The sign in the window of What Happens When—three words in glowing pink neon—could be mistaken for a Bruce Nauman work. The association is fitting, and, one suspects, intentional, considering that the restaurant, which has been widely referred to as a “pop-up” and bills itself as an “installation,” is as much art exhibit as eatery. The concept is a simple stroke of genius, the brainchild of the chef John Fraser, of Dovetail, and a team of artists and designers: set up shop in a space with an expiration date (the building is slated for demolition in November) and live like there’s no tomorrow.
Themes and prix-fixe menus change every thirty days. In March, as the frost receded, Fraser and company dreamed of a midsummer’s night. Dainty swings, covered with moss and tiny flowers, hung from a forest canopy of green wooden sticks; guests, sipping cocktails with names like Puck and Titania, followed animal tracks on the floor to their tables. The menu was rooted in winter, but never dreary: intensely meaty venison tartare came scattered with gooseberries and flaky homemade saltines, and a smoked egg nested in cloud-smooth chicken liver, ribbons of serrano ham, and puréed butternut squash. After ordering the salt-baked celery root, one diner was treated to a show. An eager server proudly displayed what looked like a science-project volcano in an impressive silver pan: a shell of salt, encasing a knob of celery root, which reappeared shortly in slices atop truffled cream of wheat.
In April, swooping swaths of khaki-and-salmon-colored fabric, inspired by the awning in Renoir’s “Luncheon of the Boating Party,” evoked the banks of the Seine. Menus were affixed to painters’ palettes, foreshadowing the presentation of the food, each plate a canvas of pastel daubs and swipes. A three-bite amuse-bouche—a thimble of feisty spring-garlic gazpacho, a perfect cube of Swiss-chard omelette, and a spoonful of roe-like lemon-balm gelée—was followed by cod brandade, fried but elegant, propped up against a pile of fava beans and leeks. Like magic, a vermillion-colored broth, poured tableside from a pewter pitcher, transformed a shallow dish of fennel, peppers, and potatoes into a rich bouillabaisse, served with a clove of raw garlic on a cocktail pick, for rubbing on toast. It wasn’t until dessert—delivered charmingly by rolling cart but mostly forgettable—that the spell began to break. Perhaps it was for the best, a necessary transition back into the real world. (Open Tuesdays through Sundays for dinner. Prix fixe, $58.) ♦
