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Taking the bull by the horns
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Cuerno
905 Juniper Street, Midtown
678.904.4584
On a recent mid-week excursion I made it to Cuerno, the much anticipated yin to Beleza’s yang and latest incarnation of Riccardo Ullio’s vision for his slice of the Atlanta dining scene. Sizing up the interior as I made my way to the bar, I was pleasantly surprised not to be confronted with the predictably bold taurus reds but instead enveloped in plush plums, tufted leather, and filmy, patterned drapes. Elegant Phillipe Stark-inspired chandeliers create an iridescent glow and elevate the somewhat boudoir interior to a level of overtly sexy sophistication reminiscent of the seventies, when porn was arthouse chic.
Drinks were shaken by a steely-eyed bartender who heartily recommended the sangria. I thought the white sangria was innocuously light, but he assured me of its potency and at just over five dollars a glass its worth its weight in star fruit. The sparkling cava and crème de peach version was my fave. All sherry based cocktails comprise a heady list no doubt inspired by the edgy trend in New York and Madrid. They range from an uninspired sherry and coke combo to The Southern, a px sherry, bourbon, and maple syrup concoction that had us fighting over it to the last darkly sweet sip.
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Bull on display (testicles and all) at Cuerno
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I have to admit that I have found the tapas craze to be the most annoying trend that this city has endured\embraced for the last five years. You can thank me later for not waxing on about the history of tapas and you have to agree that though we fatty Americans could use a lesson in portion control, most small plates we see on tapas menus around town are anything but authentic. If the tapas offerings at Cuerno seem familiar it’s because they are the quintessential Spanish plates. And they are spot on. The brandada is the best salt cod I’ve had in the city, served with a crustini rubbed with garlic and fresh tomato. Saucy “judean gigante” beans spiked with savory housemade sausages make up the fabada and though it could have been served with a spoon, I didn’t object to soaking it all up with some warm crusty bread. Patatas bravas in a mild, creamy sauce could use a kick of heat. Diver scallops seared on the scorching hot plancha are caramelized perfection.
So let’s talk about the white elephant in the room. In this case, it’s a strapping metal bull. From the vantage point of the dining room, he looks to be poised and ready for action. It’s rare to encounter an image so strong but so submissive. Then again it is midtown. But I digress. I ask my server about another strikingly sculptural curiosity—an exposed leg, hiked up and strapped in to a metal contraption that brings to mind images of the movie Hostel. Black-footed pig, she explains, a pricy milk fed delicacy of the Pyranees, is available by the ounce. Carved tableside by an inked up hottie of a sous chef it’s the closest melt in your mouth thing I can imagine to sex on a platter. With the Virgin Mary peering over my shoulder from her spot on the slate wall behind me I feel like a naughty Catholic school girl. I can’t help but to further indulge.
I don’t even smoke, but I could use a cigarette. Before I can pick up any more bad habits, the entrees hit the table. The braised veal cheeks are rich and fork tender, peppered with pine nuts that provide textural contrast and a toasty lift. The crackling skin of the suckling pig was promising if the flesh a bit dry. It was nicely offset, though, by a tart roasted apple brimming with pork and bread stuffing. The menu offers six paellas, including a vegetarian option and a soupy lobster rice. The vermicelli version is a tasty departure but aoli on top might be overkill. My dining cohort remarked that it reminded him of the ubiquitous San Francisco treat, but the fat girl inside me couldn’t stop forking the crispy, golden edges. The al dente rice in the traditional Valenciana was infused with the aromas of the sea. Though the dish was laden with massive whole prawns, not so succulent chicken took up a lot of real estate. I missed the presence of a true socarrat but was compensated by an abundance of tender mussels and cuttlefish. And quit your bitchin about the prices because my threesome couldn’t finish paella meant for two.
Service was warm and astute. We were encouraged to pass around a porron of cava, essentially the Cadillac of beer bongs. A communal table sat glaringly empty. Aren’t we ready to embrace this concept yet Atlanta? I recommend going to Cuerno with like-minded people whose company you genuinely enjoy and savoring an evening together. Oh, and carpool because valet is not curbside so save the five bucks and have another glass of sangria. And definitely share dessert. Ullio excels in sweets. Sotto Sotto’s panna cotta is only now rivaled by Cuerno’s crema catalana, a cardamom scented custard paired with a café con leche spuma (a frothy sweet sipper served in a shot glass). While the almond torta could have used another douse of booze, the arroz con leche had my table mate swooning.
I was tempted to smack the brazen bull on the ass on my way out but I wasn’t sure he was into it. I gave Mary an over the shoulder wink as I made my exit, flanked by two tall, handsome gentlemen. Cheeky? Sure. But I’m pretty sure she approves. After all, it is midtown.
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nstiles@atlantacuisine.com
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