New York restaurant review: Philip Marie—a refreshing oasis in the West Village

Philip Marie, in the West Village, serves real food, not carbon copies of other restaurants' offerings.

Photo: Erica Tempchin

You can't help but pity the budding restaurateur in this, the age of the chef-as-media-personality. How tempting it has become for every newbie fresh out of culinary school to behold the highly visible successes of the Jean-Georges and the Bouluds and the Nieporents of the restaurant world and attempt to trace their footsteps. I have seen the effects of this trend far too often—tasted the insipid, largely derivative by-products of yet another palate-numbing round of follow the leader.

How refreshing, then, to stumble upon Philip Marie, a little gem of a restaurant in the West Village. The chef, John Philip Greco III, oscillates in his own sphere. The food he cooks and serves—the restaurant bills itself more or less accurately as American fusion—is informed by his own tastes and passions and ego, not a focus group's. Nothing on the menu is deconstructed or in euphemistic quotes; there are no dainty nibbles that last two bites. You want to make a meal out of fried green tomatoes followed by an overstuffed chicken pot pie? This is one restaurant where you can. You want to sit down to a big plate of black lobster ravioli that is knee-deep in a thick, unabashedly rich sauce of tomatoes and cream? You're home.

This is in no way to imply that the kitchen is wanting in the creativity department. They are more than happy to oblige jaded palates with a carpaccio

of octopus, partnered with slivers of golden delicious apple. Sometimes even when reaching back, Chef Greco reaches forward. He adopts a contemporary steakhouse approach, for example, in his reading of oysters Rockefeller, which he does with crisp bacon, goat cheese, and spinach that has been creamed. The real surprise comes when you discover how well those ingredients work in concert and in the service of five very plump, sweet oysters.

The chef's extracurricular activities include hunting, which perhaps explains the presence of game on the menu, though I doubt many ostriches are bagged in these parts. The first thing to know about ostrich, if you've never eaten it, is that it tastes nothing like chicken. The second thing to know is that it tastes wonderful in this dark, thick sauce of mission figs, which cuts its beefy, gamy richness. An occasional special of wild boar is wrapped in double-smoked panchetta, much in the manner of filet mignon, and grilled—much in the manner of filet mignon.

A so-called cranberry-pear cobbler emerges as a dense cakey block studded with fruit and sprinkled with crumbs, calling to mind bread pudding. On some nights there is actual bread pudding, based on brownies and much in need of the accompanying scoop of vanilla gelato for leavening.

Philip Marie may well house the smallest dining room in New York, a two-seater in the wine cellar, reserved for private dinners.

The name Philip Marie? It's an amalgamation of the middle names of the chef and his wife.

Philip Marie, 569 Hudson Street, at W 11th St, 212-242-6200. Open Tuesday through Friday for lunch, weekends for brunch, and Tuesday through Sunday for dinner. Dinner price range: $6.95 to $15.95 for first courses, $16.95 to $22.95 for main courses, $6.50 and $7.50 for desserts. Major credit cards are accepted.

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