Restaurant Review: Alex Stupak’s Seriously Playful Seafood Joint

The Basque region has a big influence on Otter’s ever-changing menu, as does New England (Stupak grew up in Massachusetts), not only in his crab pasta but also in his lobster rolls (quite nice, if you like paying for lobster rolls). And the clam chowder is so creamy that it’s almost like a mousse. I was wary of Stupak’s take on fish and chips, which uses intensely oily Spanish mackerel rather than the usual featureless whitefish, but my doubts were not justified: the flavor was actually more assertive, but it was beautifully balanced by the beer batter as curly and bronzed as a Goldendoodle. And salty tartar sauce. The list also mentions the Gulf Coast, the Mediterranean, and East and Southeast Asia, but the global warehouses remain separated tier by tier. The closest thing to a fusion is the bread service, which combines Parker House’s New England-style rolls, fresh from the oven and soft marshmallows, with an array of compound butters, including one, infused with saffron, inspired by bouillabaisse, a Provençal seafood stew.

Very beautiful otter. The room is heavy and masculine in a non-oppressive way. The people, thanks to the SoHo location and indulgently diffused lighting (including dim taper candles; pay attention to the angle of that menu!), are remarkably cool. Perhaps the inevitable result of this aesthetic interest is that some dishes are more interesting to look at than to eat, such as an attractive pair of raw scallops, each served on its own shell, one covered in red pepper and the other in green. Doesn’t taste much except salt, lemon and a distant flash of spice. A central plateau of prepared seafood, priced per person, is disappointingly restrained where it should be dramatic; Consisting of a tray of small morsels pre-portioned onto their own little plates — including oysters, clams, tuna, and a little smoked salmon panna cotta with trout roe — the arrangement sounds like wedding catering (albeit in a Very luxurious (Quran). There’s a steak on offer, a stringy New York strip steak, cooked to the perfect medium rare but served, for some reason, alongside a pile of vinegar-sautéed sweet red peppers, and a plate of funky, fishy lobster. Taken all together, the dish was complete rubbish, but I suppose if you’re the type who orders steak at a place like Otter, you’re getting what you deserve, especially when there’s fantastic swordfish frites right next to it on the menu. A hunk of meaty sirloin covered in a rich mahogany sauce, it’s as close to cow as a fish could possibly dream of.

It’s been more than a decade since Stupak left the pastry kitchen, but it would be a mistake to skip dessert at any of his restaurants. At Otter, there’s a lush, simple twist on Boston cream pie, and the pistachio tiramisu is as green as a freshly mowed suburban garden, but give yourself the gift of ordering ice cream. No neat little freezer-hardened scoops here: The portions are large enough for two or three, and come curled up and around the inside of a casserole bowl like a frozen swirl, or, as one of my dining companions noted, like chickpeas. On one winter visit, I had a bite of cantaloupe sherbet straight out of summer; In another case, eating plain vanilla ice cream caused the entire party to faint. It’s served alongside whatever variety you end up having, in two additional bowls, one filled with olive-oil whipped cream, a little sweet, a little savory, and the other with a mound of candied grapes, little purple balls like maraschino cherries stuck out in a fun shape. Home mirror. During my first meal at Otter’s, shortly after the restaurant opened, a piece of ice cream cost twenty dollars — a very high price, but I came away feeling like the price was justified. Now the slightly smaller, but still large, portion is worth nine dollars, the bargain of the century. It’s not high-profile work, not a weird ripple of food science in space-time, not a throwback, a callback, or a play on words – it’s just great ice cream, and it’s more than enough. ♦