Over A Barrel

It wasn’t too long ago that one could stand on a wintry night in the vestibule of Angelika Film Center after seeing some depressing indie flick and gaze like the Little Tramp across the street to 25 W. Houston St., a building which housed a Jamba Juice, the lushly lit and elegant Italian joint Centovini and Moss, the highend design store that features chairs on which no one ever dares sit. Centovini, in particular, came to represent all that successful adulthood—that ever-retreating bunch of grapes—meant: a world of fine stemware, exposed bulbs and an extensive wine list. Couples, when couples were in there and that didn’t seem often, seemed to be discussing things like where to go for vacation (upstate or Acadia) or what Kiehl’s facial cleanser to use (she likes the non-foaming #1, he needs, he said, the more astringent number #2). But it was all a mirage. Last year, Centovini closed and this October, the space reopened as the decidedly more casual Burger and Barrel.

Perhaps it’s the economy. Perhaps it’s my maturity. Perhaps it’s an intersection of the two, but Burger and Barrel feels immediately welcoming. It seems as if the idea always existed but was just awaiting a vessel: a restaurant with a burger program as strong as its wine program—and where both are strong. The restaurant is a brother of Lure Fishbar, the subterranean seafood den kitted out to look like a yacht. But if Lure is the estate room of a schooner, Burger and Barrel is the salty sailor’s club down by the docks. The wood paneling is, of course, reclaimed. The space is dark and casual—as casual, I guess, as a restaurant serving a $45 white truffle burger can be. The wine program is robust but unlike at Centovini (which, in Italian, means 100 wines), it’s not silly and the feel is more like a 12th arrondisement bar du vins than a hoity-toity joint on Via Solferino.

Josh Capon is the barrel-like chef behind the burger at Burger and Barrel. His burger, the one that won him the People’s Choice crown at the New York Wine and Food Festival Burger Bash in 2009, is, in this age of boutique burgers, like a lovable, old stock character. At $12, it’s reasonable and, unencumbered by fancy accoutrements, wise. The burger is well seasoned and tender, a crusty outside but a real softie at heart. The BASH burger is made with a Pat Lafrieda blend—Pat LaFrieda:burgers::Steve Albini:’90s rock—and comes with caramelized onions, pickles, American cheese and something called bacon jam that imbues that subtle umami of motherfucking bacon without introducing a disruptive texture into the overall mouthfeel. “It is,” as one dining companion put it, “just like McDonald’s but in the best way possible.” But that’s not all that’s on the menu. The Puebla burger isn’t at all like a Green Chili Cheeseburger, impossible to get outside of New Mexico, but the heat and creaminess from the roasted chili and red onion relish serve a similarly edifying purpose as the Hatch chili roux. For idiots, there are also nonburger options. Chicken lollipops for those sadists who like their meat reformed into chimerical daubs. I had—out of first-name duty—a Sloppy Josh, a Sloppy Joe-like sandwich which was like McDonald’s in the worst possible way (sloppy execution, flat flavors). It came with what was described as a “special three-j’s sauce,” and I hope it wasn’t exactly what it sounds like it was.

Having not yet achieved the financial prosperity often associated with adulthood, we were remanded to wine by the carafe. But even that—a hefty amount of a muscular Syrah for $40—was satisfying. Toward the end of the meal, sated, drunk and meat-stuffed, we even began to plan a trip upstate. We’d both pack our own bottles of Kiehl’s.

>> Burger and Barrel 25 W. Houston St. (betw. Mercer & Greene Sts.), 212-334-7320.