On a recent evening at Laser Wolf, a new restaurant on the rooftop of the Hoxton hotel, in Williamsburg, a friendly but authoritative woman zipped dutifully from table to table, pausing at each. “We clap for the sunset,” she announced. “Don’t panic.” For a moment, service seemed to halt. Bodies shifted westward as the collective gaze settled on an unimpeded view of the Manhattan skyline. Phones were drawn. As the gleaming orb sank behind the Con Ed clock tower, blue sky melting into gold, dramatic rays backlighting cotton-ball clouds, applause went up, accompanied by cheers.
With a vista like this, food and drink could easily be secondary, not to mention a total ripoff. At Laser Wolf—an outpost of the beloved Philadelphia restaurant of the same name (a cheeky reference to “Fiddler on the Roof”), from the Israeli American chef Michael Solomonov and the restaurateur Steve Cook—it’s the setting that feels negligible. The last time I had eaten at a Solomonov-Cook restaurant was in 2018, just before they closed a Chelsea Market location of Dizengoff, their Philadelphia hummus counter. The windowless-corridor seating never deterred me from the exquisitely silky whipped hummus, a meal in itself, topped with ground lamb and pomegranate molasses, and the za’atar roast chicken.
What a relief to have that hummus back, as the centerpiece of Laser Wolf’s salatim, a bountiful array of salads and dips delivered to the table as soon as you order any of the menu’s grilled items, in the style of an Israeli shipudiya, or “skewer house.” Choose a cocktail—my party gasped at the beauty of the Saz-Arak, two cold, crisp fingers of rye and arak, an anise-flavored spirit—and a skewer, and you’re done with decisions; dessert is also included. There’s a small array of à-la-carte add-ons, too, but let me make it easy: get the double-cooked thick-cut French fries, sparkling with salt, and the gently spicy, sticky-sweet date-harissa wings, served with tahini ketchup and tahini ranch, respectively.
The salatim are uniformly excellent, a roulette with only lucky slots: creamy white gigante beans strewn with torn Castelvetrano olives; a surprising, refreshing combination of diced pineapple and shaved celery tossed in smoked-pineapple purée; earthy roasted mushrooms with ruffles of kale and a smidge of sour-cherry juice. The warm, pillowy pita is perfect, especially for swiping through baba ghanoush and the hummus, a generous whorl finished with olive oil, za’atar, and parsley.
After an opener so complete, the adjective “main” doesn’t quite apply to the next course, which is not to say it’s not an event. Luscious, shaggy short rib is braised in passion-fruit amba, an Iraqi Jewish sauce traditionally made from pickled green mango, before its edges grow crisp over smoldering charcoal. Velvety chunks of tuna are crusted in coriander and caraway seeds and glossed in a North African-style chili paste called harif. The chicken shishlik (Hebrew for “skewer”) can’t compete with the wings, but the gamy tang of the steak shishlik comes up from behind; it’s much simpler but no less exciting than the koobideh, made with house-ground beef and lamb seasoned with sumac, turmeric, and dill and celery seeds.
The tantalizing perfume of fried garlic and amba wafting off a grilled eggplant turned me into a cartoon character, poking my nose into the air, straining for another whiff. One night, I was disappointed to realize that I had inadvertently made my hard-won reservation for the counter, where I was perched on a stool looking at the open kitchen instead of the view. But I came to see the upside: a front-row seat at the ballet that produced that eggplant; a close look at a lineup of whole cauliflower on a trolley, dry-rubbed in shawarma spices and waiting their turn to be coaxed into collapse. I watched, mesmerized, as neat coils of brown-sugar soft serve emerged from a dispenser, to be topped with pistachios, cherry preserves, and minuscule puffed-rice pearls. I clap for the kitchen. (Grill items, including salatim and soft serve, $43-$175.) ♦
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