This month the Tribeca Content Festival held its annual “Artists” Dinner (hosted by Chanel) at The Odeon. For ten years, the event has famously been held at Keith McNally’s Balthazar, which makes sense: a restaurant filled with insane celebrities well past expiration who, despite all odds, keep on feigning relevancy.
From 2009 until 2013, the dinner instead took place in the Festival’s namesake neighborhood at Lynn Wagenknecht’s The Odeon. So this year was a return to form. Much like the children of divorce and their toys—Wagenknecht was McNally’s first wife, and along with Keith’s brother, opened The Odeon together in 1980—Robert De Niro and Jane Rosenthal have seemingly grown tired of the frites and oysters and burgers of one parent, and decided to spend some time with the other.
The Odeon is no stranger to celebrity; before its current iteration—named after a Parisian metro station—the restaurant attracted local artists as the Towers Cafeteria, serving cheap meals to Richard Serra and Phillip Glass throughout the 70s as they took up residency in abandoned Tribeca lofts.
When the McNallys and Wagenknecht leased the space and opened The Odeon in 1980, more celebs followed. Early customers were Saturday Night Live cast members like Belushi and Murray, who knew the McNally brothers from their prior gig at a Village restaurant called One Fifth. Though Belushi surely liked to eat, it was likely something else that drew his late nights to Tribeca. The restaurant also attracted the likes of The Rolling Stones, Madonna, and Kate Moss (again, likely not for eating!). Its reputation as Manhattan’s most chic downtown ski hill was immortalized in Jay McInerney’s novel Bright Lights, Big City, with the signage emblazoned on different versions of the cover. Though alongside all the A-list celebrities, like the Towers Cafeteria before it, The Odeon also played host for local artists and gallery owners: The River, but filled with money and talent instead of young people using the former (inherited) to produce the latter (manufactured).
Less than a decade into its lifespan—more than a half-life for most restaurants—the Odeon was already the place of legends. Its bar had even invented a cocktail: the Cosmo, ever heard of it?1 Most institutions in New York City do not stay open for nearly 45 years and counting. When a business here shutters—a bar, a restaurant, a music venue—the space dies, but its legacy remains, mostly untarnished. It’s why CBGB is still remembered fondly; imagine if you could go see Australian rapper and singer-songwriter The Kid LAROI do an underplay there now.
But there’s something special about The Odeon, immortalized by Lena Dunham’s tattoo of its glowing sign on her lower back (upper ass?). Its persistence in a city of bad restaurants with revolving-door leases is confounding, because you cannot sustain a business on partying alone: just ask Ashwin Deshmukh. How does it endure?
For the answer, look to its sister restaurant uptown. Cafe Luxembourg opened three years after The Odeon on the Upper West Side. While Tribeca seemed like an odd place for a first restaurant, the UWS was even stranger. But McNally and Wagenknecht persisted: they loved the repertory cinemas of the neighborhood, and wanted somewhere to pass the time before or after watching a film (that’s basically what I want out of any restaurant, too). And though Cafe Luxembourg’s clientele was just as flashy—Calvin Klein, Lorne Michaels—after a certain hour you don't exactly do much on the UWS besides catch the train home. So why go up there in the first place? The same reason you’d head down to The Odeon: consistent food and some of the best service in Manhattan without a Michelin star in tow.
The Odeon
When you enter the Odeon, you’re greeted by the standard trappings of American-Brasserie style: long bar, high ceilings, wicker chairs, white tablecloths, angled mirrors adorning every wall. Just inside the door, there’s a check machine leftover from its cafeteria days. Once used to dispense paper stubs on which patrons tallied up their orders, it’s now filled with souvenir Odeon “tickets” à la a postcard or a matchbook (the host stand offers both of these in spades, too).
But unlike Balthazar, which was specifically designed to mimic the interior and exterior of a French brasserie, the Odeon mostly remains as it was inherited, with intact bathroom tiling and bespeckled terrazzo floors, dark wood paneling and hanging globe lights. Anything added was meant to accent the existing furnishings, and the result is a comforting, lived-in space too modest for fine dining and too cool not to stay a while, come back, and bring some friends the next time. As Oliver E. Allen described in the Tribeca Trib, the owners “merely covered the cafeteria tables with tablecloths,” but also served steak frites and martinis. It was the perfect medium for a first venture—rough and tumble yet refined, like a first feature film—and it’s remained mostly untouched since.
On a recent visit with Clare, we rolled into our late-night Sunday reservation a few minutes early. The host asked if we wanted to be seated at a table in the middle of the dining room, or if we wanted to sit at a booth tucked away in the back corner. The table was occupied but the check had been paid, so if we were to linger for a few minutes by the bar, we’d be able to have a comfortable view of everyone tucking into hamburgers and shrimp cocktails. Because the people of The Odeon are just as storied as its food (if not moreso), we opted for the latter, and ended up with one of the best tables in the house.
We started with an espresso martini (hers, “awesome”) and a Coke (his, full-fat), served in a glass bottle with a tall glass of ice and a lemon wedge and the side. We ordered the endive Caesar salad to share, which was excellent. The sturdy leaves held up well against the creamy garlic dressing, and their inherent bitterness kept the dish from being too rich or too umami (toomami?). But what makes a Caesar so enticing, and, frankly, what makes it a Caesar in the first place, is its two umami components (dualmami?), represented by anchovies in the dressing and shaved parmesan crisps in lieu of croutons, which I could have absentmindedly snacked on like any of my favorite chips.
Our entrees were also great. Clare opted for the “purple sticky rice bowl,” a mainstay on not only The Odeon’s menu, but also that of Cafe Luxembourg and Cafe Cluny, the youngest West Village-based Wagenknecht restaurant. It’s an assortment of avocado, kale, shiitake mushrooms, and broccoli rabe served with a sriracha broth on the side: a curious adornment to a brasserie-style menu, but nonetheless one that has its place. Its warmth was “comforting” on a cold night in a more-than-amply cooled restaurant, and its flavor contained depth without leaning too much into spice, as though a macro plate from Souen knew how to have fun. Clare said that “without the [additional, poached] egg [for $2 extra] it would have been stupid,” which is what I’d say about the first third of Kingdom of the Planet of the Apes.
I ordered the entrée portion of steak tartare, which I’d had before at Luxembourg. Consistency is key at a Wagenknecht establishment: it was as though my dinner had been prepared in the uptown kitchen and jetted down to Tribeca via the West Side Highway. The dish is served with a bounty of homemade baguette croutons which are crispy and substantial, but not crusty enough to make the roof of your mouth a total warzone. You can choose between a salad or french fries to accompany, and I opted for the latter because seed oils don’t bother me and The Odeon has some of my favorite fries in town. Each order is a giant cup-runneth-over-of short, shoestring potato segments fried to a perfect, dark golden crisp. They aren’t too salty, and your waiter will bring you a small plate filled with ramequins of whatever dipping sauce your heart desires. Mine desired mayo (French restaurant) and ketchup (American boy) and couldn’t have been more satisfied.
To the left of our table, a possible sugar mommy/baby situation; to our right, a group of ALD aficionados with slicked back hair and oversized, boxy t-shirts. I would say I know they’re from Los Angeles, but it’s hard to tell anymore (the TikTok of it all). Regardless of who you eat with or where you buy your over-priced streetwear, though, the service is great.
While we enjoyed our dessert—sticky toffee pudding (warm and sweet, but not too sweet, a must-order) and a single scoop of pistachio ice cream (on special, but worth it for its actual pistachio flavor and broken pieces of real pistachios)—the server for the table next to us had to clock out from his shift in the middle of their meal. Rather than leave unannounced (would they even remember his name at that point?) he introduced his replacement: my shift is over, but you’ll still be in good hands until you’re out the door and on your way home. This reassurance is rare in a world increasingly populated by overworked, underpaid service workers, or ones who seemingly don’t care and would rather have a two-top die on the pass, along with their overpriced “plates to share.”
Cafe Luxembourg
When Wagenknecht and McNally opened Cafe Luxembourg in 1983, the space was slightly more refined than what they inherited with The Odeon. After taking over a struggling French bistro called L’Élyseé, the two moved to Odeon-ify it (today they have the same chairs, the same menu, and even the same postcards and matchbooks). With the makeover also came the same clientele—Lorne Michaels, Warren Beatty—and a space that looks so 80s you can totally imagine the same food served now as then: meat with “purees,” meat wrapped around vegetables. Thankfully, while the space hasn't changed, the menu has. Its modern iteration is the same as what you’d get downtown with a few logical adjustments (the Odeon Burger is called the Luxemburger). But eating that food uptown lends a different feeling: the room is cozier, the patrons are older, and perhaps more regular.2
Last weekend, we arrived 25 minutes before our reservation and were seated right away at a two-top in the back corner: my favorite table. Our server, C, was a consummate professional. After we ordered our meals—fish and chips, Luxemburger—the condiments arrived immediately (what’s worse than staring at your food, waiting for ketchup?).3 Soon after, my table knife was replaced with a steak knife, just in case I wanted to cut my burger in half. Salt, pepper, and sugar live on the center of every table in perpetuity, and when ours was moved to the side to make room for our plates, C quickly wiped away any residual cracked pepper that had made its way onto our table cloth from the bottom of the grinder. After our entrees, the table was once again meticulously wiped, and when we requested dessert menus, they were placed in front of us pre-opened. As I marveled at how wonderful the service was, Clare remarked: “Well, it’s a real restaurant.”
The food proves that, as well. The fish (and chips) were light and incredibly crispy, beer-battered but not traditionally so, with a texture more akin to a Culver’s chicken tender (perhaps panko or cornmeal was in the mix, too). The burger was about as picturesque as you can find: lettuce, tomato, onion, and a big slice of cheddar cheese (diner’s preference on the dairy). Ketchup, mayo, and dijon come on the side, and when fully assembled, it becomes the platonic ideal of a thing that could be so bad in so many ways. Ordered medium, the patty is pink and juicy inside, which complements its char-grilled exterior. A brioche bun, because of course, and you’ll happily leave with your hands smelling like beef. It’s the kind of meal that only a shower can wipe off.
Dessert was a caramelized banana trifle that our server recommended. She was right, if you close your eyes, it does taste like crème brûlée, but one done up with banana slices and Nilla wafer pieces so that even the most unrefined of palates could find it appealing. That is not a critique: I find fussy dessert annoying. When something on a menu can be appealing to both myself and babies, I rejoice.
When it was time to pay C dropped off two pieces of Belgian dark chocolate with our check. It’s the little things that matter most to me, when it comes to hospitality.4 Even if you don’t like chocolate—even if you’re allergic, which, if you are, they definitely would bring you something else with your check—the send-off is a nice touch that leaves you feeling much more warmly than if you ended your meal by signing with your finger on a Toast POS system. Perhaps that’s why the Tribeca Festival moved its annual dinner back to a Wagenknecht establishment. Though forever intertwined with celebrity, the restaurants still speak for themselves, and the service underscores their air of exclusivity: I’m being treated the same as the Olsen twins, and I’m not even wearing The Row. Would you rather be immortalized in a Great American Novel, or on Keith McNally’s Instagram?
Luxembourg’s location is just off the beaten path enough to be avoided by the casual tourist, and in perhaps the best location to be frequented by some of the Upper West Side’s most sophisticated characters.
I think it would be funnier if they called it the Luxembourger.
didn't know this about LD tattoo–– maybe i will get a tattoo of brooklyn restaurant logo "saraghina"
i think it’s cool that lena is london based now but i think nyc is seriously lacking her vibe