The Louis Vuitton logo sat on a plate in front of me. With heavy silver utensils, I broke it into gooey chunks, shoving forkfuls into my mouth. Fluffy chocolate cream. The crunch of cookie. An oily slick of ganache. I ate and ate and ate. When the waiter returned to take it all away, he looked at me admiringly: “Nicely done.”
Was it a scene from one of Karl Marx’s nightmares? Nope. Just a delectable, branded entremets at the end of a recent dinner at Le Café Louis Vuitton, in New York.
As the sun set at the French luxury house’s flagship, the shoppers, who, hours earlier, had lined up for the opportunity to browse the latest Speedy handbags, were emptying out onto East 57th Street. Sales associates closed out the registers and straightened the scarves.
But on the fourth floor, cordoned off behind velvet ropes and tucked into what looks like a library filled with art books, the action continued.
Waiters in black-and-white suits punched in orders on computers concealed by Vuitton steamer trunks. The décor was orange and tan, naturally, and waffles were singed into the shape of the house’s monogram and topped with caviar and crème fraîche. Scallops were deconstructed and reconfigured into a gravity-defying soufflé.
I wanted to hate all of this. My idea of a great Midtown restaurant is La Bonne Soupe, a bistro on 55th Street that hasn’t changed much since it opened in 1973 and has a $30 prix fixe lunch and a tagline of “Ici pas de chi chi.”
But despite the logoed food and the chronic Instagramming and the fact that it is located in a store, Le Café Louis Vuitton is faultless. (I know. Those are fighting words.) My velvety filet mignon and spray of thin, crisp French fries would put its competitors in even the finest Parisian bistros to shame.
My dinner date, a workaholic banker whose usual dinner is a David protein bar, liked the place even more than I did. “I’m coming tomorrow for lunch,” she said, draining a glass of Billecart-Salmon while stealing another bite of the best-dressed baby gem lettuce in town, which was lightly varnished with shallot vinaigrette. “For once, I’m glad I work in Midtown.”
Is it any surprise that Le Café Louis Vuitton was dreamed up in Paris? Its masterminds are the French chefs Arnauld Donckele and Maxime Frédéric, whose restaurants at the LVMH-owned Cheval Blanc hotels in Paris and St. Tropez both have three Michelin stars.
There are currently 15 Le Café Louis Vuittons in the world—10 in Asia, 4 in Europe, and now, this sole American outpost. Its hours are aligned with those of the boutique, so it serves breakfast, afternoon tea, and dinner. The New York restaurant is run by chef Christophe Bellanca, of the one-star Essential by Christophe restaurant on the Upper West Side, and pastry mastermind Mary George, formerly of Daniel.
Even though Le Café Louis Vuitton is not notably more expensive compared with everything else in New York these days—the filet was $52, and the fries, another $12—the meal and theater surrounding it felt so special that it encouraged indulgence. A side of whipped potatoes, just because. A glass of Saint-Joseph, delivered without the usual preamble. (Merci.) And even after that entremets, a final plate of little logoed cookies.
By the time the elevator deposited us back on the ground floor, the only soul left was a security guard. Although we hadn’t been all that seduced by the Speedys on our way in, we lingered by them on our way out—a perfect visual digestif.
Ashley Baker is a Deputy Editor at Air Mail and a co-host of the Morning Meeting podcast
