TUCC tastes the cooking at new high-end Kyiv restaurant
Once again The Ukrainian Connoisseur’s Club, a coterie of Kyiv’s finest, descended upon another high-end eatery for an evening of lively conversation and white-gloved gluttony. This time, the five-course meal was offered at Monaco, a restaurant open only a few months but already hailed around town as one of the best meals in the capital. So the TUCC—as is their mandate—decided to find out if the hype was well-deserved.
As for first impressions, the room, at least, exceeded expectations. No one could accuse Monaco of not being sumptuous: no marble was left unmarbled, no fabric bereft of elaborate patterning, and nearly every piece of wood bore some elaborate carving (the bar was ringed, in fact, by wooden friezes that oddly—it looked to me—invoked dramatic battles between settlers and Native Americans, though I had already consumed several drinks by the time I made this curious discovery). And magically, what could have easily slipped into Kyiv’s penchant for tastelessly overreaching opulence managed to remain well within the realm of charming, a consequence of the slightly worn character of the flooring, the armrests, the paint on the walls—an age of distinction rather than disrepair, like an old New York hotel bar, where the glorious ghosts of a more flagrant era still haunt the faintly faded carpet. What’s more, Monaco boasts perhaps the nicest terrace in Kyiv, with sweeping views of Podil and the vast tracts of greenery that lie between it and the center.
Led by the inimitable Terry Pickard, our evening commenced with an amuse-bouche of raw chopped salmon, lemon zest and sour cream, a brilliant blend of French technique with Ukrainian ingredients. While not the most delicate cut of fish I’ve ever eaten, the combination of citrus and dairy created a perfectly balanced starter to our meal. The salad that followed, with raw tuna and steamed prawns, was an ode to the art of presentation, the crouton a light latticework of batter overhanging small caverns of young lettuce that dripped stalactites of well-seasoned Caesar dressing. It was paired with a wonderful 2005 Babich Sauvignon Blanc (my favorite wine of the evening) that finished crisply and was a perfect foil for the meaty red flesh of the fish.
Next came our hot appetizer, fried frog’s legs frozen mid-leap into a pure white pond of potato puree, ringed by perfectly sauteed bits of indeterminate flesh that I at first thought were shelled muscles, but my table companion swore were the hearts of the now-legless frogs. Amphibious innards or not, it was delicious, and the 2005 Bouchard P&F Chassagne-Montrachet served alongside was fine, but underwhelming after the early Sauvignon. The soup that followed was a paean to simplicity: a small forest of untouched green herbs soon covered in a light consomme applied with tableside diligence by the apt staff. The Spanish sherry paired with it, however, was too strong for the lightness of the broth, overwhelming what would have been a delightfully nuanced course. A small quibble, however.
It is here our meal took on a rather surreal timbre for a few moments. The first indication was a large calico cat that wandered around the restaurant unmolested, silently padding across the rug with slow and easy confidence. As if a harbinger of what was to follow, we were then herded out to the terrace to watch a man dressed as the devil spit fire and walk on burning boards. Sipping my drink, I began to wonder if the mushrooms in the salad had been of the sort more commonly associated with Amsterdam.
Luckily, we quickly returned—both devil and cat making an exit—to a wonderful palate cleanser of mint and lime sorbet. Unfortunately, our main course, a beautiful plate of lamb chops, was criminally overcooked, though the crisp vegetable tart tried its hardest to make amends. A real shame, considering that the 2002 Santa Cecilia I.G.T. would have brought out all the nuances of bloodier meat. Our dessert, however, banished all disappointing memories, and, again—like the soup—simplicity won the day. What was billed as creme brulee (a dish I have grown increasingly bored with over the years) was in fact a deconstructed take on an old standard, mixing newer techniques with the boundless possibilities of summer produce. A small glass of cold macerated fruit stood stiff and defiant next to a more plaint brulee extracted from its usual ramekin, its sides left naked beneath its crust. A few pomegranate seeds completed the best presentation of the evening, which was, regardless, quickly dismantled by my own greedy hands. And the light 2002 Codorniu Cava Classico only helped enhance both the cream and the citrus.
However, it was the thirty-year-old Armagnac, as well as the cigars courtesy of La Casa del Habano, that truly completed the meal. Armed with one hand of each, I stood alone on the terrace, puffing and pondering Podil, wine, cats, devils and frogs, warmed by the glow of the city, the Armagnac (and, perhaps as well, by the five other glasses of wine).
Monaco (20 Velyka Zhytomyrska, 466-6885). Open daily noon till the last customer
English menu: No (French)
English-speaking staff: Yes
Average meal: Hr 250
