There’s an old term in Hollywood: a “four-quadrant movie.” It describes a film that appeals to every demographic — men and women, young and old. A blockbuster like “Finding Nemo,” “Jurassic Park” or “Wicked.”
Allow me to introduce you to the four-quadrant restaurant. This is the place where you can take your parents, and where you can also host your birthday dinner. Where you can have a power lunch. Where you can take a picky eater. Where you can find a flaky croissant and a well-prepared steak. That restaurant is Cafe Zaffri, a majestic, marble-tiled home for Levantine cuisine that opened in February near Union Square.
I have tested the restaurant — a soaring space with two dining rooms, one open and sun-soaked, the other dark and moody — with differing audiences, at various mealtimes.
My friends and I have basked in the ivory atrium over crisp cigars of halloumi-esque jibneh dusted with so much lemon zest they taste like sunshine. When some British comrades complained to me that American restaurant food was too sweet, they experienced a change of heart over a simple lunch of skewers: silken ribbons of cabbage and pine nuts, slippery hunks of striped bass flickered with tart black lime powder, and grilled pork belly smeared with sticky date molasses.
At breakfast, my 20-something co-workers and I sipped matcha lattes and devoured citrusy pastries oozing pistachio frangipani while a woman in a heavy fur pulled out her laptop and began her workday. With a trio of veteran authors, I stayed up too late in the walnut-paneled back room, sipping martinis spruced up with bay-leaf liqueur — not so much dirty as savory.
This versatility speaks to what this team — the restaurateurs Jennifer and Nicole Vitagliano and the chefs Mary Attea and Camari Mick, who also run the Lower Manhattan crowd pleasers Raf’s and Musket Room — do well. They create restaurants that are chic enough for the glitterati (on one night, I almost collided with Jeremy O. Harris and Colman Domingo at the bar), with dishes that are exciting enough for the food-obsessed. On any given visit, you’ll dine among a multicultural crowd as likely to be in ball caps as ball gowns. (The common thread, of course, is that everyone here can afford a $74 lamb Wellington.)
It would be easy to write off a restaurant like this as all fluff, no substance. It’s nestled in a hotel and members’ club called the Twenty-Two, where Kylie Jenner is reportedly a member, staffed by people who look like models and appointed with expensive-looking red furniture.
But a place that cared only about aesthetics wouldn’t serve food this innovative. The dish I can’t stop thinking about is the lamb Wellington, the brainchild of Ms. Attea, who is Lebanese American. Instead of creating a typical hotel-restaurant menu of predictable pastas, she mined her childhood memories, swaddling crumbles of lamb sausage and a rich hunk of lamb loin side-by-side in grape leaves, sealing in the meat’s moisture and the warmth of the spices, then wrapping them in a thick blanket of pastry. A puddle of za’atar-spiked yogurt bleeds into the thick lamb jus, a duel between cool and warm.
The sweetbreads are another success, given the shawarma treatment with a ginger-citrus marinade, pickled fennel, tahini sauce and crispy rice. They look and taste like a fancy version of what you might find at a Midtown halal cart. A butterflied and grilled dorade brushed with a spicy tomato and red-pepper sauce wears a tangy, herbaceous coat of many-colored tabbouleh. The fried eggplant is flattened to within an inch of its life, charred and speckled with smoky Urfa biber breadcrumbs that crunch like a chicharrón. (Skip the soggy lamb cavatelli, and you can get better French fries elsewhere.)
Cafe Zaffri is comfortable on several levels. There are fluffy pillows in the backs of the chairs and plush cushioning in the booths. The service is engaging but deferential. You can have a bright and light Tuesday lunch that won’t cancel out the rest of your workday. The mirrors lining the atrium booths diffuse natural light, but also offer a sly way to check if you have lipstick on your teeth. This softer strand of fine dining feels like a response to the recent wave of brawny steakhouses and red-blooded red-sauce joints finding traction in New York. Perhaps the solace I found at Cafe Zaffri has something to do with the fact that it is run by four women (the palatial space also served as lodging for single working women in the early 1900s). I couldn’t say for sure — it’s just a theory.
Ms. Mick is one of the city’s great pastry chefs. Cafe Zaffri’s pastry basket, whose wispy, lightweight croissant is similar to the one she serves at Raf’s, is excellent (and at $25, not a bad deal for breakfast for two). As is the qatayef, a cheesy fritter porous with salty orange-blossom syrup.
The other night, I had a blood-orange cassata cake at Raf’s that showcased Ms. Mick’s knack for pushing the limits of sour and salty in sweets. The desserts at Cafe Zaffri aren’t as sure of themselves. An assortment of spiced cookies stacked in a glass pedestal dish would be a lovely accompaniment to tea, but made a ho-hum coda. The Ashta tiramisù — lathered in thick, caramelized cream — is no more exciting than those you’ll find at your average Italian restaurant.
Even as Cafe Zaffri grows into itself, it feels like a valuable newcomer. At a time when diners often have to decide between a nice-looking dining room and ambitious food, it doesn’t make you choose. It’s approachable but not watered-down, stately but not pretentious, fun but not clubby. As of last week, you could still get a reservation just a few days ahead of time.
In true four-quadrant fashion, Cafe Zaffri has something for everyone.
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Priya Krishna is a reporter in the Food section of The Times.
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