Cabbage, beef and onion

Photograph: Jeff Gurwin

The Lower East Side, for more than a century the place where immigrants came to start a new life, now hosts yet another foreign refugee seeking a second chance: British chef Neil Ferguson, unceremoniously dumped by top dog Gordon Ramsay after the latter toque’s New York eatery suffered mediocre reviews. Recently, Ferguson has resurfaced at the long-delayed, geographically correct Allen & Delancey.

Owner Richard Friedberg, who also employs Ferguson at Monteverde at Oldstone Manor, his colonial inn in Westchester, realizes that this is no longer your zeyde’s Lower East Side: The windowless space feels like a gothic speakeasy, both dark and sumptuous, full of brick and candles, mirrors and velvet, leather-bound books and wooden beams. The music ranges from Dylan to grunge, and the crowd is predictable: The room, half empty at 7:30, is packed at 10, with more Mohawks on display in one night than in five years at Gordon Ramsay.

That said, Ferguson is still stuffy, with precise preparations and presentations, minuscule portions and hit-and-miss flavor combinations. Servers described the food as American, but to me, it felt old-world, full of the kinds of ingredients—guinea hen, turnips, apple cider vinegar—one might expect to see at a nice Welsh pub.

More apropos to the LES culinary legacy is Ferguson’s penchant for pickling, whether it’s the fennel bulbs in shaved yellowtail starter or pears that come with the roasted pork belly. There were too few dishes that didn’t have some brining aspect—a technique that quickly became tiresome.

Another recurrent theme in Ferguson’s flavors was discord. The appealing synergy of soft, fatty caramelized bone marrow and coarse, salty caviar in one appetizer was abruptly interrupted by the unwelcome sweetness of a shallot relish. A less ambitious starter of seared sea scallops was also brought down by a bed of diced celery root in celery root foam, braised onions and tart verjus—creating a cloying sweet-and-sour effect that tasted pedestrian.

Ferguson’s main courses stick primarily to hearty meats: lamb, duck, pork and beef. The wonderful cabbage, beef and onion entrée is far more complex than the name suggests; the dish unfolds like a Russian doll, from the first element (wonderfully musty aged sirloin) to the second (braised shoulder chopped and stuffed into a cabbage leaf) to the third (cabbage stuffed into a braised onion), with a delicious potato gratin on the side and the musk of horseradish throughout. Ferguson has less success with fish, notably a dorade with skin that fell apart like dried seaweed, its flesh smelling of sardines, sauced with a relishy stew of olives, onions and marjoram.

Small portions (most could be eaten in a few bites) make dessert almost mandatory. Save the token chocolate dish, all of Ferguson’s sweets incorporate cooked fruits, whether it’s a bitter caramelized tangerine or a near-perfect slow-roasted apple served beside a superfluous square of puff pastry.

The old-school cocktail list, the wine list and the waitstaff are all smart and straightforward: a triple threat that, combined with the sexy room, would make this an intriguing late-night watering hole if its liquor license didn’t require a midnight closing time. Such is life at a restaurant that struggled mightily to exist at all.