Union Pacific
111 East 22nd St., (212) 995-8500
‘GOOD evening. Would you like to see the menu, or would your prefer more time?”
And with those simple words, our captain at Union Pacific accomplished a feat of magic. She 1) enfranchised us, 2) enthused us about the meal to come, and 3) conveyed respect for her customers, for the restaurant and for herself.
The words were ordinary enough. But as George Burns could have told you, it’s all in the timing. The captain – and the waiters, the kitchen and the whole brass band – had the timing down, along with poise that’s rarer these days than an accurate NATO map.
The problem in most New York restaurants is not attitude but ineptitude. Service recalls the old ‘Ed Sullivan Show.” Servers toss dishes around like plate-jugglers between the big acts, and waiters describe specials as clumsily as Ed introducing ‘fierce Maori warriors from Maori.”
The thought was on my mind last week when I booked a table for three at Union Pacific. Despite its reputation for great food, earlier reviews criticized it for a slow, unpolished wait staff. The three of us were escorted past the soothing waterfall into the handsome main-floor dining room under a barrel-vaulted ceiling, and seated at a curving banquette table with a good view of the translucent kitchen window.
It didn’t take minutes to spot the big news out of Union Pacific: Its service has stunningly matured to a level commensurate with the elegant cooking of executive chef Rocco DiSpirito.
Most places no longer have true captains but undertrained waiters who perform some of their duties (just as ‘servers” are glorified busboys). Union Pacific goes the distance, although the mood feels informal.
At such a restaurant, the captain’s first appearance is the defining moment. Any awkwardness – or arrogance, or resentment – fairly screams across the table. This lady’s blend of welcome and authority made us know we were in for something special.
The grace notes began with our arrival, when the table wasn’t immediately ready. The women, who got there ahead of me, were offered a choice of places to sit. Drinks came immediately.
The captain explained the complex menu – prix fixe but with all sorts of variations, supplements, tasting options, etc. – without pushing the more expensive routes. When we decided to order wine by the glass, she cheerfully walked us through recommendations.
Appetizers – charred Spanish mackerel, rouget and sauteed foie gras – arrived and departed with silent ease, thanks to waiters who glided in like angels. The dishes were as marvelous as we expected. The happy surprise was the seamlessness of the floor crew’s performance.
Not once was it necessary to signal or prompt anyone. That freedom brought on the euphoria that steals over you in great European restaurants. The room receded like a pageant in the clouds. Our banquette became a self-contained universe where time felt suspended – but for the arrival of the dishes.
There is little new to say about this sophisticated American menu. Carmelized veal chop and saffron-scented seafood fricassee were grand; rabbit with turnips and a ‘cane-sugar conundrum,” true to its name, a bit confounding with its dry stuffing.
But it’s the service that made me wanna holler with joy.
What, you say? With a $65 prix fixe menu, shouldn’t we expect gracious service?
Maybe. But you can spend almost as much on three courses and a side potato at a steakhouse like Benson’s or Sparks. Forget Ed Sullivan: The noise and service there will remind you of a Jerry Springer free-for-all.