The entrées tend to be less aggressively Asian in their influences, and only one of them (an excessively sweet combination of fluke, caviar, and beets) received less than rave reviews from the crowd of tasters at my table. As an homage to the haute-barnyard movement, Lo serves up a plump segment of chicken breast crisped on its exterior, stuffed with a delicately gamy preparation of pig’s trotter and chanterelles, and served with a sherry truffle-oil sauce. My order of grilled squab over puréed fava beans was slightly overcooked, but no one complained about the perfectly pink veal tenderloin, which is garnished with crispy sweetbreads, artichokes, and hidden little deposits of fresh oysters. The butter-poached lobster I sampled (pink lobster, green sweet-pea flan, greener ramps) had an almost peachy sweetness to it, and so did the fillet of sable, which Lo marinates in miso in the time-honored Nobu style, balances on a block of crispy silken tofu, and sets in a steamy bonito broth scattered with drifts of popping, ruby-red flying-fish roe.
Three for Annisa.