ILILI: Lebanese Hedonism

There's no question Philippe Massoud can cook. I've sampled evidence at Meatopias (www.meatopia.org) of yore, from juicy grilled lamb shawarma to a two and a half years-ago memorable carrot and tahini salad with black sesame. So I was expecting great things from Ilili, his midtown Mediterranean hotspot that's no newcomer to New York's restaurant scene. Still, I hadn't been there personally, so I took a frigid winter night as opportunity to get the whole picture. The restaurant itself was surprisingly gigantic. For some reason, I had fathomed it a more boutique atmosphere. Instead I found myself within New York's Spice Market/Buddhakan/ Matsuri/(Carmine's?) of Middle Eastern cuisine.

The giant space is riddled with tables and compartmentalized rooms; little off-set nooks have more private tables, and a walled-off room adjacent from the bustling center scene offer even more. A mezzanine floats above, allowing even more seating (Note: on a busy night such as it was, the restaurant looked none so austere as these photos, stolen from their website. It was as laden with bodies, coats and noise as were the plates with sauce and spice.) I'm guessing that the sheer volume of potential diners taxes the quality of the food that is put out. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to afford much more attention to detail dealing with these kinds of numbers. We were seated in the back of the back, at a wobbly, shadowy-cursed little table with a prime view of the shuttle-system of food-laden and emptied plates, and easy access to the restrooms a stone's throw further. It had to be the worst table in the restaurant, but I'll not let that influence me too much. I am used to enjoying better seating arrangements, but it's not the point for which I visit a restaurant. The point is the food, and I wish I could be more complimentary about how it panned out.

Ilili is touted as modern Lebanese with Mediterranean accents, which describes it to a tee. It's not authentic anything, and it can be wildly tasty, but in a sort of indulgent, careless way. I suppose other people eat at dodgy Chinese joints or even splurge on a burger-and-fries for this kind of satisfaction. I just don't normally tend to frequent places like that, so for me, this (expensively) fills that niche. Everything is powerfully seasoned, rigorously cooked, lavishly sauced, highly spiced, generously salted, and for the most part, indulgently tasty. It is just that, given Massoud's pedigree and capability, I expected something a little more nuanced- a little more thoughtful. Truth be told, it felt a little sloppy.

But like Jean-Georges who lets the precision quality of most of his establishments peter out as they gain in popularity, so has Ilili (if it ever began as such). The joint was bumpin'. The restaurant is packed with people packed into tables packed with food. And some of it is quite good, in a hedonistic way. We wanted to order smattering of several dishes, as I inferred was the point to themezze-style menu. But the servings were too large to warrant ordering so wantonly (as was the table too small to handle any more than three plates at a time), unless a doggie bag, or excessive amounts of wasted food, are viable alternative. Or if you're coming here with a group. A large group. In fact, if you come here, I highly recommend you do just that; enlisting the troops is the only way to really successfully navigate this menu. We began with Arnabeet Mekle , uber-roasted cauliflower with chili, mint and labne tahini. The latter is slathered thickly on the plate, a finger's width deep and drizzled with oil. I take this like I'd take French fries- a couple of florets are drool-worthy. A whole plate is Tums-worthy. The infamous brussels
sprouts ("You went to Ilili? Did you get the brussels sprouts? OMG!") read the same; there was little brussel-sprouty about them. There was, on the other hand, a lot salty, creamy, walnutty, and fruity about them. Nothing shy in flavor, but barely retaining its membership to the vegetable family. The majority of dishes follow this suit: copious amounts of labne, hummous, tahini are ubiquitous. Beef and lamb have a strong showing as well, from tartares to kebabs to meatballs, sausages, steaks and chops. We couldn't miss the highly touted Lobster Hummous, however, although it again reiterated the same flavors we incurred over and over. Beautiful nodes of meaty lobster and a few token mushrooms are somewhat lost in a rich hummous, made even unnecessarily richer with a luxurious daub ofbeurre monte'. If there are more spartan dishes lurking somewhere in the menu, we didn't encounter them.

After this, we really were at the point of no return.... so we ordered dessert. This was mostly just out of curiosity (we hadn't even finished the entrees), to see if perhaps a lighter turn was taken for finishing things up (plus, I was tempted by the "liquorish" in the Kalabij Halab). Turned out tobe thick, shortbread-style pistachio biscuits (four of them) perfumed with orange peel and served with a bowl of licorice-scented soft marshmallow. Because exactly what we needed at this point was more creamy, gooey, sugary decadence to nail shut the coffin. There really are no "light" desserts, except for a sorbet selection, but even with that they make you choose three.

Not that any of this is catergorically bad; it just wasn't the cleaner, truer Middle Eastern that I was expecting. This is no Mediterranean-diet Mediterranean. But judging from the popularity of the place, it is entirely impervious to any of my criticisms. Even I wouldn't not go back, if I could figure out some of the less sauced-up options, or else had an occasion with a big enough group to join forces with. In either case, I'd wear a looser belt.


236 5th Ave
(Btwn 27th & 28th St)

Phone: (212) 683-2929

The DARBY

Sometimes when you follow the chef, you pay no attention whatsoever to what the restaurant you're going to is all about; you just trust the man at the helm. Or in this case, the woman. And normally you're not going to encounter anything much that would throw you off.... a restaurant being a restaurant being a restaurant, and all. Well, I'll attribute my stint in Portland as to why I wasn't in on the buzz around The Darby, a buzz which is simply electric. At any rate, I ended up there sort of spur of the moment. I called to make a reservation (ah! New York! A city that will actually hold a table for you), and effortlessly procured a two-top, prime-time. I had actually tried here once before a few weeks back, only to be told that there was nothing available. So this time the facility of reserving actually gave me some hesitance... was The Darby not living up to the hype? We arrived at the restaurant to find the joint practically empty, with only two tables seated. More reason for pause. But the restaurant itself inspired surprise of a different sort. Dimly lit (dark, actually) and swanky, swathed in a metallic webbing across
the floors and ceiling, the room exudes a modern take on 1940's glamour and speakeasy sexiness. Glittering chandeliers of slinky silver chains drip from above, and flittering votive candles reflect their flickering light across the myriad shiny surfaces. We were seated just stage left of a swinging four piece band, who in the middle of their set, were creating a jubilant but cacophonous soundtrack for the evening. Luckily, as our waitress informed us, they played in spurts, so conversation COULD be had... it just had to wait for their set breaks. It was great once we knew what was going on, but a bit daunting given the impression that there was going to be zero audible conversation to be had throughout the night without yelling. And as it turned out, the music is fantastic. The glitzy decor starts to really make sense as soon as the evening's entertainment, singer Ron Grant, laid into some of his bluesy funk. The night was off to an exceptional start... and we hadn't even ordered yet.

With all the emphases on the live music and the gorgeous decor, I was a little fearful that the food might take second fiddle. I needn't have worried. Our waitress, however her sparkling eyes and dazzling smile suited the atmosphere, recited verbatim practically the entire menu, as if they were specials.... of which there are none. At first I peeled my ears against the music's volume and tried to determine if there was some difference between what she was saying and the printed matter in front of me, but as there was none, I just tuned her out and enjoyed some pre-prandial tunes. I still can't figure out why they
would have her (or why she took it upon herself) to reiterate the menu, but I suppose I'm getting away from the point. Alex Guarnaschelli, whom I initially met at Butter (still hers as well), presides over The Darby, offering an updated array of American classics (all of which are on the menu- your server will tell you nothing new). It's a simple enough menu with some luxurious flourish. We
started with the yellowfin tuna with fois gras on toast... thick, toasty bread cut into four generous chunks, slathered with fois and silky slices of lightly cured tuna. Easily a shareable appetizer. Raw is popular, with both a steak and a tuna tartare, daily special oysters, caviar service, as well as a small selection of charcuterie.
It will behoove you to embrace that the prices include the entertainment, because they might otherwise incur a bit of sticker-shock.

Main dishes are bereft of many sidekicks. Despite the '40's fabulousness, you'll find no meat and two sides. Colorado rack of lamb consists of two meaty ribs, juicy and plump, but little else on the plate. An afterthought of eggplant caponata cushions the meat, but there is barely enough to accompany each bite of lamb with a spoonful. The meat doesn't need much help, though; in terms of flavor, it can hold its own. Roasted beets from the side dish menu would round this out well. Grilled striped bass is similarly lonely on its plate, though its perfectly crisp skin is bedecked with gem-like pomegranate seeds and a ruby-tinged mince of crunchy rutabaga. I was glad for the brussels sprouts I ordered alongside, especially since they were buttery, nutty little devils, tender inside but their outer leaves crisped like chips. The bill can mount up, though, so try to opt for one of their more reasonably priced wines if you're tippling. There are two $100 dishes for two, and Mr. Cutlets himself raved about the Lobster Newburg over the seared dry-aged Tomahawk Steak (rest assured if Josh Ozersky prefers something over the meat that it must have something special going on). Not cheap, though, and we preferred to save a few pennies on regular entrees... and then blew them on dessert.

The dessert menu reads straight out of Joy of Cooking, First Edition. Classic American confections, but these too are tweaked. Each night offers up a Cake of the Day (this evening's was red velvet), but we were between the candied apple tart and the Baked Alaska. They just seemed too appropriate to surpass... so we ordered both. (The Darby inspires this kind of abandon.) The small, round tart is baked with four different kinds of local apples, each was its own particular flavor but enriched by a sticky, syrupy caramel glaze. A moat of custardy cream pools beneath- an a la mode where the melting's been done for you. All that's left to do is inhale it, which is easy enough. As for the Baked Alaska, it arrives like the world's cutest snowball, a little igloo crust
around a smooth, sassy orb of lemon sorbet. Its meringue shell of carefully piped florets, which looks like a tightly clustered mountain laurel, is baked to a soft, golden brown... and that's before they light it on fire. The mini-inferno is fleeting, but this is all part of the show. Which, at The Darby, is just the beginning of its magic.


The Darby
244 W 14th St, New York 10011
Phone: (212) 242-4411

Diversion:PDX/Cafe Castagna

The night after visiting Cafe Castagna, my dad (only sort of jokingly) asked me to go back all the way across town just to bring him another one of the bread puddings we had devoured. And while he was waxing poetic on dessert, I wished I had leftovers of my roasted shrimp with chickpeas to enjoy again... and again. Castagna was voted Best Restaurant in 2011 by The Oregonian's Diner, and has experienced much change from its opening over ten years ago. It now finds itself in the capable hands of chef Matt Lightner, who is enjoying accolades near and far. During the busy holiday season in which we were amidst, I couldn't justify another fancy dinner out, but I made a convincing enough argument to visit Cafe Castagna, its less formal counterpart housed at the same address. It seems that many of the buzzy Portland restaurants are concentrated in this south east section of the city, a previous no-man's land, probably much like was the East Village in New York (or EVERY dingy nabe in New York) which now hosts one of the city's most bustling restaurant scenes. The glowy light of the restaurant cast a warm aura onto the slushy sidewalks outside, a harbinger of the softly lit dining room with walls painted golden. An airy mobile dangled from the ceiling, echoing the shadows of bare-branched winter trees that cast their silhouettes on the translucent windows in front . A table was immediately available (yes, of course, no reservations taken for parties smaller than five), mostly due to the early hour. Still, every table remained filled throughout the course of the evening, for all the good reasons to follow.

The menu is extremely well-priced, even by Portland (as opposed to New York) standards. For the exquisite flavors, thoughtful preparations, beautiful platings and substantial portions, the price points are astounding. (Perhaps they make some of it up by the upscale mother restaurant next door?) A steaming puree of celeriac soup, in a bowl deep and wide, arrived drizzled with a spiral of creme fraiche and floating tiny brioche croutons, crunchy and light, sprinkled with green onion. Roasted beets came soused
in a mustardy puree paired with pristine sprigs of mache (ah, my favorite salad green!), untossed, so that the delicate lettuce didn't succumb to the substantial dressing. I am always so thankful for a beet dish NOT paired with goat cheese (it's a true, but predictable combination), and this one was exemplary. The most expensive starter is a half dozen oysters at $16, but some, like roasted shrimp with chickpeas, or calamari with chorizo (both $13), are big and robust enough to pair with a side dish as a main course. Five jumbo roasted shrimp mingle with a generous dose of meaty chickpeas in a rich, oily tomato sauce, flecked with minced emerald green herbs. Be sure to use the sliced baguette to mop up the sauce (skip the kitschy little pats of foil wrapped butter... I guess they're saving the good stuff for next door).

Speaking of main courses, the burgers (eleven measly dollars) were literally flying out of the kitchen; there must have been one at every table but ours, skinny little golden fries tumbling off the plate in their excess, tantalizing burger-less bystanders. I must learn to overcome my aversion to sandwiches for dinner, or else tote along more Josh Ozersky-types as eating companions (although I doubt he'd share a bite). At any rate, their highly acclaimed popularity was more than well-illustrated on this particular evening. Other entrees maintain a modest disposition, but are more sophisticated in practice. A house-made garlic sausage didn't burn with garlic, but with pungent horseradish, nestled on a bed of braised cabbage, fragrant with lardons, and joined by some roasted fingerlings. It's a typical choucroute type of dish, but a little less rustic . In the same vein was a humble zuppa di pesce, which arrived in an unexpectedly creamy broth, fragrant with leeks and saffron. A buttery filet of meltingly soft white fish folded itself the seafood-laden soup, touting a jauntily perched crouton with a generous slather of lemony aioli. So much seafood and such nuanced flavor for couple of Jacksons... and only a cassoulet at $25 and a flat iron steak at $22 were any pricier. Side dishes aren't required to fill out any of the entrees, which come with their fare share of accoutrements, but with such reasonable prices, any of them will be another $6 well spent. The brussels sprouts with bacon were irresistable little nuggets of nutty vegetable flavored with smoky bacon and a nice over char. I had to fend off too many forks invading these; I wanted them all.

The crowning glory of the dinner, however, may just have been its finale. None of us needed dessert (I mean, honestly, to you ever need dessert?), but one look at the menu convinced my dad that there was one more course to be had. Bread pudding, when available, is strictly forbidden to be overlooked. After a slight delay (we were wondering if they were baking the bread to be baked into the pudding? Or perhaps grinding the flour?), it arrived like a pillow on a plate. An eggy, ethereal cloud of the tenderest brioche, with barely detectable cubes at one with the sweet custard. It spooned up more like a souffle than your average pudding, caramelized on top to a rich, golden brown and dusted with a flounce of powdered sugar. We requested it a la mode with a scoop of their house-made vanilla ice cream. If you blinked you might have missed this dessert entirely; it was gone as quickly as three spoons could navigate their way from plate to mouth and back.

The whole night unfolded under the watchful eye of the owner, Monique Siu, who circulates through the adjoined restaurants to ensure everything is going smoothly. She exudes a motherly calmness, and it was so nice to see her proudly at the helm of just a successful venture. She handpicked Lightener to oversee both restaurants, and it appears to be a match made in heaven. If my experience at the Cafe is an accurate indication of his talent (and I'm doubtless it is), I'm anxious for the opportunity to see what is happening next door, whatever the price.



1758 SE Hawthorne Blvd. corner of Poplar Street
Portland, Oregon 97214
503.231.9959

Diversion: PDX/OLYMPIC PROVISIONS

Olympic Provisions is the quintessential Portland restaurant of 2010. A snarky, understated, bare-bones celebration of carnivorey. (M)EAT flashes in marquis block letters as you enter through the old fashioned wooden door, past the meat hook coast hangers on the painted wall, and into the cement-floored, bare-beamed, garage-like "dining room". A long counter separates the cooking from the eating, but because of the limited number of tables and inescapable no-reservations policy, you're as likely as not to catch a seat there, which puts you about two and half feet away from your meal throughout its preparation. As an added bonus, you can ogle the chefs' exquisite tatooage, another Portland standard. There is also a narrow communal table towards the far end, but it stands chairless, as will you if you opt to dine there. Now, I'm all for minimalism, but I do like to be seated to enjoy my meal. I can eat standing up at the kitchen counter at home (though probably rarely this well), which made the bar a more appealing option.

There are no cocktails (probably that would be deemed a little frou-frou for this restaurant/market), but the wine list is positively enormous. I was drawn to an unfamiliar Picpoul de Pinet solely by the way the charming name rolled off the tongue, and our super-friendly, highly knowledgeable and helpful server recommended it as well. Coincidentally, the word means "lip-stinging", because of it's voluptuous lemony tartness. I could not stop saying the name all night. We started off with a cute little plate of pickly things: some ribs of rhubarb which made nice finger food, sweet bread and butter chips, crunchy onions and traditional cornichons. They're a good balance for the rich little bites of cheese and a variety of salumi and charcuterie listed individually for making up a personalized antipasto-type starter. A side of cold, citrus-spiked beets came next, teamed with chunky green olives and buttery quartered avocados. These were the best of the veggie dishes on hand that evening, the rest of which failed to enjoy the same indulgent love as the cooked dishes and meats. Brussels sprouts were a bit disappointing, frankly: a voluminous haystack of leafed-out sprouts mingling with more of those olives and juicy thin slices of sunchoke dressed with anchovy vinaigrette. It was a perfectly acceptable salad, admittedly, but unexpectedly raw, and thus dousing all the anticipation of the deeply roasted, hearty little cabbages I was jonesing for. We had considered also a side of lacinato kale, but upon its deliverance to another diner, saw that it, too, was a raw chiffonade and opted against. I guess one could appreciate the minimalist preparations as a refreshing counter to the more substantial courses, but I found them wanting. Notably, I now see some more interesting options under the Vegetable Dish section of the menu online, like braised turnips and seared leeks, but none were on offer that night. Perhaps the chef read my mind.

On a higher note (like, Mt. Hood high) comes the kitchen's proficiency with meat and heat. Rich, stewed octopus in tomatoey sauce thick with beans and bacon arrived steaming from its earthenware bowl. I wanted more bread for the sauce.... as well as just more of the dish, period, even though it was of reasonable proportions. Just as wonderful was a meaty sugo topped with crisped cubes of firm polenta and a generousshaving of grana. Speaking of proportions, this was an inverted take on a traditional polenta al sugo, featuring the saucy meat (meaty sauce?) and using the humble cornmeal as an accoutrement. Our server recommended just two dishes per person, but looking back, I think that didn't include the vegetable ones, and I felt like I definitely had room for more food after what we ordered here. I saw the roasted cod destined for someone else's plate, as well as a ground lamb with Moroccan flavors, that I would definitely return for. Even a chicken with braised greens, beans, lemon and chile would warrant a repeat visit, and that is CHICKEN. I never order chicken. But it looked amazing. Instead, we utilized our remaining appetite to enjoy a delightful citrus tart, plump with lemon curd in a buttery crust and topped with impossibly juicy wedges of grapefruit and mandarin orange, and festively sprinkled with glimmering pomegranate seeds. Another tempting option was a scoop of dense black walnut ice cream, served affogato-style in a warmed vin santo... that just might serve as dessert if and when I get back to order that chicken.


107 SE Washington St.
Portland, OR 97214

info@olympicprovisions.com

503-954-3663

Diversion: PDX/LAURELHURST MARKET

"Keep Portland Weird!" is painted in huge, white block letters upon a brick wall across the street from the new Laurelhurst Market: new as in the old market of the same name was a bodega of sorts, of dubious legitimacy, purveying an even sketchier array of random commodities . But the Market in its current incarnation exhibits neither nefarious quality, now a restaurant of outstanding repute which also houses a small, locavore-esque butcher shop where you can purchase the meatier comestibles available on the restaurant's menu, as well as sandwiches (made with fresh, local Fleur de Lis bread) and beverages to eat in or take away. Despite the spare, industrial decor and exposed ceiling beams that arch across the dining room from the market to the bar, the interior is warm, rustic and inviting. Little twinkly votive candles and lights glowing off a collection of shiny pots and pans in the open kitchen create a convivial atmosphere. Just in front, chef David Kriefels keeps a hawk-eyed watch on each plate from mis to service, maintaining superlative quality control
certainly not exclusive solely to those beans (You know, the ones your mother would have made if she loved you, which is what is charmingly noted at the bottom of the menu). The no-reservations policy ubiquitous to Portland's casual dining scene fuels a steady crowd at the small bar, which boasts a nice little cast of cocktails and a very reasonably priced wine list, heavy on the reds. They even had a mourvedre (which I've been dying to try) by the glass: a plush, fruity little varietal from the centuries old grape that is enjoying a resurgence in popularity, and the one they poured here proves why.

Laurelhurst Market is primarily a steak house, but almost anything on the offer has such robust flavor that you won't miss meat even if you don't order it. A spa-sounding endive and grapefruit salad
with Dungeness and chervil flaunted those crisp, juicy leaves lavished with rich, sweet morsels of crab, brightened with citrus and nestled in a creamy, smooth puree of sunchokes. All those sprightly ingredients join forces to a decadent effect. We bumped a side dish of perfectly roasted beets with pistachios up to appetizer status, and while their strawberry gastrique was mostly undetectable but for a meager puddle hidden underneath, it did pair quite winsomely with the salad (though, admittedly, we should have left it in its side dish category where it would've performed more deftly. Note to self: obey the chef!).

The menu breaks mains down into steaks and entrees, the former including every-which-cut of bovinity imaginable, where you can choose your cut from the daily offerings which , although specified a la carte, arrive with thoughtful accoutrements. They are a little veggie-scant, though, which provides a tremendous opportunity to take advantage of the solid array of ridiculously good side dishes. I definitely could've made a superb repast simply with a tasting plate of three or four of them. The steak frites arrive with a mountain of exceptional hand cut fries, and I saw some enormous Walla Walla sweet onion rings crowning the ribeye at the next table. Neither of those, however, could have been appreciably better than the brussels sprouts, uber-roasted to an almost melting tenderness, charred crispy on the edges by no stinginess of heat and oil, although they were supposed to have been prepared with lemon, anchovy and piment d'espelette, which if they were was with a very subtle hand.

Entrees include more meat, a few poultries, and a daily fish, prepared with a few more creative liberties than the steaks, and put the emphasis on umami-rich ingredients like mushrooms, wine-based sauces, truffles, and rich reductions.
Tournedos of filet mignon, the most expensive dish on the menu at $36 (but well worth it!) justifies its price with a rich lobe of fois gras, scored and sprinkled with a crispy nest of delicate celeriac frites, surrounded by a moat of truffled sherry gastrique upon a creamy potato puree. As rich and regal as it might sound, it tasted even voluptuously more so, fancifully toeing the line of excess but remaining just a crispy frite's-width shy. Idaho rainbow troutshone as the daily catch, hearty enough to rival the meats: two generous skin-on filets splayed atop a savory-sweet puree of butternut squash, and roasted chunks of fennel, parsnips and apple… an absolute bargain for a mere $20.

Desserts are wholly unnecessary here, but equally unmissable. Most are classics or riffs thereof: an affogato uses a rich chocolate sorbet instead of vanilla gelato, a superlative tarte tatin is buttery beneath melting vanilla bean ice cream. A little homework, however, nudged us toward a dulce de leche cheesecake with jammy Oregon huckleberries, described by
some internet commentator (with whom I cannot argue) as "knee-buckling". The substantial crumby graham cracker crust cradles dense creamy cheesecake, caramelly sweet with a smooth milky tang. This dessert has been on the menu since the beginning, and our waitress assured us it isn't going anywhere (be thankful). Just as good was a dense bread pudding, rife with tangy dried cherries and crusty on the edges of its little individual ramekin, and topped with a sweet mascarpone cream, whipped into weightlessness.

I'm amazed they can consistently produce food this exceptional at such reasonable prices. As does a good sister restaurant, it vigorously inspires a visit to Simpatica Dining Hall upon my next return to Portland. If this is the city's version of weird, I'm all for it. I guess, like they say, you can't take the trailer out of the girl.





Laurelhurst Market
3155 E. Burnside, Portland OR 97214
restaurant 503-206-3097
butcher shop 503-206-3099

Diversion: PDX/ PARK KITCHEN

A dwindling number of Portland hotspots continue to remain open on Christmas Eve, so our options diminish or demand repeat visits. But Park Kitchen, a relative newcomer on the scene, wouldn't need need this as a qualifier in order to best much of the competition. Glistening, rain-slicked city streets border the stretch of park blocks framed by the huge windows in the dining room. The restaurant is divided into two sections as you enter a small vestibule at the bottom of a steep staircase leading to office space above. A bustly, livelier section enclosing the bar and a view of the open kitchen is found through the door on your right, while a slightly more formal, and definitely more spacious room is behind the door on the right, which was our destination. Both rooms are a bit spare of decor- lots of rough hewn wood and picnic-type tables and chairs. But the food is definitely the focus, so in addition to the very gracious service, any lack of design frivolity pretty much went unnoticed.

And of course, dinner on Christmas Eve isn't just any old meal. Normally the menu is broken down into small hot and cold plates, and large plates serving as entrees or shareable portions. This evening's offerings, however, included a prix-fixe with two choices among each of four courses, or a full chef's choice tasting menu. Given the size of our group, the tasting menu was really the most prudent choice… and it proved the most delicious one, too. As well the chef, Scott Dolich, has received well-deserved national acclaim , I was happy to put my stomach in his hands. We began simply, with small crostini smeared
with creamy goat cheese cradling a small pile of tender, sweet beets and a flounce of greenery: festively hued and achieving the creamy/crunchy/sweet/salty quadrifecta. A salad that had initially tempted me towards the prix-fixe menu happily appeared also on ours: a leafy toss of richly bitter radicchio, roasted shaved butternut
squash and crunchy pepita brittle sprinkled with pomegranate seeds. Another salad would have been a worthy lunchtime main: fluttery leaves of butter lettuce and rare seared flank steak with blue cheese and tangy
sherried onions- which also signaled me to slow down (or rather, share more), given that we were barely through a quarter of the meal. Luckily, next arrived my least favorite dish (strictly a matter of personal preference), which was a bright salad of shaved fennel and juicy citrus, which was … um,
"poignantly" spruced up with a school of marinated anchovies I could have done without. My brother-in-law, however, channeled his inner Chinook and cleaned that plate almost single-handedly; anchovy lovers unite. (Thank god for divergent palates.) My chance to hog a bit came with the roasted beet salad,a lovely array of sunny golden beets and vivid orange segments tossed with baby greens, crumbles of goat cheese and a nutty toasted almond tahini. The night's all-around crowd-pleaser, however, had to be the jumbo-size chickpea fries. Garbanzos mashed and mixed with a little flour and confit onions, formed into long (a good eight inches!), rectangular planks and deep-fried to a golden umber outside, rendering the inside to a nutty, earthy, beany smoothness. Pair those with some of the sweetly pungent pumpkin ketchup and everyone wanted to take some home. Another fried delicacy was the salt cod fritters with malt vinegar. Breaking open their crunchy ochre crust released an aromatic puff of steam, revealing an impossibly creamy filling of oceany salt cod puree that literally sang when dribbled with its tangy vinegar sauce.

So maybe at this point we were just shy of halfway
through, with some of the best yet to come. A pork belly dish
(for all those pork belly afficionados) nuzzled a meaty quadrangle with toothsome turnips in a sweet, rich broth underneath a frizzle of crisp, julienned celeriac remoulade. More noteworthy,
however, was a stunning dish of porky meatballs in a buttery tomato sauce with cabbage and minced herbs. Neither of those, however, were technically main courses, as the final two arrived: seared black cod
on a bed a meaty pocha beans and melted cipollinis. The fish itself had a distinct fishy flavor, not wholly off-putting, but noticeable. (I prefer black cod steamed, which usually avoids bringing out that pronounced flavor). The last savory course was a
rarer-than-rare lamb with parsnips and trumpet mushrooms. By now, as I'm doing all this by memory, the details escape me, both a fault of an undocumented menu, an abundance of plates (too many of which were superlative), a lapse of time before writing this, and a vigorous appreciation of our Gruner Veltliner. But then came the desserts as defibrillators to my food coma. I'm not so much a chocolate person, but the
crust on the warm chocolate tart was like the cookie component of an Oreo on crack. Softly poached pear fanned out languidly on top of the rich, fudgy filling, spilling into a pool of cool pear puree dusted with a gingery crumb. Even better (is it possible?) was the molten apple crisp, a humble looking dish of hot, syrupy apple chunks beneath a nutty oaten crust with a meltingur-vanilla ice cream submitting to the oven-hot concoction below. I, who never partake of dessert without the bitter balancing cup of joe, hadn't room for even a single drop more. For the eight of us dining, there were three crisps and three tarts.. and there was nary a teaspoon of any of the crisps left post-facto.

It was an inordinate amount of food, compounded by the fact that each individual dish was so good you didn't want to stop eating it to save room for the next. But it was a holiday, after all, so it was not only merry Christmas to all, but bon appetit to all… and to all a good night.