The Rooster...and the Man Behind the Cocky Bird

This morning I read with great interest an article in the New York Observer by Chef Eddie Huang (the persnickety, snarky, outspoken, shoot-from-the-hip guy that everyone loves to hate) and, as a result, I feel a slight sense of vindication. It seems that the young Huang has brewed up a bitter storm of controversy over his rather acerbic and venomous remarks aimed at one Marcus Samuelsson, chef extraordinaire and the force behind Red Rooster restaurant in Harlem. More specifically, Huang takes shots at a) Samuelsson’s right to be the mouthpiece, so to speak, for Harlem and, b) the food at Red Rooster.

While, admittedly, I have not yet had the pleasure to flip through the pages of Samuelsson’s new memoir, Yes, Chef, I did have the displeasure of dining at his alleged soul food restaurant in Harlem, Red Rooster, in May last year.

While I do wish Samuelsson well on his new memoir‒and goodness knows he already has a string of successes under his belt‒this post is not about his prowess as a scribe but, rather, the talents at his Harlem eatery.

Eatery. Hmmm, I think I hate that word.

Anyway, as a food writer and one who pens dining impressions articles (no, I don’t refer to myself as a food critic—once again, I’m not a food critic . . . I just like to eat like one), I had every intention of enjoying my lunchtime meal at Red Rooster and, conversely, writing favorably about it. After all, I had to make the reservation weeks in advance, which gave me ample time to anticipate the meal in which I would eventually indulge. Unfortunately, Red Rooster’s cuisine had other plans.

I will be the first to admit I don’t know all there is to know about food—all the subtle nuances that make it special; the many and varied ways to prepare a cut of beef; the lingo used to describe a certain flavor, aroma or texture of food; the origins of certain foods, etc. What I do know, however, is what is pleasing to my palate. And, um er uh, what isn’t.

Red Rooster wasn’t.

I tried to align my thoughts with those of others who had raved about this place, yet I kept coming to the same inevitable conclusion: I must have been eating at a totally different Red Rooster from everyone else. Perhaps I took a wrong turn at 125^th Street.

It’s not that the cuisine was notoriously bad; it just wasn’t that great . . . at least not great in the sense that one would expect coming from the kitchen of a Top Chef Masters Season Two winner. Perhaps he just had too much on his plate, no pun intended. Whatever the reason for the less than favorable meal‒I won’t get into making excuses for the man; he’s a big boy and can do that for himself and his staff‒I walked away from Red Rooster feeling dissatisfied, underwhelmed and confused.

One of the not so great dishes: Fried Yard Bird

You see, I have this personal pet peeve about writing horrible things in my dining impressions articles. And not that the article would have necessarily been horrible, either . . . I’m just sayin’. After all, I would have been a) telling the truth, b) writing from the palate, not the heart and c) doing a disservice to those unsuspecting tourists flocking to Harlem expecting to dine on out-of-this-stratosphere soul food if I didn’t divulge my true feelings.

So, putting my own “if the food is that bad then I just won’t write about it” mantra aside, I forged ahead and wrote my dining impressions article. And I’m glad I did. Herein lies my absolution. I knew I couldn’t be the only person wandering around Harlem thinking, “What the hell did I just eat?!?” after leaving Red Rooster. My vocal tendencies may not have been as acidic as Huang’s, but I got if off my ample chest.

To date, I haven’t been back to Red Rooster.

Will I go back? Probably not. I’m not a Marcus Samuelsson hater, but I’m positive I can find better soul food in an authentic, out-of-the way joint where the atmosphere is not as pretentious, the price point isn’t as inflated and the food is more reminiscent of what soul food is truly meant to be.