El Quinto Pino
401 W. 24th St. (betwn. 9th & 10th Aves.)
212-206-6900
One of my greatest fears, besides going bald or President Giuliani, is a fancy sit-down dinner. Gosh, well-mannered small talk raises my bear-like arm hairs, making me sweat like a slow-dancing teenager. Give me the ol’ scarf-and-dash. Or El Quinto Pino.
This itsy-bitsy West Chelsea nook contains several chandeliers and a couple dozen seats, arranged around a wall-hugging counter and a half-moon bar. No tables. No face-to-face awkwardness. Know that El Quinto is brought to diners by the team behind tapas all-star Tía Pol, where diners hankered for fried chickpeas.
Instead of replicating that packed grazing hall, Heather Belz, Mani Dawes and chef Alexandra Raij devised a new-fangled, abbreviated menu of Spanish bites smashing the patatas bravas and sangria mold. Spend $120, and you can sample every edible scribbled on the chalkboard menu.
That’s what I aimed to do on a recent Saturday night, when I escorted my gal pal to this West Chelsea outpost. The location attracts gallery-hoppers, evidenced by folks with chunky eyewear and artful facial hair. We wedged our way into the bar, where we happened upon two pals, and ordered a light Victory Pilsner ($6) and a refreshing Godeval Spanish white ($9.50), saving the brandy-spiked horchata ($9) for summertime.
What to order? Critics and foodies have engaged in a game of rapturous one-upmanship to praise the Uni Panini ($15): A petite ficelle baguette is painted with zingy Korean mustard oil and butter, then heaped with blobs of sea urchin roe. The mess is heated inside a sandwich press, and voila!
“It’s like sex. Hot, warm sex,” confided a lady friend I bumped into at the bar.
“Don’t tell him that,” her boyfriend added. “That’s a bit…personal.”
The uni arrived, warm as my apartment’s radiator, inside a wax paper coat tackily containing an El Quinto owner’s business card. The sandwich was long and skinny, three thumbs wide and two index fingers long. An exploratory nibble revealed contrasts: cool, briny and creamy, meet eye-watering heat and crunch.
“It’s like the bánh mì’s Harvard-educated cousin,” I told my lady.
A few minutes later—dishes are served the instant they’re prepared—a tiny tureen came, containing four shrimp idling in a garlicky broth ($9) cut with sharp ginger. It’s initially overwhelming, before proving its mettle as a bread-sopper.
“More, please,” I told the gregarious counter gal. She responded with several more warmed ficelles, as well as a square paper box packed with coronary-causing pork cracklings ($6). Rough hunks of pork belly are braised then deep-fried, resulting in a crispy blast of luscious fat. The cracklings were crazy addictive; my girlfriend’s staunch vegetarianism meant I—woe is me—was forced to munch ’em all.
“Isn’t it against your religion to eat those?” she joked.
Perhaps, but us Jews go weak in the knees with swine. Still, what I did next was a heresy that, in the olden days, would’ve resulted in a lightning bolt flashing from the heavens and smiting me. I dipped pork cracklings in shrimp broth. Pork. Shellfish. Delicious.
My wayward ways continued with the Serrano Ham Panini ($7). It was tough and plain Jane, a disappointment following the flavorful uni. More intriguing was the fried eggplant ($7.50). The mini-medallions’ crispy exterior masked the velvety interior, while a honey slick provided sweetness and bonito flakes some oceanic intrigue. The spiced almonds ($3) were salty and ideal by the handful, but the olives ($3) were pedestrian. Now the cod fritters ($7.50)—Hallelujah! Four chunks of white flesh were flash-fried honey brown, resulting in a coating that’s lighter and more ethereal than tempura.
“It’s the fish nugget I never knew I wanted,” I moaned, shoving a nugget into my munch hole.
If there’s another downfall to El Quinto Pino, it’s that it band-aids, not cures, hunger. It’s the Chinese food conundrum: Several hours later, appetite returns. Instead of craving crappy carbohydrates, don’t be surprised if you yearn for another crispy cod fritter, begging the chef to sell them in a 30-pack like Chicken McNuggets, best eaten greedily and as wordlessly as a monk.
401 W. 24th St. (betwn. 9th & 10th Aves.)
212-206-6900
One of my greatest fears, besides going bald or President Giuliani, is a fancy sit-down dinner. Gosh, well-mannered small talk raises my bear-like arm hairs, making me sweat like a slow-dancing teenager. Give me the ol’ scarf-and-dash. Or El Quinto Pino.
This itsy-bitsy West Chelsea nook contains several chandeliers and a couple dozen seats, arranged around a wall-hugging counter and a half-moon bar. No tables. No face-to-face awkwardness. Know that El Quinto is brought to diners by the team behind tapas all-star Tía Pol, where diners hankered for fried chickpeas.
Instead of replicating that packed grazing hall, Heather Belz, Mani Dawes and chef Alexandra Raij devised a new-fangled, abbreviated menu of Spanish bites smashing the patatas bravas and sangria mold. Spend $120, and you can sample every edible scribbled on the chalkboard menu.
That’s what I aimed to do on a recent Saturday night, when I escorted my gal pal to this West Chelsea outpost. The location attracts gallery-hoppers, evidenced by folks with chunky eyewear and artful facial hair. We wedged our way into the bar, where we happened upon two pals, and ordered a light Victory Pilsner ($6) and a refreshing Godeval Spanish white ($9.50), saving the brandy-spiked horchata ($9) for summertime.
What to order? Critics and foodies have engaged in a game of rapturous one-upmanship to praise the Uni Panini ($15): A petite ficelle baguette is painted with zingy Korean mustard oil and butter, then heaped with blobs of sea urchin roe. The mess is heated inside a sandwich press, and voila!
“It’s like sex. Hot, warm sex,” confided a lady friend I bumped into at the bar.
“Don’t tell him that,” her boyfriend added. “That’s a bit…personal.”
The uni arrived, warm as my apartment’s radiator, inside a wax paper coat tackily containing an El Quinto owner’s business card. The sandwich was long and skinny, three thumbs wide and two index fingers long. An exploratory nibble revealed contrasts: cool, briny and creamy, meet eye-watering heat and crunch.
“It’s like the bánh mì’s Harvard-educated cousin,” I told my lady.
A few minutes later—dishes are served the instant they’re prepared—a tiny tureen came, containing four shrimp idling in a garlicky broth ($9) cut with sharp ginger. It’s initially overwhelming, before proving its mettle as a bread-sopper.
“More, please,” I told the gregarious counter gal. She responded with several more warmed ficelles, as well as a square paper box packed with coronary-causing pork cracklings ($6). Rough hunks of pork belly are braised then deep-fried, resulting in a crispy blast of luscious fat. The cracklings were crazy addictive; my girlfriend’s staunch vegetarianism meant I—woe is me—was forced to munch ’em all.
“Isn’t it against your religion to eat those?” she joked.
Perhaps, but us Jews go weak in the knees with swine. Still, what I did next was a heresy that, in the olden days, would’ve resulted in a lightning bolt flashing from the heavens and smiting me. I dipped pork cracklings in shrimp broth. Pork. Shellfish. Delicious.
My wayward ways continued with the Serrano Ham Panini ($7). It was tough and plain Jane, a disappointment following the flavorful uni. More intriguing was the fried eggplant ($7.50). The mini-medallions’ crispy exterior masked the velvety interior, while a honey slick provided sweetness and bonito flakes some oceanic intrigue. The spiced almonds ($3) were salty and ideal by the handful, but the olives ($3) were pedestrian. Now the cod fritters ($7.50)—Hallelujah! Four chunks of white flesh were flash-fried honey brown, resulting in a coating that’s lighter and more ethereal than tempura.
“It’s the fish nugget I never knew I wanted,” I moaned, shoving a nugget into my munch hole.
If there’s another downfall to El Quinto Pino, it’s that it band-aids, not cures, hunger. It’s the Chinese food conundrum: Several hours later, appetite returns. Instead of craving crappy carbohydrates, don’t be surprised if you yearn for another crispy cod fritter, begging the chef to sell them in a 30-pack like Chicken McNuggets, best eaten greedily and as wordlessly as a monk.
