Will the Eighty Six Stick Around?

Can a diner be 86’d in advance? That’s the interpretive riddle at the heart of the Eighty Six, the new tenant at the forever-infamous former Chumley’s at 86 Bedford Street in the West Village. Chumley’s, which operated through Prohibition, is said to be the birthplace of the phrase “getting 86’d,” as in getting tossed out — in the bad old days, the fate of too-drunk patrons through Chumley’s side door, the better not to attract the attention of the police.

The Eighty Six has now moved into this haunted, hallowed space, which has played host to a succession of establishments attempting to capitalize on its history. The heavy green door with the peephole behind a metal grille endures, and even its very name recalls its ancestor. But don’t worry about getting kicked out. You probably won’t get in.

Eugene Remm, the impresario behind the Catch restaurants and a partner in the (likewise heavily defended) Corner Store, took over the location after its previous occupant, the trollish Frog Club, self-86’d in December. The Eighty Six is a small restaurant — 35 seats total, including the bar — so some discretion on behalf of management is necessary to control the crowd, but even by the standards of New York’s strictest doors, the Eighty Six is borderline impenetrable. Reservations are theoretically available online but hover, like Tantalus’ fruit, forever out of reach. Walk-ins are welcome to try their luck at the door, but the two women who approached ahead of me on a Monday night in search of bar seats were summarily turned away. I was able to broach the perimeter myself only as a ride-along with a better-connected guest and, even then, only once, rather than the multiple times customary before writing a review. I’m making an exception here because I doubt I’ll be invited back. That evening, Remm was circling the dining room, chitchatting and shaking hands, and he all but confirmed that the place functions like a members-only club. “I know everybody in the room,” he said when visiting our table (though he didn’t seem to recognize me). “This is the direction New York is going.”

I am sorry to say I agree. The Eighty Six’s shtick is swank. The décor is antique mirrors and velvet, and the finger food is caviar croquettes. The bar is tiny, and a crackling fireplace does much to set the tone, turning down the raucousness. (There’s a hot “honeymoon table” tucked just to the side of it.) At the Corner Store, the early patronage of celebrities — Taylor Swift was a repeat guest — ensured its status as a destination. The weight of expectation hangs heavy at this follow-up, where fans have made the early pilgrimage, Swift among them. “It’s the exact same clientele,” a server told us.

Michael Vignola, the longtime culinary director at Catch Hospitality Group, oversees both. The Eighty Six is not without its TikTok bait, like a bread-and-butter martini (butterfat-washed vodka served with bread and butter) and a juiced-up Philly cheese-steak, but the emphasis here, as at many of the other new swank-staurants, is steak. Our server assured us we were getting the best and the rarest. Every cut comes with its own dateline and provenance — Aberdeen, South Dakota; Ennis, Texas; Queensland, Australia — and the restaurant even claims an exclusive on certain pounds of flesh. “No one but us has access to vaca vieja,” our server confided, nodding at a giant hunk of marbled beef. Let the plebs content themselves with merely dry-aged specimens. The Eighty Six is the only place offering this bespoke crossbreed, “old cow.”

Old cow that I am, I find the focus on (mostly) traditional preparations appealing. Classics are classics for a reason, and while they’re not indestructible, they are sturdy enough to withstand the winds of trend huffing and puffing at the grille-hatched door. A Caesar salad is basically a Caesar salad anywhere, and the one here is no exception; I preferred its twist (olive-focaccia croutons, why not) to what the salad endures at the Corner Store (fried balls of cream cheese, why). Vignola is a time-tested pro who can oversee a team grilling steaks capably and at prices that are generally less offensive than at plenty of other haute beeferies around town. (The floor is set by a $38 skirt; the ceiling is “market price.”)

What he can’t do is make miracles. An MP’d entrée of wild Dover sole ($125 on our evening) was tough and overly acidulated by its lemon bath. That sole wanted to be meunièred — its delicate flesh bathed in butter in the true French fashion— but instead it’s offered “barely touched.” It’s not hard to guess why: All around us, the 11 tables of the dining room were filled with wizened men and lineless younger women, a sauce-on-the-side constituency. Even the more lavish preparations are portioned with restraint in mind. A mid-course pasta with spicy lobster sauce is plated with only three ounces of spaghetti, the better to impose moderation. My favorite steak at the Eighty Six was a petite six-ounce portion of deckled rib cap, served small in deference to the richness of the fatty meat. “You don’t want more,” Remm said.

Don’t I? I think I might. A steakhouse was once a place to dig in, a logy indigestion proof of purchase. Chumley’s was a spot to get tanked even when getting tanked was a criminal offense and to be 86’d an affirmation you’d been overserved. Maybe these are wiser days, if leaner ones. Then again, maybe not. It feels, for better or worse, exactly as Remm says: the way New York is going. “This place meets the moment,” one of my dinner companions observed. “And we are not the moment.”