, as he does fairly often, and I had a feeling it would be overcooked, though he ate it politely.  Robby doesn't dig lamb, so he went for the stuffed cabbage and we both agreed that the vegetarian dishes in the restaurant fare better than the meat or fish.

I'd love to report that Dervish redeems itself with dessert, but that would be wrong.  The "Devil's Chocolate" I was served was just a thin slice of a chocolate cake that might have come from any below-average bakery - just a little stale and the frosting just a little dull.  The baklava was victim to the same ossifying force that the spinach pie was heir to, and the cheesecake was, again, purchased from some cheesecake factory somewhere - nothing special.  

New York City is one of the finest food towns in the world.  When I run across a restaurant that doesn't even seem to be trying that hard, I wonder why the people who run it are even in the food service industry.  Serving food this boring and badly prepared in one of the highest priced real estate markets in the country takes unbelievable cohones.  It's almost as if the chef is daring diners to eat there more than once.  I wonder if they have regular customers at all.

If you want better Mediterranean influenced food, you'll want to try L'YBane instead.  It's on 8th Avenue between 44th and 45th, has fabulous tabouli, succulent chicken, and a great collection of medium-priced wines.  They don't have a prix fixe that I know of, at least not yet, but the food is infinitely better and reasonably priced.  Skip Dervish.  Trust me.

Chapter 5 – Fig and Olive (Meatpacking District)

There are things about our trip over to Fig and Olive that I must say I really enjoyed.  The service, for one thing, is incredibly attentive and not at all snooty.  The food is good.  Do not mistake me.  But the atmosphere in there is just a little odd.  Or maybe it’s just me.   
I arrived early for the reservation, as usual, hauled my butt up onto a barstool and asked for a grapefruit juice.  The bartender then proceeded to open up a sad little can of grapefruit juice and pour it on the rocks for me.  Now, I know this sounds horrible, but is it too much to ask to have some Tropicana not-from-concentrate on hand at a trendy place like F&O?  Does grapefruit juice not get used at a bar?  Silly and odd.

Another odd thing was the “tasting” done of various kinds of olive oil when the bread tray was brought.  A variety of oils is a grand idea, but the odd thing was the waitress being forced to describe each oil as if it was a fine Brunello di Montalcino, telling us what region of Tuscany the olives came from, and that we would be able to discern the slight hint of smoke and raisins, or peaches and lavender, or fill-in-the-blank.  It’s olive oil, for feck’s sake!  It tastes.  Like.  Olives.  Yes, they did taste a little lighter or a little sweeter, but hints of pecans and green tea?  But of course I don’t blame the waitress for this tomfoolery.  I blame Top Chef.  New Yorkers are all neurotic, now, about whether they have a good palate or not.  In any case, they only bring a tablespoonful of each of three types, and four of us went through it in around 30 seconds.

I can’t really tease Fig and Olive too much, though, because they do a daily prix fixe irrespective of restaurant week.  This is a beautiful thing to find outside the theatre district.  And at $36, it’s virtually the restaurant week all year long.  

The boys all went for the carpaccio appetizer, substituted this evening for the steak tartare they usually plan, and thought it was excellent.  Marinated raw beef, 18 year old balsamic, and truffle olive oil.   Since red meat is out for me, I went for the gazpacho which I found pretty good and fairly typical.  The problem which gazpacho is that tomato is an incredibly strong flavor, and no matter what else you throw into gazpacho, it’s still just a symphony of cold tomato.  No topnote of peaches or lavender, needless to say.


After the starter came a nice portion of branzino, cut into credit-card sized pieces, crisped up nicely, and resting on roasted figs and peapods.  Assembled into a bite, it was really lovely, though someone in the kitchen had had a bit of a clumsy hand with the salt on the fish and I got a bit of a saline blast once or twice.  Julio went for the shrimp and scallop paella, and the rice was a little al dente for his taste, but the flavor was right on.  Robby popped for the chicken Paillard, which was the largest portion of the evening and absolutely tasty.

For dessert, the boys stayed true to form and went for the chocolate pot de crème, while I decided to be different and go for the dessert “crostini” – a shortbread cookie, some mascarpone, macerated cherries and the absolutely irresistible candied pistachio nuts. 
You’ll notice that I didn’t say much about the wine list, but it’s only because I couldn’t drink, so I’ll tell you that the sauvignon blanc that Robby got hold of was reportedly good as gold.  Wish I could have tried some.  

I definitely recommend Fig and Olive for a lot of reasons.  The food is good, the service is excellent, the price is right, the portions are not abnormally small for a prix fixe, and though it’s a bit noisy when the place is hopping, the atmosphere is congenial and fun.  You’ll enjoy it; trust me.