Hip, sexy, and sophisticated is how I would describe local restaurateurs Brandon Belluscio and Brian Albe... er, no, actually, I wouldn't. I haven't a clue how hip and sexy these two guys are; I'm just reading the news release. I do know the dudes are just a smidge past their 30th birthdays, although in restaurant years, they're probably, like, 108 (Belluscio ran Catch 22 with his dad in his mid-20s; Albe has made the Lauderdale rounds tending bar). I know that their first food-and-drink partnership in Boca, Vertical 114, was a successful, smart idea, bringing the art of wine appreciation to the aught generation sans pretension. And judging from two meals at their month-old steak house in Delray, Cut 432, I'd say they've hit a second bull's-eye.
Joe Rocco
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Cut 432. 432 E. Atlantic Ave.., Delray Beach. Open 5 till 10 p.m. Sunday through Wednesday, till 11 p.m. Thursday through Saturday. Call 561-272-9898.
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It makes sense that Belluscio and Albe are both ex-bartenders. What they've done at 432 is knock the stuffing out of steak-house clichés the same way they vacuum-suctioned the snobbery out of the wine list at 114. With Cut, they've taken the bloody awful velveteens and cigar smoke, the vaguely blue-movie, Bay Rum, fusty old manness out of the concept and replaced it with a long, narrow restaurant that looks like a cross between a bullet train and the vestibule of an ice hotel in a space on Atlantic Avenue formerly occupied by Spontané and, before that, by Splendid Blended's. It's all metal, crystal, and mod white: as cold, clean, and hard as a slab at the morgue. The only way you're going to find "plush" or "soft" at 432 is if you wear your granny's foxtails, which wouldn't be a bad idea. The kids dining and drinking here, mostly in their 20s to mid-30s, were decked out in high style — I spent as much time admiring the severe black bobs, the big boots, and the bouncing baubles as I did the marbling in my 16-ounce cowgirl rib eye ($39), which, incidentally, was plenty big enough to sate any cowboy I've ever ridden with.
Years of helping youngsters get polluted have evidently given these guys the knack for keeping things lively in a small space. It has nothing to do with the flirty back and forth of witty repartee — you can forget about conversation. If she's got her back to the wall, your date's going to have eyes glued to the flat screens over the bar playing spliced-together scenes from classic movies (That's Entertainment, the abridged history of Hollywood, on a 25-minute loop); she's going to be checking out the hunky bartenders crawling up and down a wooden ladder to reach bottles of wine, the mayhem in the open kitchen, or wishing for a pair of earplugs to muffle the thump and grind on the sound system. She'll be focused on cramming her mouth full of blue cheese tater tots ($10), a Kobe foot-long hot dog ($12), or a white truffle gouda grilled cheese sandwich with braised short rib filling and heirloom tomato soup ($16). Y'all will have to get to know each other later.
Albe and Belluscio met Chef Anthony Pizzo when they worked at Pranzo's, and Pizzo is doing a mostly fantastic job turning out excellent food in a kitchen so minuscule that most chefs would want to crawl right inside that wood-burning oven to make it all stop. Although if you're expecting your food to come out anytime soon — have another back porch lemonade ($14).
Or bite down on one of the biscuits somebody's put in front of you, along with a smear of marmalade, a dab of honey, and a dollop of soft butter. These are cream biscuits that would do an Okie grandma proud — can a thing so dense be also fluffy? How to keep a ball of lead indefinitely airborne: It's a conundrum breakfast makers throughout the South have been grappling with since somebody first figured out that flour and water do mix. I like the idea of serving fist-sized lumps of dough with marmalade in a steak house; it turns the whole $25-per-ounce Kobe and $75 lobster tail conceit into a bit of a joke. And boy, do those biscuits take the edge off.
Look, I'm sure they'll get the timing thing worked out, and the harried waiters are so damned nice. If I can get four kinds of raw oysters — the tiny kumamoto and gigamoto from the West Coast; the smooth-shelled, clear tasting blue point; and salty malpeque from the East — I'm willing to wait (and to pay $3 each for them). A place that serves a Kobe cheeseburger (10 ounces, $16) and a "selection of artisanal cheeses" ($16) gets my vote even if the idea of either is unbearably trendy — hell, the stuff still tastes good. Apart from the glacial pace, I had few complaints with either of my dinners. The gouda grilled cheese was one of the wittiest bar plates I've ever encountered. The sandwich, with its thin layer of short rib layered into gooey cheese and buttered toast, dissolved into waves of childish happiness — and the smooth, complex, slightly sour cup of heirloom tomato soup gave said happiness a clownish kick in the pants.
They're not kidding around when they call their salad a "Caesar the way it should be" ($10). Crunchy, ice-cold romaine was dressed to a T and detailed with translucent waves of Parmigiano Reggiano. Raw oysters (mixed plate of eight) were clean, cold, and fresh. And the smoky, juicy, buttery, wood-fired oysters Rockefeller ($14) with pancetta and spinach were luscious, although I missed the traditional flavor of Pernod.
