Restaurant Review: Solace on Manhattan's Upper East Side

Solace is not owned by David Ruggerio, who owned Le Chantilly, was a "Food Network" stef (Star/Chef) and eventually was nabbed by the IRS for about $140,000 worth of credit card fraud to keep his restaurant afloat, which worked out about as well as the Titanic after the iceberg. No, Solace, which is nestled in a converted brownstone off of First Avenue and 64th Street in Manhattan, is own by David Regueiro, who put the frying pan to the Viking at Aureole among others. Solace resides in what a year ago was an Argentinean restaurant. In fact, the Saturday night I went there a woman next to me asked, "Didn't there used to be another place here?" So why do I mention all of this?

Ego, restaurants in Manhattan having the life span shorter than Britney Spears' stints in rehab and a fickle public. I went to Solace because of David Rugerio. I like his food and his style. And the fact that he was convicted of credit card fraud, well, it just adds to his character. Was his transgression commitment to keep his place open? Ego? Who cares? I found out it was the "other" Regueiro, after my appetizer came out, an eggplant and goat cheese tomato terrine.

Some times I channel my late farther. He used to have a saying that would be a reflex to feeling out of place, a working class itch. "Well, maybe I didn't go to college..." which was followed by the offending perceived itch inducing upper class item. My appetizer really looked small or that plate really looked big. This wasn't Rugerio's style.

About the same time, a couple next to me, who had Upper East Side shekels but not the kind that would justify the request to follow, asked their waiter to call out the chef because they were thinking about having their son's wedding at Solace. That's when I saw Regueiro, who is about a foot shorter and twenty-five pounds lighter than Rugerio. And I couldn't help thinking of my old man except it was, "Maybe I did go to college, but I think I've been mislead."

Such is the fickleness of the public, me, in what this Regueiro has to overcome, because the food wasn't bad. The eggplant was done to grilled perfection. The velvet feel of the goat cheese played perfectly off of the crisp greens and garlic bread. In fact, my entrée was butter braised lobster, sitting on a mix of artichokes, early corn, sweat peas and earthy chanterelles so perfectly the only better sitting would involve me, Lindsay Lohan and the term "reverse cowgirl." However, I would like to have seen less tail, in the dish that is, and more sweet, succulent claw meat.

And that brings me to ego, the "other" Reguerio knows his way around a kitchen for certain, but lobster claw meat doesn't grow on trees and neither does the Angus sirloin in a wine sauce that wafted by me as it was brought to another table. And the want to be more wealthy Upper East Side couple or the wizened old dude who arrived after me and was upset that someone took the table he requested and then ordered a diet Diet Pepsi isn't going to stop a patron a year from now from asking, "Didn't an American Continental place used to be here?" As an aside, I should say that, unlike Mr. Diet Pepsi, I did my part by running up a forty-dollar bar bill. The drink size by the way, good deal. Ego is the juggling act of putting out wonderful cuisine while not losing your toque and not making your patrons think your giving them food on the cheap.

All of it costs, not to mention the atmosphere, which perfectly captures its name. The earth tone leather banquets lining the walls, the dark wood chairs, the champagne cream walls and garden area in back will have a difficult time being carried by a diet soda drinker, a wannabe goi couple and my thirst for Dewars. All of us are fickle in our own way, which is a shame for both Reguerio and Ruggerio.

After I shed the baggage that was my father's class itch of being duped and settled into my meal, it was a gentlemen's seven out of ten. I have to be honest here. I had to ask for the bread. The usual wait should be three minutes. It was more like eight. And when I said no pepper for my appetizer, my waiter cranked away anyway. The dessert was a major let down. I ordered the key lime pie, actually a tort, and the crust was stale. Fair is fair, the price was only nine dollars.

All in all, if I may resort to clichés for a restaurant that is decidedly not cliché, I do hope Solace continues to be an Upper East Side retreat for years to come. After all, for me, it's getting really difficult to find local places to gripe about, because I don't like to travel below fifty-ninth street anymore.

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