And it rhymes with chump
The selection of dips, salads, sandwiches and steak is so safe, the restaurant should be called GICS instead of Stock.
The fire alarm beeps insistently at Stock, the restaurant at Trump International Hotel and Tower, but everyone carries on eating and talking, even when a computer-generated voice announces “an emergency situation.” Talk about fiddling while Rome burns. I understand the sang-froid of the investment bankers eating their gimmicky $26 hotdogs. They gamble on the market.
It’s harder to accept Stock’s staff and management play-acting at their fivestar roles. The derivative food, lack of sophistication and insulting prices are just deplorable.
Built by billionaires for wannabe billionaires and opened two months ago, Stock is a monument to rapacity so out of touch with the times — and, more to the point, the principles of high-end hospitality — that it feels like a decadent clubhouse for the 1 per cent.
The fire alarm suspends elevator service, trapping my lunch guest 31 floors below in the lobby. The 20-minute delay until he arrives offers a chance to take in the place. The soaring space looks like Versailles by way of ’30s Hollywood. Designers II by IV installed herringbone parquet floors, shiny black Louis XV chairs and rhinestones on the walls.
The decor is the sole bit of opu- lence. Five-star dining demands linens and flowers on the tables, but they’re missing here.
I’m squished into a banquette between alpha males who brag about their super-elite flying status and complain amongst themselves about the prices. (“$15 for two bottles of water is kinda steep,” says one.)
I’m hungry because no one thinks to give me a bread basket. I’ve seen pinballs zoom back-and-forth with more purpose than the waiter. After 65 minutes, he brings warm sourdough.
Meanwhile, co-owner Val Levitan, across the room, has ample space and privacy at a table for four with his sole guest. Levitan and Alex Shnaider licensed the Trump name and developed the hotel-condo largely without The Donald.
Levitan doesn’t have to wait for bread.
His wife, Inna, is the managing partner. She’s the one who hired executive chef Todd Clarmo (exOliver & Bonacini), who plays it so safe with a selection of dips, salads, sandwiches and steaks that the restaurant should be called GICS instead of Stock.
The menu is neither cosmopolitan nor creative. It reads like Oliver & Bonacini Lite.
The menu is neither cosmopolitan nor creative. It reads like Oliver & Bonacini Lite, right down to the sludgy mushroom soup ($12).
The only thing remarkable about lunch is the cost. A $32 caesar salad turns out to be a small, harsh mound of romaine sided by two shrimp. Yes, the shrimp approach lobster-size but there are exactly two shavings of provolone, three lardons and four croutons on the plate.
The $26 hot dog, the most popular lunch item, is ridiculous. Sure, it’s made from prized Wagyu beef — but that just makes for greasy tube steak. The shredded beef on top looks and tastes like bloodied sawdust, the fries are limp, the condiments banal. The $1.99 steamies at Little Dog are 20 times better.
It’s not even pretty food. The artichoke hearts in a Mediterranean salad ($17) have turned grey, easily preventable with ascorbic acid. They look like something fished from the lint trap of a dryer.
Even getting out is problematic. The Moneris terminal (those handheld debit-credit machines) isn’t working.
In the 24 minutes it takes to fix the Ethernet, no one offers me or my guest a coffee or a sincere apology. The bankers, meanwhile, got cappuccinos while the elevators were knocked out.
I return for dinner, still puzzling over why Stock didn’t partner with a star chef like competing luxury hotel chains The Four Seasons (Daniel Boulud) or The Shangri-la (David Chang). Stock seems destined to go unnoticed beyond Bay Streeters with generous expense accounts.
At the bar, businessmen flirt with statuesque blondes.
I sit upstairs, in Siberia, where the windows are tinted green like American dollars. A DJ plays the same Latin songs every hour.
The food is just as disappointing: Stiff pelmeni, or Russian wontons, in chicken soup ($13); chittara spaghetti ($34) in tomato sauce too muscular for delicate lobster meat, and a horrendously overcooked filet mignon ($42) with burnt brussels sprouts ($9), prosaic mashed potatoes ($9) and half a raw onion. Only the zippy guacamole ($20) topped with crab meat approaches Trumpian brashness. Service is marginally better than it was at lunch. This time, the bread arrives when it should, but not the wine or the steak side dishes. I belatedly learn we don’t have to spend $15 on bottled water; housefiltered water runs $2.50 a guest, unlimited. The only consistent fun is had with desserts by David Chow (exThe Drake Hotel). The chocolate trolley, an Art Deco bar cart with wheels we must walk over to, is on trend with homemade chocolate bars and updated Mallomars. Still, at $200 a kilogram, a few bites work out to $17. Chow’s beignets ($11) are deliciously trumped-up custard puffs, his high-concept cheesecake ($13) comes with lavender “caviar” and the lavalike chocolate tart ($15) has the Stock logo (a stylized dollar sign). After I visit a restaurant, I routinely phone to verify information, ar- range photography, and give them a chance to explain any problems I encountered. After my two visits to Stock I contacted the restaurant’s publicist. She told me they couldn’t accommodate photography and the staff was too busy for a telephone interview but that I could email any questions I might have. In my email, I asked what they thought customers were looking for in Stock, why they had bare tables and how best to handle a 24minute delay in processing a guest’s payment. I waited six days — until the press deadline — and did not receive a response. So, my bottom line: In market terms, Stock is overvalued. Those looking for smooth service and creative food in a mile-high power lunch should eat at Canoe instead. apataki@thestar.ca www.twitter.com/amypataki