Solex
103 1st Avenue (betwn. 6th & 7th Sts.)
212-777-6677
The old saw, “Smaller is better,” should only apply to horse jockeys. For dinner? Pshaw. Perhaps owing to my Midwestern rearing, wherein I devoured marbled slabs of steak, I favor mountains of grub that make me unbuckle my pants. Two notches, preferably.
Still, I’m a man willing to embrace change and meal portions typically found in drought-starved nations. Small-plate nibbles now curry favor at hyped hot spots Tailor and El Quinto Pino and, now, the East Village’s French wine bar Solex, an appellation suited to infomercial exercise equipment.
A Solex is really a motorbike brand, matching the transportation theme favored at proprietor Frederick Twomey’s Italian Bar Veloce and Spanish Bar Carrera. At Solex, Twomey enters Gallic country with sleek Scandinavian design. An undulating Plexiglas ceiling is off-set by plank floorboards, angled wine racks and nipple-level wood-and-metal tables.
“Would it be uncouth to ask for a stool?” wonders a diminutive dining partner one weeknight, struggling to mount a chair.
A bearded waiter bustles over. He’s gracious, gregarious and prone to enthusiastic proclamations.
“Let me tell you, the food kicks butt,” he says, smiling like a snake-oil salesman.
“What’s good?”
“Everything.” We’ll judge that.
The focus is on shareable, oven-baked vittles prepared by Jean-Georges vet, Eric Hubert. He’s constructed an affordable menu (dishes max out at $15) built around flaky pastries. This artery-hardening approach is equally decadent and disappointing.
As a dumpling acolyte, I eagerly awaited crab-filled brick dumplings ($9): five sad, jawbreaker-sized puffs stuffed with mild crab mash, an unwelcome accomplice to creamy dill-and-fennel dip.
“Let’s stick to Chinatown for dumplings,” offered a fellow diner.
Our displeasure continued with the stinky, creamy cheese plate ($16), delivered with crusty, oven-hot bread—but no apple slices, cherries or even gnarled walnuts. Our foursome devoured the six bread slices rapidly, and we were forced to beg a willowy busboy for more.
The waiter? Tending to a crush of chattering couples and well-dressed, wine-imbibing late-twentysomethings who were more pressed jeans and button-downs than tight T-shirts and bed-head. We bided our waiter’s return with pleasurable French wines. About 25 are available by the glass, starting at $9, including my spicy Morgon Potel-Aviron and several crisp Rieslings.
“Still,” a diner noted, “Cherry Tavern down the road sells tequila and Tecate for $5.”
Yes, but that dank dive doesn’t offer an “éclair” Wellington ($15). It’s a tromp l’oeil treasure: Beef filet mated to mushroom duxelle, painted with brown beef glaze to mimic a chocolate éclair. It’s playful and flavorful, a finger-smacking conversation-starter.
“I wish I wasn’t a vegetarian,” my girlfriend said, staring longingly at the meaty brown glaze. She contented herself with a Quiche Flamische festooned with leeks, onions, scallion, chives and black-truffle shavings, a steal at $10. The quiche was airier than a California blonde, causing fork clashes for the last few bites. Also battle-worthy was the Croque Moi: a brioche layered with ham, béchamel and gruyere, with two quail eggs baked into the dough like small yellow eyes. Or try a tomato tart ($9) or the hedonistic Landaise Tart ($12): foie gras, walnut spread and duck comfit.
“I can feel my heart slowing down,” one companion muttered. Solex’s eats focus on fattening, “No, really, I shouldn’t—oh, OK” nibbles that leave you feeling overindulged, especially if you end your meal with the dry, mini molten chocolate cakes ($7). A better bet is the warm strawberry tart layered with lemon cream ($7) atop fork-soft crust.
It did my tummy right, before I did my knees wrong by falling from my chair.
Is Solex worth bruising oneself? Perhaps. The edibles are skillfully executed, tightrope-walking between tastiness and gluttony, and the wines are priced favorably enough that visiting a plasma bank isn’t needed to pay a tab. Yeah, the crowd’s mildly meh, service remains kink-ridden and after-work chefs like Will Goldfarb and Zak Pelaccio are making this a late-night clubhouse, but few finer East Village hangouts exist where you can so expertly indulge your inner yuppie and expand your waistline.
103 1st Avenue (betwn. 6th & 7th Sts.)
212-777-6677
The old saw, “Smaller is better,” should only apply to horse jockeys. For dinner? Pshaw. Perhaps owing to my Midwestern rearing, wherein I devoured marbled slabs of steak, I favor mountains of grub that make me unbuckle my pants. Two notches, preferably.
Still, I’m a man willing to embrace change and meal portions typically found in drought-starved nations. Small-plate nibbles now curry favor at hyped hot spots Tailor and El Quinto Pino and, now, the East Village’s French wine bar Solex, an appellation suited to infomercial exercise equipment.
A Solex is really a motorbike brand, matching the transportation theme favored at proprietor Frederick Twomey’s Italian Bar Veloce and Spanish Bar Carrera. At Solex, Twomey enters Gallic country with sleek Scandinavian design. An undulating Plexiglas ceiling is off-set by plank floorboards, angled wine racks and nipple-level wood-and-metal tables.
“Would it be uncouth to ask for a stool?” wonders a diminutive dining partner one weeknight, struggling to mount a chair.
A bearded waiter bustles over. He’s gracious, gregarious and prone to enthusiastic proclamations.
“Let me tell you, the food kicks butt,” he says, smiling like a snake-oil salesman.
“What’s good?”
“Everything.” We’ll judge that.
The focus is on shareable, oven-baked vittles prepared by Jean-Georges vet, Eric Hubert. He’s constructed an affordable menu (dishes max out at $15) built around flaky pastries. This artery-hardening approach is equally decadent and disappointing.
As a dumpling acolyte, I eagerly awaited crab-filled brick dumplings ($9): five sad, jawbreaker-sized puffs stuffed with mild crab mash, an unwelcome accomplice to creamy dill-and-fennel dip.
“Let’s stick to Chinatown for dumplings,” offered a fellow diner.
Our displeasure continued with the stinky, creamy cheese plate ($16), delivered with crusty, oven-hot bread—but no apple slices, cherries or even gnarled walnuts. Our foursome devoured the six bread slices rapidly, and we were forced to beg a willowy busboy for more.
The waiter? Tending to a crush of chattering couples and well-dressed, wine-imbibing late-twentysomethings who were more pressed jeans and button-downs than tight T-shirts and bed-head. We bided our waiter’s return with pleasurable French wines. About 25 are available by the glass, starting at $9, including my spicy Morgon Potel-Aviron and several crisp Rieslings.
“Still,” a diner noted, “Cherry Tavern down the road sells tequila and Tecate for $5.”
Yes, but that dank dive doesn’t offer an “éclair” Wellington ($15). It’s a tromp l’oeil treasure: Beef filet mated to mushroom duxelle, painted with brown beef glaze to mimic a chocolate éclair. It’s playful and flavorful, a finger-smacking conversation-starter.
“I wish I wasn’t a vegetarian,” my girlfriend said, staring longingly at the meaty brown glaze. She contented herself with a Quiche Flamische festooned with leeks, onions, scallion, chives and black-truffle shavings, a steal at $10. The quiche was airier than a California blonde, causing fork clashes for the last few bites. Also battle-worthy was the Croque Moi: a brioche layered with ham, béchamel and gruyere, with two quail eggs baked into the dough like small yellow eyes. Or try a tomato tart ($9) or the hedonistic Landaise Tart ($12): foie gras, walnut spread and duck comfit.
“I can feel my heart slowing down,” one companion muttered. Solex’s eats focus on fattening, “No, really, I shouldn’t—oh, OK” nibbles that leave you feeling overindulged, especially if you end your meal with the dry, mini molten chocolate cakes ($7). A better bet is the warm strawberry tart layered with lemon cream ($7) atop fork-soft crust.
It did my tummy right, before I did my knees wrong by falling from my chair.
Is Solex worth bruising oneself? Perhaps. The edibles are skillfully executed, tightrope-walking between tastiness and gluttony, and the wines are priced favorably enough that visiting a plasma bank isn’t needed to pay a tab. Yeah, the crowd’s mildly meh, service remains kink-ridden and after-work chefs like Will Goldfarb and Zak Pelaccio are making this a late-night clubhouse, but few finer East Village hangouts exist where you can so expertly indulge your inner yuppie and expand your waistline.
