Atlas' owners had the good humor to invite foodies to decide for themselves. Servers mix up dishes. Odd, since every other plate is piping hot. Three of our foursome found it inedible. Liebrandt's menu reads like a brilliant second draft in need of a sharp No. 2 pencil.
Ingredients are first-class.
The technique is, in principle, French. The twist is smart-aleck Brit, a punkish play on the class system England's young pretend to loathe. For a pub spin, a blast of English pickle and mustard stand in for absent cornichons. Strangely, the sweet-acidic essences harmonize. Beautiful when displayed in the pan, the characterless meat must be a rebuke for snubbing Liebrandt's riskier entrees.