Natural selection: Lunchtime grazers have a lot of choices at Union Market. (photograph by michael persico)

Restaurant Review

Union Market

by Adam Erace

I blame the pictures.

I wasn’t even that hungry when I rolled into Union Gourmet, Theresa Fera and chef Felix Maietta’s gleaming grocery/cafe in the Western Union Telegraph Building. But hanging there above the well-Windexed cases filled with ribbony smoked salmon and Italian cheeses was the most delicious-looking poster-sized food porn backlit by halos of Quince Street sunshine.

I saw a masterpiece sandwich with tawny whole-grain bread bedazzled with oats and seeds; a wedge of bleu with navy veins like Alpine streams coursing down a snowy mountain; a juicy pink fig I just wanted to violate.

The photos promise a lunch to look forward to. But what I ate paled in comparison to the titillating imagery.

Where was the image of the undercooked green bell pepper, stuffed with a vegetarian blend of tomatoey Arborio and chopped Boca Burger, cold inside despite a microwave reheating? Is there no stock photo for, “Truffle oil as cure for overly cheesy wild mushroom pizza with barely any mushrooms”?

The chicken cutlet panini was neither cutlet nor panini. It was ciabatta pillows stuffed with garlicky broccoli rabe, roasted red peppers (charred skin not removed), BelGioioso provolone and a thickly breaded chicken breast. A too-brief press left the chicken cold inside, the cheese unmelted and ghostly indentations where grill marks should’ve been.

If there’s truth in advertising, the photographs would’ve been of the earthy roasted yellow beets, moist Jewish apple cake and chewy Big Wheel-sized chocolate chip cookies, all delicious.

The logistics need streamlining. I ordered food from three separate people, paid a fourth person and then had to retrieve a soda from halfway across the room—while balancing a loaded tray. Some items were handed to me, others brought to my table 10 minutes later.

More questions: Should I seat myself? (Maietta: Yes.) Should I tip? (Maietta: No.) Should I clear my own dishes? (Maietta: If you’d like, but you don’t have to).

You need a tutorial just to eat lunch. Which is why Union Gourmet is infinitely more enjoyable during Sunday brunch, when honey-sweet waitresses start table service at 11.

Sitting at a giant bike reflector of an aluminum table with a just- delivered iced Colombian coffee (custom blended by Ellis), I can appreciate the workmanship of SPG3 Architects. Rich mocha floors, lots of natural light and draperies of Fera’s design (striped with saltwater taffy colors) warm up the Scandinavian steel-and-glass aesthetic. The curtains pour down to the floor in twists of lime, violet, mustard and cherry.

In the market, pureblood Wash Westies and gray-haired gay couples browse olive oil from Claudio’s and bread from Faragalli’s. Nearby, wooden crates overflow with pineapples and pears. The grocery sells much more than milk and eggs, though they’ve got those too, next to neatly stacked quarts of gazpacho and vichyssoise, ready-made Nicoise salads and artisan sodas. In a glass refrigerator, spools of hand-cut Severino angel hair keep company with pints of Ciao Bella gelato. On Saturdays Maietta does cooking demos at the stainless steel community table.

Completely cooked to order, the food at brunch shines, from the crunchy applewood-smoked D’Artagnan bacon to the tangy natural Greek yogurt livened with Bear Naked granola, fresh mint and juicy berries. More berries—straw, black and blue—are served over fluffy whole wheat pancakes in a warm compote. With butter-crisped edges and soft spongy centers, the short stack is a highlight.

Perfectly poached Lancaster County eggs perch atop rich, lightly tangy crab-and-artichoke dip and toasted Thomas’ English muffins in Union Gourmet’s signature benedict. The smoked paprika-freckled huevos pop like water balloons, sending a sudden rush of yolk into the tangerine-hued hollandaise and breakfast potatoes.

As a full-service restaurant, Union Gourmet is a smooth operator—not surprising since Fera and Maietta have clocked 15 years and counting at the Down Town Club. Brunch flows pleasantly, without questions or anxiety—till the check comes and I have to trudge up to a cashier.

My waitress actually accompanies me to the register, where she runs my credit card while I watch. I trust you, Union Gourmet. I don’t think you’re going to Jocelyn Kirsch my identity while I’m not looking.

Maietta is adamant about letting his customers dictate the experience, so consider this my two cents. Refine lunch and streamline the ordering, and at brunch, let me sit and allow my body to absorb the first nonalcoholic thing I’ve had in 10 hours. Please.