Le Veau d'Or
A classic French bistro, reimagined.
On 60th Street, right as midtown becomes the Upper East Side and the shops on Madison become increasingly more expensive, there is an unassuming storefront. Behind it is Le Veau d’Or, a newly reopened French restaurant with just fifteen tables (very coveted ones at that — I was happy to dine at the geriatric hour of 5:30 pm given the current difficulty of securing a reservation). The red velvet curtain behind the front door gives a speakeasy feel and sets the tone for the interior decor, all red leather banquettes and red-and-white checked tablecloths. There is also a framed oil painting of a sleeping calf — “le veau dort” — that has been there for decades. The restaurant was an iconic Upper East Side stalwart beginning in 1937, and though it’s been taken over by the Frenchette team and transformed from an if-you-know-you-know neighborhood spot to hot table, there are still plenty of jacketed gentleman and ladies of a certain age draped in Bergdorf’s shopping bags to give it just the right dose of stuffiness and refinement. (I wore a bow in my hair.)
Once seated at our table for two, my dining companion — a particular uptown girl whose misadventures are detailed on her own comedic Substack — and I were presented with a list of cocktails, mostly classic ones. She opted for a martini “our way” — gin, served with a sidecar of sparkling water and twist of lemon — while I ordered one “my way,” which is a vodka martini, extra dirty. When offered a choice between regular and blue cheese olives, I eagerly opted for the latter (all dirty martinis should come with blue cheese olives, in my opinion). Unfortunately, the martini that materialized before me was garnished with regular olives, but at the sight of my crestfallen face, our lovely server — toothy, British — whisked it away in favor of the superior olives: just one instance of the excellent level of service.
As my friend and I sipped our martinis and considered starting a podcast together (as is legally required for two liberal arts graduates with creative aspirations and too much time), menus appeared. There is one option: a $125 three course prix fixe consisting of an entrée, a plat principal, and a dessert, plus a salad served before dessert as the French would have it. But the options within each course are expansive. Because the menu does not seem to be posted online, I had the rare experience of having to choose my entire meal on the spot without hours of preliminary deliberation. Exciting!
Naturally, my dining companion and I colluded in order to maximize our experience. For appetizers, we chose les pommes soufflées caviar rouge à la creme and les escargots Provençale. Around this time, two types of bread appeared as well: a baguette and a peasant loaf, which we were told came from the Frenchette bakery. Despite being adorned with an adorable, cow-decorated pat of butter, the bread did not impress us; it was not fresh.
The potato appetizer turned out to be an elevated chips and dip: elongated, air-filled, crisp potato chip pillows served with a creamy dip enhanced with a spoonful of trout roe. This was an enjoyable and decadent start to the meal but not a particularly special one. (I also think I would have preferred caviar to trout roe, but I digress.)
The traditionally prepared escargot were served out of the shell, with a crisp bit of toast atop each snail, and plenty of parsley garlic butter. These were good, but as I obnoxiously sighed to my friend, I’ve had better at nearly every restaurant I’ve visited in Paris. The little toasts were a nice touch but insufficient for excess sauce absorption— and if there were ever a sauce worth mopping up with (even mediocre) bread, it’s the one that escargot bathe in. I committed a faux pas by dropping a saucy escargot, thus causing a minor environmental catastrophe on par with the BP disaster of 2010. Luckily, the aforementioned impeccable service came to the rescue, presenting a napkin to cover up the offending stain.
For plats principaux, we chose chicken Estragon and lobster Macédoine. Despite the rigid three-courses-per-person format, all the portions are sized generously for sharing. The chicken estragon turned out to be two huge chicken breasts with drumettes attached, cut airline-style—certainly enough for two—swimming in a sauce that involved tallow, butter, cream, white wine, and tarragon, and topped with mushrooms. Very rich, very French, very demure (sorry). It was good, and the chicken itself was cooked well, but it would have been perfect if it had a little less salt and a little more sauce. Even well-cooked white meat sometimes needs an abundance of sauce to combat dryness, in my experience, and more of this creamy, decadent sauce with notes of anise would have been welcome. The chicken was accompanied by an uninspired bowl of plain rice pilaf, which I could not have been less interested in. A starch to accompany the meat was certainly a good idea, but what about pommes purée? Pommes Anna? Pommes… anything? Anyone? Bueller?
The lobster was poached and served cool, with two tails and knuckle meat served over a finely diced salad of cucumber and bell pepper. It was very fresh, the lobster was succulent, and a cup of aioli on the side provided the perfect amount of savory richness to contrast with the cool vegetables. This was a great summer dish.
Following the main courses, we were served a simple green salad, as per the traditional progression of a French meal. This was a nice break after the extremely rich chicken and rich appetizers. And then came dessert.
Never one to turn down strawberries in a French context, I chose the fraises sabayon from an list of many appealing desserts. A mound of perfectly macerated strawberries over a not-too-sweet cake was blanketed by a generous layer of the eponymous custardy saboyan, which I might liken to a dessert Hollandaise if you’ll allow me. Because of the presence of the cake, this dessert turned out to be more like strawberry shortcake than strawberries and cream. What’s not to like? These perfectly sweet, juicy red berries were a great end of summer consolation prize as we dined during the first week of September.
Because of my passionate love of strawberries, which dates back to my childhood, I was shocked that I actually enjoyed the dessert my friend chose even more. The île flottante, a floating island of soft piped meringue decorated with slivered almonds in a vanilla bean crème anglaise moat, was a sleeper hit; I would never have ordered it if not for her choice, and its subtle vanilla and almond flavors and sumptuous textures provided a lovely end to a lovely meal. I would drink crème anglaise if I could, so I was pleased when some post-dessert beignets showed up so that I could sop up the extra in a slightly more dignified way.
Was the meal good? Absolutely. Was it pathbreaking and mind blowing and worthy of a Michelin star? Probably not. And yet I loved it. Though no one dish rocked my world, Le Veau d’Or is more than the sum of its parts. It’s about the refined menu of French classics that are hard to find in the US; it’s about the ambiance; it’s about the service. It’s indulgent in all the right ways, and it hit all the right notes for this shameless Francophile. This would make for a lovely date night spot, and I’m eager to return with my fiancé to try the steak (it comes with frites, which looked delicious on a neighboring table), the cheese plate, and the intriguing veal brain entree (I’m a convert after trying a veal brain beignet at a French restaurant in Amsterdam). Indeed, it felt wrong that the sleeping calf painting and the cow on the butter were our closest encounters with beef or veal for the night. So I’ll be back. (If only there were a beef tartare on the menu.)
TL;DR: WHAT WE ATE
Loved: île flottante, strawberries saboyan, lobster
Liked: chicken, escargot, potato appetizer, green salad
Should have skipped: nothing
Le Veau d’Or
129 E 60th Street
New York, NY 10022