Braeburn

I’ve been starting to think the city’s best restaurateurs may be the true unsung heroes of the New York food world. Without a clear editorial vision, kitchen talent can take you only so far. That, I’m afraid, is the big problem with the new West Village restaurant Braeburn.

On the strength of the involved parties’ résumés, the owners ought to have a solid home run on their hands. Chef-partner Brian Bistrong spent seven years cooking for David Bouley before moving to the Harrison, where he met front-of-house partner John Paul O’Neil. The pair, presumably, absorbed what they could from Jimmy Bradley’s long-running New American sleeper before embarking on their solo debut. But visionary leadership—Bradley makes it all look too easy—isn’t so simple to learn.

The owners haven’t quite figured out what they want Braeburn to be. High prices suggest a marquee chef destination, while the low-key menu and setting telegraph a neighborhood joint. Think of it as a bizarro Back Forty, the mirror inverse of Peter Hoffman’s modest farm-to-table East Village spot (the affordable annex to his flagship Savoy). Both feature spare, wholesome food with a locavore focus—some of the produce at Braeburn comes from the chef’s own suburban home garden—but only one delivers as a truly accessible everyday drop-in. Braeburn, which serves Back Forty food at Savoy prices, is far too expensive to get a regular local crowd and not nearly special enough to be worth making a trip for.

The dining room, with DIY log-cabin touches and a faux forest of tree trunks lining the windows, is designed as a sort of rural retreat. But cramped seating, slow service and lousy acoustics all work to shatter the country-tavern illusion.

The chef’s back-to-the-land brand of simple home cooking recalls a time when American food offered plenty of nourishment but not much flavor. His brook-trout starter—smoked fish with a crisp relish of apple and pear—was so bland it literally tasted like nothing at all (I had to get a second and third opinion just to be sure my taste buds weren’t shot). A single quail sausage on a bed of nutty quinoa had only slightly more depth—and looked awfully lonely on its oversize plate. Only the short rib, cured corned-beef-style, left an impression—the fatty meat (simply served with cornichons and coarse mustard) was braised to optimal fork-tender succulence.

Entrées, anchored by giant slabs of no-nonsense protein, had a solid Midwestern sensibility. “Rack of pork,” as one $29 dish was described on the menu, featured an enormous pork chop thick as a Bible, cooked old-fashioned (well-done) and served atop run-of-the-mill bacon-flecked cabbage. The most memorable part of the dish—creamy prune and potato gratin—came in its own crock on the side. A generously portioned $28 duck breast was just as straightforward—with its accompanying caramelized brussels-sprout leaves and viscous duck jus—though more expertly cooked, the flesh beautifully tender and perfectly pink. A thick rib-eye haunch, the big splurge at $32, came with roasted potatoes and a sweet-sour medley of preserved lemon and onions. While nicely seasoned and seared, in a neighborhood awash in fine steaks, it was a snooze.

Even the homespun desserts by pastry consultant Katherine Beto (Per Se, wd-50) failed to offer much in the way of distinguishing comforts. Warm doughnut holes with sweet cider syrup were too dense and cakey. And the banana pudding, featuring watery custard and crumbly wafers, was so sallow, I pined for the much better version (long line be damned) at Magnolia Bakery a few blocks away.