Also this issue:

Surviving the Game
The ’Cube and the ’box awkwardly battle for second place.
-Patrick Rapa

Icepack
-A.D. Amorosi

June 6-12, 2002

naked city

First Look

Anjou

by A.D. Amorosi

Having researched the Anjou pear at a crowded Ninth Street market, I can tell you this: The Anjou is exotic and succulent. More than other pears. And more expensive than a palette of strawberries I got for a dollar. But, since no one is calling a hautespot Palette D’Strawberry, let’s go with the tender green fruit, or at least its seductive namesake.

Anjou is stately and erudite. From outside, stone faux-Roman columns act as a square-jaw border. Step in at street level (on weekends there's a separate entrance to a dark lower level). There's nothing really rounded and juicy. The kitchen is framed by black tile mosaics. All of the deep lacquered-oaken lines -- from the back bar, to the low-lit dining room to the banquette walls (with quaint Anjou-designs) -- are either jagged or lean. Downstairs, Anjou gets sultry and private. Stroll down winding steps with a wrought-iron arm rail and, at first, a starry-eyed chandelier distracts you. Look up, and a disarming atrium effect (perfect at dusk, eerie at midnight) unsettles the eye long enough to not make out there's a four corner waterfall in front of you. While Anjou's over-all sumptuous menu is contemporary Japanese-Korean (sake-scented dumplings, armlength eels, pernicious prawns), its low-ceilinged basement concentrates on sushi. More dimly lit than upstairs, the sushi bar and lounge is highlighted by its private feel. Fenced in by the waterfall and a wrought-iron trellis laced with candles, this bottle-service conversation pit is just, dare I say, sexy. With ruddy red/burnt-sienna love seats, one fuzzy black velvet divan and cobalt-blue glass tables where you can sup decorous fish on delicate dishes while your hostess pours steamy sake from bamboo flutes, this under-the-stairs hideaway within Anjou feels decadent. At the very least, it was more private than shopping for those damn pears in the Italian Market. But those strawberries really were a bargain.

206 Market St., 215-923-1600.

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