Zahav

The menus are printed, a la Olga's Diner, on paper placemats. The waitstaff is in tourist-shop T-shirts, hip send-ups lost on the unhip set.

The food's authenticity can have a stubborn streak: Solomonov's Israeli chickpea hummus is heavy on tahini, light on lemon and garlic, making it far beanier than the Greek style some diners prefer: "But we haven't budged," he says.

There have been missteps, too. The lamb shoulder was fall-apart tender, but the flavor was disappointingly muted. The Moroccan "pie" of shredded rabbit and prune was limp. The Israeli tomato-cucumber salad was watery.

But, not a corner is cut here: Solomonov took his cooks on a culinary tour of Israel's ancient markets and home kitchens, encountering on the stove of his contractor's mother that magical chicken soup - seasoned at the start and finish with special Yemeni turmeric, black peppers and cumin - so enticing that he polished off, to his chagrin, five full bowls. (At Zahav, halved cippolini onions and chicken thighs are poached separately and added to fortify the stock, along with baby Yukon Gold potatoes that could pass for matzo balls.)

Not an effort is spared: The cocktails are devilishly ingenious. The Marble Rye's rye is patiently infused with toasted pumpernickel and caraway.

And that obvious commitment overwhelms its flaws. Zahav does so much right, so singularly and - in its rendering of a Jewish grandmother's unforgettable chicken soup - sometimes brilliantly. It's worth the climb up, if only to look down, indulgently, on the out-of-the-know Zahav-nots.