NoMI

Photo: Nicole Radja

There was a time when just the mention of NoMI could conjure hazy daydreams of perfect meals. That time was about five years ago, when chef Sandro Gamba was still in the kitchen. It was his delicate but deeply flavorful food—and maybe the aerial views of the water tower—that made the place a destination.

But I haven’t heard many people talk about NoMI lately. There was buzz when Gamba quit, of course. And there was some chatter when chef Christophe David stepped in and took his place. But since then? Silence. It seems that unlike Avenues, or even Primehouse, NoMI hasn’t managed to escape its fate as primarily a hotel restaurant. And so the people who talk about it are tourists. And/or locals who like to hang out at hotel bars like NoMI’s, which, for reasons I’ve always been confused about, is piped with clunky, clubby, discoish tracks more appropriate for an airport bar than a French restaurant.

It’s possible that I’m not hearing about NoMI because I’m not talking to the right people; maybe I’m simply not NoMI’s demographic. But if this is true, it illuminates one of the restaurant’s serious flaws. The concept of exclusivity has been erased in much of this country’s fine dining (at least, it has in terms of a restaurant’s behavior; prices, of course, still do a good job of keeping people out). But, if a recent dinner I had there is any indication, NoMI isn’t part of this trend. The ambience in the half-empty dining room was chilly and distant. So was my server, who realized early on that I wasn’t going to order more than a single glass of wine—and then promptly started ignoring me.

Not that I missed him that much; when he was around he was aloof and haughty. But I would have liked to have seen him at least once during my first course. I could have told him how much I was enjoying the crab, which was wrapped so neatly in thin slivers of gorgeous beets that it resembled a maki roll. Or how disappointed I was with the “golden egg,” the egg of which was impressively poached but, even when paired with the smoked caviar and the asparagus on the plate, was limp and weak in flavor.

Luckily, the frustration I felt upon being neglected was nothing the second course couldn’t alleviate. It’s hard to be annoyed with meats and fish as expertly cooked as this. The lamb (pictured), given a Moroccan treatment (an eggplant marmalade and a taquito-size, lamb-stuffed roll of phyllo, dubiously dubbed a “pastilla,” is served alongside the chops), was as tender as brioche. And the turbot, flaky but substantial and paired with salty morels and smoky bacon, was nothing short of impeccable. Both showed off a kitchen that obviously knows what it’s doing.

But were these dishes delicious enough to make the inconceivably long wait to place our dessert orders worth it? No. After the first ten minutes of waiting, my state of lamb-induced elation began to wear off. Not even Andres Lara’s fantastic, slightly molecular versions of crème brûlée and mille-feuille could get me back to that place. All I wanted to do was leave. So I did, poignantly reminded why NoMI became famous in the first place—and why I never hear people talking about wanting to go back.

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