Up for Babs: The artistic ricotta tart at Chef Nina Compton's rebranded Bywater restaurant
BABS
Review by Paul Oswell
In 2015, Chef Nina Compton and partner Larry Miller announced their presence on the New Orleans dining scene with no small amount of flare. Chef Compton was fresh off TV’s ‘Top Chef'. Their restaurant, Compère Lapin, was an immediately well-loved waft of fresh, sweet, Caribbean air. OK, if I think about their fried chicken with jerk honey for too long, I won’t be able to write this review. Let’s focus here, Oswell.
Within three years, Chef had secured the James Beard award for Best Chef (South) and flush with success, the dynamic gastronomic duo opened a second restaurant, Bywater American Bistro. Located in the Rice Mill Lofts, in which they reside, its exposed bricks and steel dining room reflected the popular industrial-romantic chic of the pre-pandemic.
Changing times inspire new looks, and the restaurant has subtly rebranded, submitting to a softer but still-stylish makeover (I’m too old to call it a glow-up). The name shortened to the more charismatically colloquial BABS. That name always raises a smile for me as a chummy nickname for Barbara. Babs Streisand. Babs Walters. Babs…er…Stanwyk? (Note: despite my personal amusement preferences, it is not a Barbara-themed restaurant. In short: I like the new name, anyway).
The interior sees a shift in looks to a cozier, more rustic-tinged aesthetic. The layout of the dining room remains basically the same, but warmer tones and fabrics are complemented by lush swathes of greenery. It’s thoughtful and tasteful, sailing well above any hint of chintzy-ness, and I felt that even the softened acoustics made for a more relaxed ambiance. The ‘bistro’ part of the equation is being softly and lovingly celebrated. In short: I like this as well.
We started with elegant house cocktails, and it’s here that you can feel the enthusiastic embrace of Italian influences seep into things. Aperitivos (cynar and cardamaro for instance) feature strongly, and find their ways into the bartenders’ mixing tins. There’s also a globe-spanning, eclectic 12-page wine list (Slovenia and Lebanon mixing with the viticultural big boys), and spirit-free cocktails made with Italian sodas, so, you know, nobody is going thirsty.
Our table of four excitedly shared some silky burrata with savory marinated tomatoes and grilled bread, crunchy arancini with paddlefish caviar (a nod to Compère Lapin for the true fans) and a blackened octopus that was cooked to perfection with sweet potato coconut puree. The awe, though, was saved for the (and this is going to sound hyperbolic) outright outlandish ricotta tart with hazelnut honey and an elaborately floral topping of Tete de moine (another cheese). The ricotta comes out in such elaborate, delicate florets that jamming a fork into them felt like defacing a work of art. Remember when that Banksy painting got shredded at the auction house? For a glorious three minutes, we were that shredder.
The entreé menu is confidently tight. I’m always very pro kitchens that settle on a small selection of well-chosen dishes and let them excel with a taut, assured swagger. Just five dishes, but like a perfectly-crafted NBA All-Star line up, you can’t fault the selection. Two of us couldn’t help but dive head first into the Wagyu beef lasagne, while a stripped-down but sensationally-done spaghetti and a cavatelli with shrimp also created suitably reverential silences. Branzino in Puttanesca sauce and an eggplant parm round out the solid line-up.
Completely sated, we ended with the must-try olive oil cake with whipped mascarpone, a four-way split tempering any displays of outright decadence. The choice of digestifs is as equally Continental as the aperitivos, and topped off a note-perfect dinner.
A shout-out to the service, which was completely on point, equal parts charm and erudition. So too to the back of house team - they were confidently and safely dealing with that day’s bonus boil advisory, one of the true hallmarks of reassuringly professional restaurant staff in this city. Great looking out, I’m sure it’s a stressful thing to have to work around.
Local utility company incompetence aside, I, for one, am impressed by the changes. It was a lively, mixed crowd and a welcoming, comfy space. The deep consideration put into the pivot is notably evident, and I think that Chef Compton and Mr Miller’s instincts will prove good ones. Hey, they’re the award-winning restaurateurs and I’m Joe Schmo who laughs to himself about the word ‘Babs’. So put your faith in them at least, I’m going to wager that you’ll be delighted to have done so. Now, about that fried chicken…
Review by Paul Oswell
In 2015, Chef Nina Compton and partner Larry Miller announced their presence on the New Orleans dining scene with no small amount of flare. Chef Compton was fresh off TV’s ‘Top Chef'. Their restaurant, Compère Lapin, was an immediately well-loved waft of fresh, sweet, Caribbean air. OK, if I think about their fried chicken with jerk honey for too long, I won’t be able to write this review. Let’s focus here, Oswell.
Within three years, Chef had secured the James Beard award for Best Chef (South) and flush with success, the dynamic gastronomic duo opened a second restaurant, Bywater American Bistro. Located in the Rice Mill Lofts, in which they reside, its exposed bricks and steel dining room reflected the popular industrial-romantic chic of the pre-pandemic.
Changing times inspire new looks, and the restaurant has subtly rebranded, submitting to a softer but still-stylish makeover (I’m too old to call it a glow-up). The name shortened to the more charismatically colloquial BABS. That name always raises a smile for me as a chummy nickname for Barbara. Babs Streisand. Babs Walters. Babs…er…Stanwyk? (Note: despite my personal amusement preferences, it is not a Barbara-themed restaurant. In short: I like the new name, anyway).
The interior sees a shift in looks to a cozier, more rustic-tinged aesthetic. The layout of the dining room remains basically the same, but warmer tones and fabrics are complemented by lush swathes of greenery. It’s thoughtful and tasteful, sailing well above any hint of chintzy-ness, and I felt that even the softened acoustics made for a more relaxed ambiance. The ‘bistro’ part of the equation is being softly and lovingly celebrated. In short: I like this as well.
We started with elegant house cocktails, and it’s here that you can feel the enthusiastic embrace of Italian influences seep into things. Aperitivos (cynar and cardamaro for instance) feature strongly, and find their ways into the bartenders’ mixing tins. There’s also a globe-spanning, eclectic 12-page wine list (Slovenia and Lebanon mixing with the viticultural big boys), and spirit-free cocktails made with Italian sodas, so, you know, nobody is going thirsty.
Our table of four excitedly shared some silky burrata with savory marinated tomatoes and grilled bread, crunchy arancini with paddlefish caviar (a nod to Compère Lapin for the true fans) and a blackened octopus that was cooked to perfection with sweet potato coconut puree. The awe, though, was saved for the (and this is going to sound hyperbolic) outright outlandish ricotta tart with hazelnut honey and an elaborately floral topping of Tete de moine (another cheese). The ricotta comes out in such elaborate, delicate florets that jamming a fork into them felt like defacing a work of art. Remember when that Banksy painting got shredded at the auction house? For a glorious three minutes, we were that shredder.
The entreé menu is confidently tight. I’m always very pro kitchens that settle on a small selection of well-chosen dishes and let them excel with a taut, assured swagger. Just five dishes, but like a perfectly-crafted NBA All-Star line up, you can’t fault the selection. Two of us couldn’t help but dive head first into the Wagyu beef lasagne, while a stripped-down but sensationally-done spaghetti and a cavatelli with shrimp also created suitably reverential silences. Branzino in Puttanesca sauce and an eggplant parm round out the solid line-up.
Completely sated, we ended with the must-try olive oil cake with whipped mascarpone, a four-way split tempering any displays of outright decadence. The choice of digestifs is as equally Continental as the aperitivos, and topped off a note-perfect dinner.
A shout-out to the service, which was completely on point, equal parts charm and erudition. So too to the back of house team - they were confidently and safely dealing with that day’s bonus boil advisory, one of the true hallmarks of reassuringly professional restaurant staff in this city. Great looking out, I’m sure it’s a stressful thing to have to work around.
Local utility company incompetence aside, I, for one, am impressed by the changes. It was a lively, mixed crowd and a welcoming, comfy space. The deep consideration put into the pivot is notably evident, and I think that Chef Compton and Mr Miller’s instincts will prove good ones. Hey, they’re the award-winning restaurateurs and I’m Joe Schmo who laughs to himself about the word ‘Babs’. So put your faith in them at least, I’m going to wager that you’ll be delighted to have done so. Now, about that fried chicken…