“Table Talk” With Jeremy Wayne: Rollicking refinement at The Benjamin
On the site of what was formerly Bernard’s Restaurant and Sarah’s Wine Bar, and before that Walter Tode’s Inn at Ridgefield, The Benjamin describes itself as “uniquely American, French-inspired.” With long, well-upholstered banquettes running the length of the main dining room and an indoor garden that is a riot of spring flowers, the restaurant brims with light by day before turning cozy and romantic at night. Indeed, it is by no means a stretch to say it is a vision of the Northeast entwined with rural France. Some painted old beams give it further character, as do Pop Art renderings of the Eiffel Tower and Andy Warhol-style images of Benjamin Franklin – the United States’ first ambassador to France, something of a gourmet himself and the man from whom the restaurant takes its name.
A first visit, for dinner with friends, had four, or more accurately three, of us oohing and aahing over the signature bread service, homemade whole wheat sourdough served with three butters – French cultured, paprika and Boursin. To be honest, I’d have been happier still with a good old stick of unsalted Echiré butter, which for me is France on a plate, but I could tell I was in the minority. Next came beautifully presented burrata salad, satisfying shrimp toast and rich, smoked trout rillettes. Seared foie gras – which another Benjamin, chef Benjamin Traver (ex-Café Boulud and The Modern), served with black mission fig, pickled fennel and pain perdu – was also big hit with the foie gras eating members of the group.
In the mains, roasted half chicken with cannellini beans and nduja (the sausage du moment) and olive oil poached halibut – a great preparation of this unsung hero of a fish, served here with herbed couscous and picholine olives – would both, I’m sure, have given the Founding Father a sense of bien-être, or well-being. I dare say he’d have enjoyed his namesake Benjamin Burger, too – an 8-ounce Wagyu patty with raclette and bacon on a homemade bun.
We also appreciated the short but not greedily marked-up wine list, from which we made short work of a couple of bottles of a Clay Shannon “El Coyote” Chardonnay, and small, quirky touches like the check brought in a book. I’m uncertain as to whether the book – actually a slim volume of verse by the British author and mystic Caryll Houselander – had any deeper significance.
My lunch, alone, a few days later, got off to a charming start. “Let’s pop you here by the fireplace,” said the host, thoughtfully leading me to possibly the best table in the restaurant and clearing the other, redundant couverts (cutlery and flatware). I made light work of the soup du jour, a celery root velouté poured from a flask over black garlic and nubs of chestnut, a dying breath of winter served in a beautiful wide bowl.
And it was fun to see pan bagnat on a menu, a kind of moist salad niçoise sandwich that is a lunch mainstay in boulangeries across France and which I lived on during my gap year in Paris many Parisian moons ago. Bravo, Benjamin! I loved the creamy filling, in a crisp baguette, and top marks, too – thank you, pastry chef Melissa Knauer – for a perfect, crowd-pleasing vanilla creme brûlée with whipped ganache, its hard, brittle caramel lid shattering like glass.
Downing a small espresso, I was nearly on my way when the host stopped by my table to inquire if a group of seniors in another room was too loud. Not loud at all, I told him. I didn’t even know they were there.
Truth be told, I felt kind of let down. I’d secretly been hoping for a bit of boisterousness, dancing on tables – the kind of thing Ben Franklin might’ve enjoyed, too.
For more, visit thebenjaminrestaurant.com.