Olivar

Repeatable: No. Visits: 1

Olivar's tepid paella with dead clam at lower right.

Every critic in Seattle–both professional and blogger– has been swooning about Olivar, so I eagerly anticipated my experience there. The ecstatic praise has focused on the Spanish-accented food and French chef Philippe Thomelin’s movie-star mug. Date night was Thursday at 7pm–peak dining time. Chef Thomelin was definitely on the premises, because we saw him chatting with neighboring diners. He is much better looking in person than his photos suggest.

Yes, Olivar’s chef is hot. But the food?

Not. And I mean that both literally and figuratively.

Perhaps the chef’s absence from the kitchen to attend to his fawning female fan was the reason the first couple dishes were such fumbles. Two specials, fried rice balls (arancini) with foie gras and mussels with salsa verde, were both $12 each and quite unappetizing. The rice balls were sodden with grease–oil oozed out when sliced in half. Worse, the grease tasted as if it had been serving time in the fryer for life. The tiny foie gras sliver in the center of the ball tasted off–almost fishy. The mussels were plump, juicy little things, but utterly devoid of anything but the flavor of mussel. The salsa verde? Salty green water.

Next up were three little hot plates from the regular menu. The patatas bravas ($10) consisted of a handful of french fried potato spears with a few slices of dried blood sausage and a poached egg. Utterly uninspired. The grilled pork belly ($7) was only notable for its fanatically fussy arrangement of  capers, chopped cornichons, egg, and parsley. Nothing to swoon over.

Still, I was hopeful, thinking that the rice ball-oil bombs had been a terrible oversight. But then came the gnocchi, more specifically described as “potato gnocchi with roasted cauliflower, Valdeon blue cheese, and truffle oil” ($12).

I am, you see, something of a gnocchi fanatic. I have eaten gnocchi at the two restaurants in Italy famous for their gnocchi. I have eaten Mario Batali’s gnocchi, Lydia Bastianich’s gnocchi, and the gnocchi special at Patsy’s when they have it. And, yes, I know how to make gnocchi, too.

Olivar’s gnocchi? Those were not gnocchi. Those were half-raw clumps of badly made dough pretending to be gnocchi. To add insult to injury, they arrived drowned in a pool of olive oil, because someone had used a heckuva lotta oil to fry them.

Ever the optimist, I was hoping for redemption with the cazuela ($18), or the paella (the cazuela is the dish paella’s made in). If any dish had the potential to break our run of bad luck so far, it had to be this one. In an authentic Spanish restaurant, the paella should be the go-to dish, the one guaranteed to work even if all others fail. This final course would either make or break the evening.

It certainly looked pretty. I looked closer. Was that a tightly closed, dead as a doorknob clam right there, in full sight of God and all? I gingerly picked it up and set it aside.

I bravely shoved a forkful into my mouth.

A patch of cool rice and undercooked calamari. I looked at my husband, who returned the favor, poker-faced. In utter disbelief, I tried the accompanying chicken chunks (dry and tasteless), the  mussels (same exact ones that came in the “salsa verde”), and the calamari (undercooked with no flavor). The rice was just plain weird tasting, with too much smoke and astringency. A paella should be the heart and soul of a Spanish restaurant–not an indifferently prepped rice and seafood casserole made fancy by an imported earthenware container.

We decided to skip dessert and ask for the check. As a trio of fabulous boys from the neighborhood sat down with giggly anticipation, I wanted to tell them to make a run for it, but I couldn’t. Maybe we just happened to be sitting in the Bermuda Triangle that night. My husband chided me for wanting to say “maybe” about the experience. “We probably had bad luck,” I said. When I told him we needed to go again, he told me I was on my own and thus forced my hand.

Astonished by how very different my experience was from everyone else’s, I decided to pore over every single review of Olivar as soon as we got home.  I wasn’t so unlucky after all. Buried here and there in between the raves were little hints of the problems we experienced–problems that for some reason didn’t bother the other reviewers. The Seattle Times critic had noted that the gnocchi were “undercooked” while the PI critic actually chose to single out their “croquette” like texture (huh?) and gush over it. No one had any praise for the cazuela, if it was mentioned at all. Everyone loved the coffee and desserts, which we didn’t try.

Maybe next time. Or maybe not.

Spur Gastropub

Repeatable: Yes! Visits: 2+

Spur's dangerously addictive deep-fried hominy

Forget what you’ve heard about Spur, because most of it isn’t accurate. Here are some of the myths circulating out there:

1) That it does molecular gastronomy, like Ferran Adria’s El Bulli, so the food is pretty whacked out and weird.
2) That because it does molecular gastronomy, it will only appeal to food snobs, culinary daredevils, or Belltown bar-hoppers too drunk to notice what they’re eating.
3) That real men won’t eat there, because the food is pretty whacked out and weird.

First, let’s dispense with the myth that it specializes in molecular gastronomy. Would you call a restaurant serving ice cream on its dessert menu an ice cream shop? Or insist that a restaurant with a foie gras appetizer must be classically French?

So it stands to reason that a restaurant offering a bit of parmesan foam here and a flavor bubble there isn’t necessarily a temple of molecular gastronomy. Said restaurant, however, just might be steered by two chefs–Brian McCracken and Dana Tough–who are keeping abreast of the latest cutting-edge techniques and deploying them with intelligence, daring, and wit.

It’s not the HOW that matters at Spur, but the WHAT–the end result, the  food, which is some of the most deliciously original, creative, and likable fare I’ve had the pleasure of eating in Seattle in recent memory.

Consider the humble deep-fried hominy, for example, Spur’s complimentary amuse bouche (or bar snack). Hominy is dried corn kernels, soaked in lye with the hulls removed. Hardly anyone eats it anymore. Except at Spur, where it has been deep-fried into an addictive golden crackle. “The most amazing corn-nuts ever,” exclaimed by my husband. I single out those corn nuts because they embody Spur’s refreshing approach to cooking. Take a common ingredient, like corn, and make us appreciate it anew.

That’s what the widely (and justly) lauded tagliatelle ($14) with sous vide duck egg, oyster mushroom, and Parmesan foam does: Startle us into appreciating its separate components of noodle, egg, and cheese. At heart, it’s comfort food–a linguini carbonara really–but comfort food made by someone who can chew gum and talk at the same time.

Want a burger? Then try the pork belly sliders with diced apple and mustard bourbon sauce ($12). Really crave beef? Take a chance on the Ostrich burger ($15). It has the full robust meaty flavor similar to cow with none of the cholesterol (there’s a skirt steak for those who absolutely must, for $24). Of course you can get fries here–Spur is a bar, after all. The hand-made jojos, drizzled with smoked olive oil, will make you wonder why everyone else doesn’t deep-fry fingerling potatoes. (Because they can’t. Spur really knows how to fry, in addition to everything else.)

My only gripe is a paltry one: that the menu is too brief at a dozen items. We sampled half the options in one visit, and everything was fantastic, including the fried potato dumplings ($9; imagine a tater tot with a creamy knish-like interior) and Sockeye salmon crostini ($9; delicious but the least original item on the menu). Thrilled by the unexpected success of our meal, we tried three desserts too: Sarsaparilla sorbet with vanilla bubbles ($6, refreshing and light); “Corn Flakes” ($6, pastry flakes with straight milk ice cream); and the caramel apple mille feuille ($11; with pistachios and a layer of foie gras in the pastry; just forget it’s foie gras and you’ll swear it’s a nut butter). We finished every bite of our 8-course meal.

Spur is perfectly named: It’s an agent of change, a kick in the pants to the local dining scene, where gastronomical innovation sometimes means changing the dining room setup. But forget those cumbersome platters, gritty communal tables, secret “underground” restaurants, and silly paintbrushes in sauces–they’re trying way too hard. Instead, look for a kitchen that’s cooking with heart, gut, and head in the right place—and having fun in the process. The guys are Spur are doing just that–and doing a damn fine job of it.

Kawon

Repeatable: Yes! Visits: 6+

Where’s the best Korean food OUTSIDE Korea? If you grew up second-generation Korean-American, the most likely answer would be, “At my mom’s house.” (Except for a friend of mine who hated Korean food when he was growing up. It wasn’t until he visited Korea that he realized he loved Korean food and that his mother was a terrible cook. But I digress.)

Typical banchan assortment

 
The second best place for Korean food outside Korea is Los Angeles. After that, most people would guess New York. But having eaten at all the top Korean restaurants in New York, I would have to insist that Kawon, a humble dive in Everett, Washington, kicks the pants off any Korean restaurant in the Big Apple (or Flushing).

A 40-minute drive north of Seattle’s city center, Kawon is hidden in a little strip mall behind an oil-change outlet.  Once you actually find the restaurant, those very same barriers to entry will help you find it again with ease. And, believe me, you’ll be going there again. My two NYC-based sisters make it a point to stop at Kawon every time they visit Seattle. Utter Manhattan snobs, even they concede that the food there is better than anything in New York.  In fact, Kawon is so much better than all the other Korean restaurants in the Puget Sound region that there’s no reason to eat anywhere else.

Here’s why Kawon is so repeatable:

Banchan Assortment: Kawon’s kitchen finesse is readily apparent in the astonishing array of top-notch side dishes  that freely accompany any order of grilled meat. The kimchee is pungent, well-balanced, and superb. The dressed spicy cucumber slices are always fresh and perfectly seasoned, as are the mung bean sprouts, wilted spinach mix, and grated daikon. In addition to these, there might also be a little bowl of daikon cubes in salty brine broth (known as “water kimchee”), crunchy cubes of spicy daikon, brown fish cake slivers sauteed with peppers and onions, and quivering slices of beige acorn jelly, dressed with a spicy soy-sauce mix. If you order kalbi, you’ll also get a free side of spicy, stinky Korean miso stew–recommended only to advanced eaters and served to non-Koreans by request only. All of these dishes are wonderful, but the crowing glory of the banchan selection at Kawon is the fresh Romaine salad platter–torn leaves of Romaine and slivers of green onion tossed with a sweet and savory dressing of soy sauce, sesame, and chili paste. Don’t be alarmed by the heaping size of this salad, because you will finish it.

Grilled Meats: For most people, Korean food means barbecue–and Kawon scores sky-high on this measure. The yang-nyum kalbi here is presented in long strips attached to the bone for table-top grilling. The seasoning is finger-lickingly balanced–not too sweet, not too salty, not too garlicky. A great alternative to beef is the hyuk daeji saeng-gyup sal–or black pig pork belly. These chunky slices of bacon grill up meltingly tender-chewy and are addictive when dipped in the accompanying chili-miso paste. Children love eating “bacon” this way, along with a bowl of kelp soup and strands of sprout and spinach salad.

Kawon has many other dishes of note, including their famous savory pancake (haemul pae-jun), hot pot mixed rice (dolsut bibimbop), and in summer only, the best cold water noodle-soup I’ve ever had (mul naeng myun). There are also hauntingly delicious grilled whole fish dishes, mouth-watering stews, and spicy soups–all worth trying if you have a Korean friend who can help translate some of the specials that are posted on the walls in Korean.

If you don’t have a friend like that, send me an email. I just might be having a craving.

Crush

Repeatable: Yes. Visits: 1

Crush's "Bacon and Eggs"

Crush is probably one of the best restaurants in the Puget Sound. So why can’t I just spit it out and say it? Why do I need to go back to confirm this hunch? Because, to be fair, my first and so far only experience there was a tad handicapped by our foursome’s gluttonous decision to go for the 9-course prix fixe presentation. Also, Jason Wilson wasn’t cooking that night–his chef de cuisine was.

Hard to believe, but decadent multi-course meals can have downsides. When there’s too much of a good thing, dishes that come later in the lineup often fail to match the glory of earlier ones, simply because one is too full to appreciate them. It’s possible, as well, that those later dishes just aren’t as good–but who can judge accurately or fairly when stuffed to the gills?

Take, for example, the first four courses of our evening, which arrived in well-timed precision after we had inhaled our gougeres (tiny airy puffs):

1) A demi-tasse of mushroom-onion broth with Oregon black truffle. Quietly intense and very nice.

2) “Bacon and eggs:” Tiny globules of smoked salmon roe that exploded against the silken sweetness of parsnip flan. Adding visual interest and crunch were tiny crisps of prosciutto bacon. Whimsical and decadent.

3) Seared hamachi. This sliver of fish was perfectly cooked, with a thin ribbon of pink in the center. The rich buttery sauce that accented it was lovely.

4) Lobster claw with gnocchi: Ethereal little dumplings, with barely poached claw meat on top. Technically an impressive dish, but not exactly as loveable as those bacon and eggs.

At this point in the meal, we were all quite impressed, and while we were no longer hungry, there was still plenty of room in the belly. The potential monotony of everyone eating the same dishes was partially alleviated by the female half of the table asking for “lighter” fare. The next two courses diverged–as did the matching flights of wine (and for $70 per flight, they better have).

5) Girl food: Hawaiian mero sea bass. This sauteed fish had a gorgeously crispy exterior; the accompanying hedgehog mushrooms added a lovely musky note.

Guy food: Cuttlefish tagliatelle with a rich creamy scallop sauce. I tasted a forkful of pasta and was struck by how very rich and unctuous it was. I didn’t love it.

6) Girl food: Impossibly soft roasted calamari with rounds of sausage, potato, and onion. The clean smoky and savory flavors of this dish were indeed a heckuva lot lighter than what the guys got.

Guy food: A huge quivering lobe of foie gras with brioche and an intensely jammy sauce of quince whose sweet-tartness made me wince after the subtle flavors of the calamari. The portion size on this serving was so huge, it could have served as an entree.

By this point, I was done for.  If it hadn’t been so cold, I would’ve been wearing my usual eating dress, with its forgiving empire waist. Instead I was wearing a very tight pair of jeans with a belt. Said belt refused to allow any more than a couple bites of the next two courses–a restriction I didn’t exactly lament.

7) Girl food: Slices of duck breast prepared sous vide with savory and chewy grains of farro. I’m not exactly a fan of sous vide poaching and its resulting soft gooey texture of steamed flesh. I also happen to prefer gamey meats cooked through–call me crazy. So I only ate a couple bites of the duck. But the farro–yummy! This chewy wild Italian wheat was delightfully toothsome and beautifully flavored. I had no problem eating all two tablespoons of it.

Guy food: The saddle of lamb with lamb sausage was a great dish. I especially enjoyed biting into the tiny sausage; it snapped with juicy, fatty flavor. A plate of those little sausages and a plate of farro, and I would have been very happy.

8) Girl’s dish: Rabbit terrine wrapped around rabbit loin, prepared sous vide. As I mentioned earlier, I am not a fan of the sous-vide texture. In this case, the terrine was fine, but the loin was alarmingly pink and raw looking. Wrapped in some kind of leafy green (spinach?) and then sliced into rounds, this dish looked exactly like rabbit sushi–if there were such a thing. Did I mention already that I have an odd thing about game being thoroughly cooked through? I nibbled. Enough already.

 Guy food: Painted Hills Farm beef tenderloin with bone marrow sauce, baby carrots, and mashed potato. The beef was tender and juicy and infused with flavors from the wine sauce. Was it amazing? Maybe–I was so drunk on food by this point, I thought it was just OK.

9) Blue cheese, wine poached pear slice, toasted fruit nut bread. Fine. But does a 9-course meal really need a cheese course at this point?

10) Grapefruit and elderberry sorbet with sugary crumbles: The sorbet was too sweet and tangy to work well as a palate cleanser; those sugary crumbles sure were addictive.

I was absolutely sure by this point that we were done–but no, there was another dessert. Some sort of tiny bundt-like cake. I knew I wouldn’t eat more than a spoonful, so I asked the waiter to pack mine while I tasted my husband’s.

Not a bundt but a chocolatey mousse-y thing enrobed in a thin crust of chocolate with a crushed hazelnut layer on the bottom–f*ing gorgeous. I scarfed half of it down and didn’t notice the belt digging into my waist at all. I also ate all my little after-dinner petit fours–two coin-sized cookies, a caramel, and a marshmallow–even though they weren’t nearly as brilliant as that mousse cake.

Before I end this extremely lengthy post, I need to return to my subject and mention a couple more downsides to prix fixe dining. 1) Investment of time: All of this took almost 4 hours. 2) Investment of resources: Dinner was $125/person, with a $70 supplement for the accompanying flight of matched wines.  It was what it was. To put it into context, I’ve paid more and less for food of similar quality.

Next time, I’m heading straight for the bar seats, and I’m ordering a la carte.

Steelhead Diner

Repeatable: Maybe. Visits: 1

Red Beans & Rice with Chicken Andouille Gumbo

Most Seattleites eventually make it to the Pike Place Market at some point during the year, usually with kids and visitors in tow. During these rare visits, you don’t want to wait forever for a seat at Matt’s in the Market and you don’t really want to walk in the street dripping take-out down the front of your shirt either.

So you go to Steelhead Diner, a large, well-lit space next to the northern entrance to Pike Alley that’s been open for almost two years. The adorable owners, Kevin and Terresa Davis, have spent considerable amounts of time in the same places I’ve spent considerable amounts of time, so maybe that’s why diving into the deep menu felt like plunging into a pool of nostalgia.

Taste of New Orleans: Chef Kevin survived his start in the kitchens of the legendary Arnaud’s, one of the Crescent City’s most storied restaurants (he would fall back on that experience when he opened Sazerac in Seattle). Thankfully, none of Arnaud’s high-falutin’ Creole cooking is found here–just the down-home easy-going goodness of Cajun classics like chicken gumbo ($6.95, real and real good), rice and beans ($4.95, oh, my! properly cooked beans! without cumin! heaven!), and “dressed” po-boy styled sandwiches (means with all the fixin’s, like shredded lettuce, ketchup, mayo, etc.). There’s even junk food, a la “poutine,” french fries with gravy and cheese curds ($7.95). All this stuff really, really made me miss N’awlins.

Fish with Flair: The kitchen’s deft hand with seafood is most likely the result of the chef’s 5-year stint at the helm of Oceanaire, one of Seattle’s most reliable seafood restaurants, despite  (or maybe because of) the fact that it’s  part of a boutique chain. The jumbo lump Dungeness crab cake ($14.95) was a lightly formed patty of crab meat, with a piquant bit of sauce Louis (another Nawlins import; think mayo kicked up a notch). Delicious.  The Totten Inlet mussels in Purgatory ($12.95) were definitely hellish–with salt. The spices and flavors of chorizo, garlic, serrano, basil, and orange zest were tantalizingly promising–but someone had clearly made a mistake and dumped an extra teaspoon of salt into the batch and almost ruined it. I say almost because I still finished it, even though I needed to suck down most of my beer doing so.

California Dreamin’: The couple’s time in Napa–he in the fabulous kitchen of Tra Vigne–is evident in dishes like the crispy pork shank carnitas ($9.95), two tender legs served with a plate of corn tortillas. I think I would have enjoyed this dish a lot more if I hadn’t gorged on rice and beans and gumbo first. In an attempt to inject lightness into the meal, I got a plate of organic lettuce slalad with Chukar cherries, goat cheese, spiced walnuts, and white balsamic vinaigrette ($7.95).  Alas, it was overly dressed, so I didn’t get any respite from all the bold flavors at the table. The plate of pan-roasted brussel sprouts, however, were superb ($7.95).

One of the kids at our table got the so-ubiquitous-it-might-as-well-be-diner-fare kasu black cod ($19.95 for a half-portion), which was flaky, moist, well-flavored, and perfect. The real kid’s meals were impressive: a hand-shaped hamburger on french roll and grilled cheese on thick slices of herbed bread. Beecher’s mac ‘n’ cheese was also an option for the wee ones, but I know from experience that my kids won’t touch it–it’s “too cheesy” for their tastes.

So would I repeat the experience? I think so. I’ve barely skimmed the menu, and I haven’t tried any of the po-boys yet. Be forewarned that despite the moniker, this high-end grub ain’t exactly diner fare. And like all restaurants in the Market, prices here aren’t exactly a bargain. On the other hand, the place is open 11am-10pm ALL DAY every day, in true diner fashion. I just love knowing I can pop in and get a bowl of gumbo at 2pm  if I want to.

Spring Hill

Repeatable: Maybe. Visits: 1

Ovaltine, Cinnamon Toast, Salty Popcorn Ice Cream with Chocolate Cake

I used to live in West Seattle, so believe me when I say the place has changed a lot in 10 years. The Junction in particular has really spiffed up, sparkling with shiny new boutiques  selling chic designer clothing and high-end bric-a-brac.

The gastronomical version of this uptown-girl shift was the opening of Spring Hill earlier this year (2008).  Strategically located in the heart of this gentrified corridor, Spring Hill is a major new restaurant for West Seattle. I’d probably take the geographical qualifier out and say that Spring Hill is a major restaurant by the rest of Seattle’s standards as well. (Some folks might consider that damning with faint praise.)

By virtue of decor alone, Spring Hill is a major restaurant. The space, all sleek blonde wood and smooth shiny surfaces, is a long rectangle divided into an open kitchen/bar on the right and dining area on the left. Sounds sterile, but all this sleekness is actually comfy and inviting too. So much so that the space begs to be jammed with bodies–and it was.

As a drinking hole, Spring Hill provides the perfect ambience. The bar and drink menu are creative and fancy enough to attract well-heeled bar-hoppers. The dinner menu, too, favors noshing over serious dining. The appetizers are generous enough–and rich enough–to sate most average appetites. It took forever to dig through my huge bowl of clams and pork belly ($12)(tsk, a dead crustacean hadn’t been picked out). Despite all the chunks of this and squirts of that and general paprika-redness of the sauce, the primary flavor was that of salt–not in a bad way, just surprising given how complicated the dish looked.

Shrimp with grits ($14) came atop a soft poached egg; the slightly undercooked shrimp reinforced the dish’s soft, quivering textures. The grits were more cream sauce than grits–or maybe that was the shrimp gravy and I didn’t get any grits? Confusing. The duck egg raviolo ($9) was all runny yolk and unctuous richness. These two dishes would have been perfect for someone with bad teeth.

As one of the servers cleared our plates, she asked if we were done or if we were having entrees as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if more than half their customers stop short at the apps. They’d be well-advised to.

Mike’s braised short ribs with dumplings ($26) were fine, if uninspiring; the brussel sprout leaves were absolutely delicious–brightened in a perfect way by Italian parsley. My tagliatelle ($20) with mushroom, chard, and slices of undercooked Delicata squash would have been much better if the squash had been less crunchy. The dish was snowed under by a mound of Parmesan–intended to  boost its flavor, I think. A bit disappointing, but not too bad.

Dessert was ordered out of a sense of duty. I’m glad we did. The trio of ice cream–cinnamon toast, Ovaltine, and salty popcorn–was the highlight of the meal. The salty popcorn tasted just like kettle corn and reminded me very pleasantly of the corn ice cream in Southern Mexico. The only unnerving detail was that one of the flavors seemed to have grease, which congealed onto my spoon in an annoying fashion.

Will I brave the bridge and go back to Spring Hill for another try? Maybe not. But if I happen to be in West Seattle shopping at one of those little boutiques, I know where I’m going to get my dinner.

Quinn’s

Repeatable: No! Visits: 1

I dragged my husband to Quinn’s for lunch yesterday–the New York Times had just mentioned it, so I was curious. (The NYT is usually wrong about Seattle restaurants, by the way, so reader beware!) He didn’t want to go because he had “the worst meal of his life” there with some friends three weeks ago. (They had ordered everything on the menu; it was all “gross.” I quote: “Sausage that tasted like a stick of salt. Pate that tasted like cat food. Please, I’m trying to forget the experience.”)

He very reluctantly agreed to have lunch, reasoning that it would be a different cook. He dropped his fork. “Oh no, it’s the same person!”

My jaw dropped at how disgusting the food was. The bread salad ($8) tasted like it had been dressed with fryer oil, and an unmistakable whiff of creosote emanated from it. The croutons were soggy–and not with dressing. The pathetic and barely prepped hunks of iceberg lettuce were piled high on the plate, with a lone olive half and a tomato chunk that was far from ripe. Ugh. After three bites–enough to confirm the rancid fat flavor–I, too, dropped my fork.

As for the “grilled ham and Gruyere sandwich” ($8)–my 6 year old could have done better. It looked like it had been slapped together by a giant and a pygmy trying to meet in the middle; the two pieces of bread were off by half their width. Globs of mayo dripped from the edges. Fries were somehow overcooked AND limp and greasy at the same time.

I usually eat everything. I’m the type of person who eats airplane food happily. But this swill? Unbelievable. The whole experience was so repellent I was fascinated by it, kind of like needing to stare at a gruesome accident scene. I can’t wait to go back again–when restaurants are this bad, they make for great entertainment–but my husband absolutely refuses. Hands down the worst meal I’ve tried to eat this year.

Boom Noodle

Repeatable: Maybe. Visits: 1

Boom Bento Box for kids

My first reaction to Boom Noodle was, “Wow, this place reminds me of Blue C Sushi!” Same breezy modern decor, same Japanese urban kitsch, same fetishizing of young Japanese girls wearing knee socks. A bit of googling revealed why: This place was started by the same folks. (When no one sends you press releases anymore, you actually have to do your own background research.) No wonder my 6-year-old immediately announced she wanted a cream puff when she entered the premises (both places offer “Tokyo Sweets,” aka cream puffs, for dessert).

My tasting companions on this trip were all under 4 feet: a 4-year-old, two 6-year-olds, and an 8-year-old. All four kids are child prodigy gourmands who’ve eaten at way too many fancy restaurants, so they make great tasters. The 4-year-old’s first observation was that the space was “too loud.” And indeed it was–the folks at Boom seem to have carried the concept over to the acoustics, but noise is a typical side effect of artsy, high-ceiling, exposed beams decor.

The kid’s menu is one of the best I’ve seen outside Honolulu–bento boxes with a choice of chicken skewers, braised pork loin, gyoza, fried shrimp, or fried tofu ($5.95). The gyoza arrived burnt, but the two hungy kids ate them anyway. There was a bit of char on the chicken, which caused one child to turn her nose up at it, while the other one wolfed it down. Another youngster sitting at our same table had the ramen ($4.50); she seemed to enjoy hers far more than the bowl of shitake soba ($9.50) that I got, which was beautifully presented:

Shiitake Soba at Boom Noodle

The broth–a critical component of any Japanese noodle dish–was actually quite good. But the noodles were overcooked, and I couldn’t find a mushroom to save my life. My friend John’s Tokyo ramen dish ($9.95), was not at all close to what he enjoys in Tokyo on a regular basis. “Too much pork, sliced too thick,” he said. Still, for these prices, we’re willing to compromise.

The curry potato korokke ($4.50)–potato croquettes–would have been lovely had they not been bludgeoned with curry powder. The kids each took a bite and made faces, spitting out the offending mouthful into their napkins. The mizuna salad ($9.95) was composed of the sturdiest, most mature mizuna I have ever encountered–they were mizuna on steroids. I felt like a cow as I munched through these strangely flavorless greens. Grilled chicken was supposed to be garnishing this salad; it must have fallen off in transit. Tori karaage ($5.95), Japanese fried chicken, had a hard time measuring up to my friend Megumi’s home-made version. John tried it and pronounced them just OK. The drumettes were huge; the chunks of chicken small and overcooked.

Regardless of its imperfect cooking, business will most likely Boom here (couldn’t resist). Its approximation of Japanese noodle shop fare and izakaya bar food is adequate enough to fool anyone who’s never actually eaten in Japan. Boom clearly understands its target demographic, which is the same as its sister restaurant Blue C’s: From 5-6:30 the long communal tables are filled with families with young children. After hours, the highly tempting and well-lit bar probably reels in the bar-hoppers and wild young things.

Despite the fact that the food was just OK, I’ll probably go again. The price was right, the kids actually ate something healthy, and it’s not too hard to get to in a minivan (street parking after 5pm, however, is a tough prospect).

Poppy (update 1/9)

Repeatable: Yes. Visits: 3

A recession-proof dessert deal: Poppy's dessert thali

Whatever your opinion of the thali platter, there’s no denying that the dessert thali at Poppy is one sweet deal. For $14 you get a choice of main dessert, ice cream, and sweet extras. An extra dollar will allow you two desserts. Pictured above is a thali with two desserts. Starting at noon and moving clockwise, is the aptly named Hot Date Cake with Banana Ice Cream–luscious enough to turn you on to the sexy combo of dates and bananas and possibly even your date, too, especially if he has a banana in his pocket; chocolate caramel truffle slices; Crackerjack (far, far better than the boxed kind); Nutter Butter squares (far, far better than the candy bar); chocolate chip cookies (save these for the next day, when you’ll appreciate them more); chocolate terrine (deep dark chocolate abyss, for die-hards only)…Between these desserts and the fabulously creative cocktail lineup, Poppy seems to be getting better and better…

Poppy, 12/6/08 update: The more you eat at Poppy, the more you gotta admire Jerry Traunfeld’s genius in the kitchen. And, yes, he really is a brilliant cook. So much so that his ambitious failures are usually far more interesting (and edible) than other chef’s plebeian successes.

At my second visit, I was no longer a thali newbie, but my husband was. This meant that while he was distracted by the novelty of little dishes presented on a circular tray, I wasn’t.  I also knew, based on my previous experience, that the regular thali would be far too much food for me, so I ordered the “smali” pictured above. My vegetarian smali had fewer little dishes than Mike’s full-size thali, which looked like this:

Here’s how the dishes tasted, clockwise from noon: Chestnut soup with cardamom, vanilla and bay (yummy); BC scallop with savoy cabbage, cumin and apple (OK; scallop was a tad too chewy); five-seed kale (good); mushroom marjoram bread pudding (good, but some folks would call it stuffing); quail from the tandoor with pomegranate walnut sauce (beautifully cooked and flavored quail; sauce just OK); persimmon, chervil, and fennel salad (lovely, vibrant, original); shaved cauliflower with Buddha hand (good); satsuma mustard pickle (weirdly compelling and possibly addictive); rosemary-ginger yam with spiced coconut (OK);  coriander potato roll (a classic mixed marriage of Chinese eggroll wrapper with potato knish-like filling).

The reason I like the thali is also the same reason I don’t like the thali: All that variety of flavors and textures, on a single platter for $32, is an amazing bargain. Getting everything at once, however, forces you to eat quickly, or take small bites in quick succession. With so much to choose from, this means that some dishes won’t be eaten at their optimum temperature, especially if you eat slowly. The overall effect of this presentation made me feel like a giant at a buffet table set by Lilliputians.

In the case of this particular thali–cheekily titled “a thali for waxing gibbous”–I felt like a giant at a Lilliputian Thanksgiving. All the classic dishes were there, with a twist: stuffing (bread pudding); mashed yams; winter greens; weird but addictive sweet-sour condiment (satsuma pickle in place of cranberries); cauliflower; and even a tiny bird, roasted in its entirety.

But did it all work? Not really. But everything was interesting, fascinating, creative, original. Really, the main problem is the presentation: Forcing all those different dishes onto one platter, served at once, distracts from the distinctiveness of each component. Quite frankly, there are very few restaurants who could serve their entire prix fixe menu in this fashion and have it work. That Poppy fares as well as it does is a testimony to Traunfeld’s impressive culinary skills.

Which reminds me: We started out the evening rather traditionally, with an appetizer portion of the absolutely brilliant salt cod fritters. These emerged from the kitchen piping hot and perfect. And because it was the only thing on the table, we lavished our full attention, savoring each bite slowly. That kind of pace just isn’t possible with the thali.

I’m sure the thali concept is a difficult one to pull off on a daily basis, especially with the hordes of people who are still flocking to Poppy. (Kudos to the restaurant staff for warming up its attitude amidst the constant slam!) My hope is that when all the furor calms down, the thali idea can be tweaked to allow for more a la carte options and more breathing space between each tastes. The food here is too good to be its own distraction.

One last thing: Please, please, please Mr. Traunfeld! Ditch the chopsticks!

(previous writeup)
Jerry Traunfeld’s groovy new Poppy on Capitol Hill does a vaguely Indian riff on the mini-plates phenomenon, providing 8 little courses all on one large round platter (known as a “thali”). Technically the food was well-made and delicious (October 2008 visit), but I didn’t understand why everything had to be together on that cumbersome thali. Why couldn’t I just order what I wanted? And why were there chopsticks? And why naan, rice, AND potatoes? Good enough to merit another visit–though I’m not sure when I want to brave the novelty-crazed crowds again. Have heard from several sources that service is rather frosty. Ours was definitely on the chilly side too…

Fish Fry

Repeatable: Maybe. Visits: 1

Tucked into an alley off Pike Street, Fish Fry is the kind of place you can only find if you already know where it is. Or if you have a built-in homing mechanism for fried food. Or if you’re drunk or high and have the munchies.  Or if you’re a teenager throbbing with hormonal rushes.

Alas, not being able to lay claim to any of the above options, I got so lost trying to find the place that I asked a tattooed guy sweeping a doorway where it was. “Right here,” he answered. Doh.

I arrived early, at 11:30am, to escape the mad hordes I was assured would be there. The place didn’t really fill up  until 12:30, and the young hard bodies jamming the space were clearly of high school vintage–that is, old enough to be my children if I had gotten knocked up near their age.

My tasting buddy for this jaunt was an old-school type–a Republican who eats fish on Fridays and is possessed of a more forgiving palate and even-keeled disposition than mine. I needed all the help I could get as I can no longer tolerate fried food (or wine) as I once could.

My first bite of the fried catfish nuggets took me straight back to my college years in Boston, when I thought nothing of roaming the Eastern seaboard via rail or road in search of something good to eat. The batter was the same deep-fried chestnut brown of my memories: a thin crackling shell that encased the fish like a glossy lacquer. Mmmm.

When I complimented him on his frying, the cook answered that he had learned his technique in Boston (Coincidence? Not! Like wines, frying styles vary by region. IMHO, the ne plus ultra of frying is in the South. Red-hot epicenter: New Orleans, of course. Sorry, but the Northwest simply doesn’t fry very well. Nor can anyone cook beans properly. CUMIN DOES NOT BELONG IN BEANS!!! But that’s the subject of another post.)

The medium-cut fries that came with my four pieces of catfish ($8) were just OK. But the battered and deep-fried lemon slice? Tangy crunchy heaven. And the battered, deep-fried green beans ($5)? Addictive. The oysters ($9) were also pretty dang good–crunch outside, molten quivering flesh inside. (But in my dreams, I will forever crave the fried clams I used to eat during the summers I spent bumming around Martha’s Vineyard.)

The accompanying sauces–”housemade” tartar, lemon aioli, curry ketchup, smoked chili mayo–were not nearly as finger-lickin’ as their names teasingly suggested. In fact, these 2-tablespoon-sized portions were all rather one-dimensional and boring–and so NOT worth the extra buck charged if you asked for another flavor besides the one you get with your order. By the time I realized that there were complimentary containers of tried-and-true malt vinegar and ketchup on the counter, a heaviness in my gut kept me glued to the stool I was sitting on.

From this perch, I watched the flock of high schoolers all queued up for their chance to stoke their flaming pimples with grease and salt. I contemplated that fried foods are best left to the hardier guts of the young and free. Me, I knew I’d be paying for my indiscretion for the next few days as a black headache crashed around my ears the moment I lurched out of the tiny store. Too much grease, both eaten and breathed in.

Sometimes, it’s just no fun growing old. But if you’re young and fancy-free, Fish Fry is definitely a place worth visiting.