Rocca has widely been hailed by local foodies as one of the South End’s finest, hippest new dining destinations. Its free parking, for one, is a rare luxury that had me at hello. What about the food, you ask? When Rocca opened up its doors on Harrison Avenue back in April, 2007, some observers quibbled that it could easily have been mistaken for an upscale tapas bar given its miniscule portions. Nearly a year later, however, chef Tom Fosnot has apparently taken his cue from these customers, expanding both his menu items and portion sizes. Would his Ligurian-inspired (Italian Riviera) cuisine rival - and perhaps exceed – that belonging to his esteemed South End counterparts (such as Mistral and Stella)?
My wife and I venture out on chilly Sunday evening to sample Rocca’s aptly-named, uber-affordable prixe-fix menu as part of its Sunday Supper series, in which two courses and ‘sweet’ register at a wallet-friendly $22. Unless you’ve been locked away in a closet, it’s no secret that several upscale Boston eateries have recently created these cheaper dining alternatives with the hope of attracting additional customers during these difficult economic times.
Upon our arrival, Rocca is shockingly devoid of customers. The restaurant’s two-story interior, with eye-popping features that include cork walls and graffiti, is sleek and modern. Its lower level consists solely of a smallish bar/lounge area replete with plush sofas. Although this area is clearly a spot to which attractive people flock during the week, it lacks the visual panache, polish, and ‘it’ factor which makes neighboring Stella’s bar/lounge area superiorly vibrant (might this be where all of the patrons have congregated this evening?).
We proceed upstairs to the larger, more dramatic dining room. An illuminated light that fluctuates between colors flows across the ceiling like water down a riverbed. The general layout of this room, however, remains a mystery. Why not let the room breathe easily (similar to the overhead lighting) in an open space as opposed to partitioning it off into different sections? The antique movie posters and ropes attached to some of the walls violently clash with the otherwise modern ambience that permeates throughout the room.
Minor fashion faux-pas aside, let’s focus on the food, shall we? Parched with thirst, I order a cocktail coyly named ‘Scandolo al Sole,’ a unique concoction of homemade limoncello, tequila, grand marnier, and ginger beer. The mild sweet and sour flavor I am seeking from this beverage, however, is unfortunately wiped away by the overpowering acidity attributed to excess amounts of ginger beer.
More to my liking is a hearty portion of sweet and sour calamari, and not merely the doughy and overly saucy variety you’d typically expect to see in similar settings. These calamari are lightly breaded and interlaced with red and yellow peppers that infuse the dish with its sweet and sour flavors. This appetizer is so delectable, in fact, that the accompanying tartar sauce seems unnecessary. My wife and I also devour a silky, light farinata – chickpea flatbread with caramelized onions, mushrooms, and sage – served pie-like and reminiscent of a top-notch potato latke.
We move on to our entrée, which consists of veal cheeks served over saffron risotto. Although noticeably smaller in portion size than the preceding appetizer, the veal is deceptively rich in flavor and equally hearty. Though a tad on the fatty side (these are veal cheeks, after all), the meat is otherwise cooked to our liking and literally melts in our mouths. Although the accompanying risotto fails to surpass Mistral’s award-winning recipe (whose does?) given some goopy excess liquid, it adequately serves as a light, zesty compliment to the veal.
Our dessert, or ‘treat,’ is equally divine, though on a smaller scale portion-wise. A playful take on the ice cream sandwich – dense vanilla ice cream packed between two moist mini chocolate chip cookies, served with a warm dark chocolate dipping sauce - is far superior than the one I’d purchased on many occasions as a child from the local ice cream truck.
As for intangibles, Rocca passes with flying colors. Service exceeds my expectations, as our waitress, though not the most animated of servers, is competent, knowlegable of the menu, and attentive to our needs. In terms of cleanliness, not a breadcrumb is to be found, not even up the lengthy stairwell (though I will say that the men’s room is surprisingly chilly). And did I forget to praise Rocca’s easy-to-find location and conveniently situated free parking lot (hello, $15)?
Lastly, for sheer value, where else can one consume a three-course gourmet meal for $22 (Sunday evenings only)? Irrespective of Sunday offerings, Rocca’s appetizers weigh in between $8-$12, pastas average $12-$16, fish and meat entrees range from $19-$24, and desserts come in at $7-$9. Perhaps other universally respected but utterly pricey South End institutions such as Mistral and Hammersley’s Bistro would be wise to follow suit (ahem, $40 entrees, anyone?). Or perhaps Paul’s Palate is merely livin’ la via Rocca?
Monday, March 3, 2008
Friday, February 15, 2008
LOCO, I think I love you...
Dearest LOCO, beloved to me in the way you seductively offer the convenience of providing gourmet cuisine at only an arm’s length distance…You are my one and only amore to which I would like to dedicate this voracious Valentine’s Day greeting. I am not ashamed to say that you make me want to be a better diner. I vividly recall our first date several months ago: you were a younger and smaller restaurant then, located on a more tranquil side of town (Easton, Route 138) and tucked away into that quaint little shopping plaza which you called home. You showed gusto, however, when you represented yourself to local patrons as an authentic, upscale Spanish restaurant. Some skeptics laughed and believed your stay woule be ephemeral, but, like a smitten suitor, I dutifully remained by your side. After all, I found your sleek, intimate interior, your superior service, and your flavorful fare to be charming and intoxicating.
I must apologize, however, for the months that passed whereby not a morsel of food traveled from your plates into my mouth. Now that your one year anniversary has come and gone, I can see how you’ve grown and matured. Your owner, Jim Messinger, has wisely re-located you to a larger and more convenient space across town on Route 106 (near Five Corners) that is befitting of your many talents. Your allure, however, has largely remained intact: from the dark red-splashed walls to your genial, attentive wait staff, you haven’t changed one bit.
If there would be one major obstacle in our relationship that I could pinpoint, it would be the way in which you periodically tease me. Why must you insist on keeping me waiting forty-five minutes on the most romantic evening of the year when I had made reservations well in advance? Your friend, Jim, had shared with me in past conversations that he was working on developing a system to drastically reduce your wait time, but apparently there still exists a 2-hour wait on Friday nights. I will forgive you, however, given the dearth of fine dining establishments in the area. Clearly, you’re in demand, and not just the object of my affections. Sharing you with others makes me jealous, you know. At least you promptly e-mail me back when I have questions about your menu, I’ll give you that. You’ve always been courteous to me.
I also have just a couple of minor quibbles about your more new space. First, the expanded lounge area proved difficult to navigate through, particularly with traffic lines of customers occupying this area. I felt like a rat in one of those endless mazes, breathlessly weaving in and out amongst a plethora of leather seats and plastic tables. Second, due to a lack of a partition between the bar/lounge and main dining areas along with your high ceilings, the acoustics made it virtually impossible to conduct a conversation without resorting to shouting.
But let me take a moment to praise your many attributes, beginning first and foremost with the quality of food that comes out of your kitchen. My compliments to your Executive Chef, Melissa Batty, who utilizes relatively simple ingredients (such as olive oil) to create complex, savory dishes. Take, for instance, your fine selection of tapas calientes (hot tapas), specifically the patatas bravas. Merely fried potatoes, a mere foodie novice would assume. However, one bite reveals the potato’s slightly crisped (just perfect) exterior along with its moist, warm, cakey interior (even more perfect). Batty’s decision to cook this potato in olive oil makes these fried concoctions that much easier on the stomach. The lemon allioli garnishing these potatoes is also a refreshing touch: it cleanses the palate and compliments the mild spiciness of the accompanying tomato sauce. The fabada, though a smaller tapa portion, is an austurian stew whose white beans might be the largest I’ve ever seen (yes, you could say that they amount to a hill of beans) and whose base is light and zesty. The seared foie gras, playfully served alongside a grilled pear, buttery croutons, and a miniature apple, is mouthwateringly soft and scrumptious. My one complaint about this dish is its miniscule portion. Between my wife and I, we took no more than six bites of this delicacy before it vanished altogether from our plates.
One down note to the food festivities: prior to re-connecting, promises were made to me insisting that your rioja braised beef short ribs were divine. I must therefore express my disappointment at the relative blandness and fatiness of the meat. The caramelized root vegetables were visually evident on the ribs but lacked any substantive flavor. Shitake mushrooms alleged to be an ingredient were all but missing in action. The amount of fat on the ribs was extensive, and I felt like a jilted lover when faced with the need to adroitly cut away this extraneous residue in a small bowl and a poorly lit area, neither of which was conducive to using utensils. I don’t believe in cheating, my darling, but at that moment, I pondered leaving you for another dining destination. Your friend, Jim, however, convinced me not to break up with you, assuring me that we must order either the paella or the salmon (given that this is shipped three days in advance of most fish on the market, he claims it tastes as if it came right out of the ocean) during our next visit.
But like an aged wine, you improved over time. Particularly when it came to your exquisite desserts, my sweet. The peras al vino was simple but elegant, just like you. The warm pear poached in white wine and cinnamon was a light treat. I also indulged in your signature chocolate flan, which surprised me again and again with its potently sweet, dense, custard-mouse combination of dulce de leche and cocoa nibs. The flan was indisputably one of the most unique and memorable concoctions I’ve ever had the fortune of tasting.
Like every couple out there, we’re bound to have our disagreements, but at the end of the day, it’s you, and no one else, with whom I’d rather be spending my meals. LOCO, I’m crazy about you, and I think you’ve got great legs – that is, when it comes to my outlook on your long-term success in the town of Easton.
I must apologize, however, for the months that passed whereby not a morsel of food traveled from your plates into my mouth. Now that your one year anniversary has come and gone, I can see how you’ve grown and matured. Your owner, Jim Messinger, has wisely re-located you to a larger and more convenient space across town on Route 106 (near Five Corners) that is befitting of your many talents. Your allure, however, has largely remained intact: from the dark red-splashed walls to your genial, attentive wait staff, you haven’t changed one bit.
If there would be one major obstacle in our relationship that I could pinpoint, it would be the way in which you periodically tease me. Why must you insist on keeping me waiting forty-five minutes on the most romantic evening of the year when I had made reservations well in advance? Your friend, Jim, had shared with me in past conversations that he was working on developing a system to drastically reduce your wait time, but apparently there still exists a 2-hour wait on Friday nights. I will forgive you, however, given the dearth of fine dining establishments in the area. Clearly, you’re in demand, and not just the object of my affections. Sharing you with others makes me jealous, you know. At least you promptly e-mail me back when I have questions about your menu, I’ll give you that. You’ve always been courteous to me.
I also have just a couple of minor quibbles about your more new space. First, the expanded lounge area proved difficult to navigate through, particularly with traffic lines of customers occupying this area. I felt like a rat in one of those endless mazes, breathlessly weaving in and out amongst a plethora of leather seats and plastic tables. Second, due to a lack of a partition between the bar/lounge and main dining areas along with your high ceilings, the acoustics made it virtually impossible to conduct a conversation without resorting to shouting.
But let me take a moment to praise your many attributes, beginning first and foremost with the quality of food that comes out of your kitchen. My compliments to your Executive Chef, Melissa Batty, who utilizes relatively simple ingredients (such as olive oil) to create complex, savory dishes. Take, for instance, your fine selection of tapas calientes (hot tapas), specifically the patatas bravas. Merely fried potatoes, a mere foodie novice would assume. However, one bite reveals the potato’s slightly crisped (just perfect) exterior along with its moist, warm, cakey interior (even more perfect). Batty’s decision to cook this potato in olive oil makes these fried concoctions that much easier on the stomach. The lemon allioli garnishing these potatoes is also a refreshing touch: it cleanses the palate and compliments the mild spiciness of the accompanying tomato sauce. The fabada, though a smaller tapa portion, is an austurian stew whose white beans might be the largest I’ve ever seen (yes, you could say that they amount to a hill of beans) and whose base is light and zesty. The seared foie gras, playfully served alongside a grilled pear, buttery croutons, and a miniature apple, is mouthwateringly soft and scrumptious. My one complaint about this dish is its miniscule portion. Between my wife and I, we took no more than six bites of this delicacy before it vanished altogether from our plates.
One down note to the food festivities: prior to re-connecting, promises were made to me insisting that your rioja braised beef short ribs were divine. I must therefore express my disappointment at the relative blandness and fatiness of the meat. The caramelized root vegetables were visually evident on the ribs but lacked any substantive flavor. Shitake mushrooms alleged to be an ingredient were all but missing in action. The amount of fat on the ribs was extensive, and I felt like a jilted lover when faced with the need to adroitly cut away this extraneous residue in a small bowl and a poorly lit area, neither of which was conducive to using utensils. I don’t believe in cheating, my darling, but at that moment, I pondered leaving you for another dining destination. Your friend, Jim, however, convinced me not to break up with you, assuring me that we must order either the paella or the salmon (given that this is shipped three days in advance of most fish on the market, he claims it tastes as if it came right out of the ocean) during our next visit.
But like an aged wine, you improved over time. Particularly when it came to your exquisite desserts, my sweet. The peras al vino was simple but elegant, just like you. The warm pear poached in white wine and cinnamon was a light treat. I also indulged in your signature chocolate flan, which surprised me again and again with its potently sweet, dense, custard-mouse combination of dulce de leche and cocoa nibs. The flan was indisputably one of the most unique and memorable concoctions I’ve ever had the fortune of tasting.
Like every couple out there, we’re bound to have our disagreements, but at the end of the day, it’s you, and no one else, with whom I’d rather be spending my meals. LOCO, I’m crazy about you, and I think you’ve got great legs – that is, when it comes to my outlook on your long-term success in the town of Easton.
Friday, December 28, 2007
The Mystique of Mistral
Would Mistral, located on Columbus Avenue in Boston’s chic South End district, live up to its lofty reputation as one of the city’s trendiest, tastiest, and most expensive dining destinations? That was the question du jour for this reviewer, who was calmly prepared to drop over $200 for a meal allegedly suited for a king (well, it better be). As part of a formidable culinary quintet under the aptly named Commonwealth Restaurant Group (which includes elite eateries Teatro, Sorellina, Mooo, and the newly added L’Andana in Burlington, MA), chef/owner Jamie Mammano’s Mistral has just concluded its first decade-long run in Boston. In light of its notoriously renowned exorbitant prices, Mistral’s longevity has often been attributed to Mammano’s ability to create consistently delectable French Mediterranean fare for a hip (and wealthy) clientele. The term Mistral signifies ‘a dry, cold northerly wind that blows in squalls toward the Mediterranean coast of southern France.’ Would Paul’s Palate be ‘blown’ away by Mistral’s grandeur or would he wish he hadn’t ‘blown’ away his well-earned money on his meal there?
Mistral’s ambience is indeed a beautiful, sweeping accomplishment to behold. You feel like hip royalty (think Sofia Coppola’s recent film version of Marie Antoinette) upon entering its doors. On Mistral’s website, its interior is described as heavily influenced by the ethereal landscape of Provence in southern France. From its hand-picked French pottery, high ceilings, and arch terra cotta floor to ceiling windows, this bistro masterfully meshes French tranquility and regality with Bostonian modernism and sophistication. Tall cypress trees provide a convenient, scenic partition between Mistral’s chic, expansive lounge/bar (seating 40 patrons) and its dramatic main dining area (seating 140). It doesn’t hurt matters that the building’s acoustics actually enable me to conduct a meaningful, even comprehensible conversation with my wife. Paul’s Palate even tries to discreetly determine if Mistral falls victim to the dreaded breadcrumb virus that periodically breaks out at some of the city’s other restaurants, but alas, there is not a morsel to be found in this pristine establishment.
Subtract the stuffiness and arrogance one might think universally accompanies this type of atmosphere, add a hint of casualness, and this is what makes Mistral so refreshingly inviting for first-timers such as myself. Everything about this restaurant implies, “Sure, you’ll be emptying out your wallet this evening, but we sincerely welcome you here and hope to see you again soon.”
Our server arrives, and he is genial, knowledgeable, witty, and attentive all at once, which is no small feat. He applauds our audacity to sample the most adventurous of appetizers from the menu. One such selection, a sushi tuna tartare with crispy wontons, is lusciously soft and packs a potent kick given its submersion in a zingy ginger and soy sauce (or perhaps this could be attributed to my consumption of a unique, but lively pear/ginger martini?). The other: seared foie gras with a confit of duck in brioche. The succulent meat of the duck is perfectly accentuated by a sweet-tangy tart Wisconsin cherry reduction, enough so that I found the brioche to be superfluous to the dish. So far, so good, and away on to the entrees we go.
Although I express some reluctance in ordering the half ‘whole roasted’ duck given my previous, albeit delicious, encounter with this pheasant in the form of the foie gras, our server assures me that the former dish is distinct enough to warrant a gander (no pun intended). Gobble, gobble, indeed: although this particular duck possesses the same moistness of its fowl predecessor, it contains a sprinkle of mild cranberry gastrique so as not to make the dish overpoweringly sweet. Its skin is buttery and smooth, atypical of the crunchy, tasteless covering that typically surrounds this type of bird. Underneath the duck lies a superlative wild mushroom risotto, undeniably the best Paul’s Palate has ever consumed. Unlike most risotto, which is pasty in texture and heavy on the stomach, this concoction is light, yet hearty, and plenty flavorful (the sweet mushrooms take center stage). I would have been more than content spending my entire evening wolfing down this miraculous side dish. Neither does my wife’s roasted rack of Colorado lamb disappoint. Three ‘ginormous’ (yes, they’re that large) are playfully presented atop - what else – that unforgettable mushroom risotto, and prove to be meaty, fatless, and perfectly cooked. Chef Mammano’s cuisine has thus far left a most positive imprint.
Desserts provide a saccharinely sensational conclusion to the evening. My wife’s eyeballs immediately shoot skyward upon delving into a rich, dense Belgian chocolate sorbet. Where else but here would such a rare sorbet be offered to the dairy-deficient masses? My warm apple tart with maple walnut ice cream, albeit simple in presentation, is the ultimate comfort food. The sweet and sour flavored theme that worked to perfection with the aforementioned foie gras reappears here with equally striking success.
Let me be frank: Paul’s Palate immensely enjoyed Mistral, enough so, perhaps, so as to place this esteemed establishment on his top five all-time favorites list. In fact, I can’t wait to go back there. Wait, let me re-phrase that: my empty wallet prohibits me from doing so. Let’s do the math: appetizers average $16-$18, entrees between $35-$40, and desserts at $10. Tack on a couple of cocktails ($12 apiece) and customary $15 valet parking, and your tab soars well north of $200. That’s a hefty price to pay for near perfection, to which Mistral comes awfully close. Looking for that romantic dining spot to celebrate a special occasion? Certainly. A return affair, however? Only if you’re buying, my dear friends. I believe Mastercard said it best: ‘the cost of a wonderfully prepared gourmet meal: $200; the mortified expression on your face having perused your ridiculously expensive bill: priceless.’
Mistral’s ambience is indeed a beautiful, sweeping accomplishment to behold. You feel like hip royalty (think Sofia Coppola’s recent film version of Marie Antoinette) upon entering its doors. On Mistral’s website, its interior is described as heavily influenced by the ethereal landscape of Provence in southern France. From its hand-picked French pottery, high ceilings, and arch terra cotta floor to ceiling windows, this bistro masterfully meshes French tranquility and regality with Bostonian modernism and sophistication. Tall cypress trees provide a convenient, scenic partition between Mistral’s chic, expansive lounge/bar (seating 40 patrons) and its dramatic main dining area (seating 140). It doesn’t hurt matters that the building’s acoustics actually enable me to conduct a meaningful, even comprehensible conversation with my wife. Paul’s Palate even tries to discreetly determine if Mistral falls victim to the dreaded breadcrumb virus that periodically breaks out at some of the city’s other restaurants, but alas, there is not a morsel to be found in this pristine establishment.
Subtract the stuffiness and arrogance one might think universally accompanies this type of atmosphere, add a hint of casualness, and this is what makes Mistral so refreshingly inviting for first-timers such as myself. Everything about this restaurant implies, “Sure, you’ll be emptying out your wallet this evening, but we sincerely welcome you here and hope to see you again soon.”
Our server arrives, and he is genial, knowledgeable, witty, and attentive all at once, which is no small feat. He applauds our audacity to sample the most adventurous of appetizers from the menu. One such selection, a sushi tuna tartare with crispy wontons, is lusciously soft and packs a potent kick given its submersion in a zingy ginger and soy sauce (or perhaps this could be attributed to my consumption of a unique, but lively pear/ginger martini?). The other: seared foie gras with a confit of duck in brioche. The succulent meat of the duck is perfectly accentuated by a sweet-tangy tart Wisconsin cherry reduction, enough so that I found the brioche to be superfluous to the dish. So far, so good, and away on to the entrees we go.
Although I express some reluctance in ordering the half ‘whole roasted’ duck given my previous, albeit delicious, encounter with this pheasant in the form of the foie gras, our server assures me that the former dish is distinct enough to warrant a gander (no pun intended). Gobble, gobble, indeed: although this particular duck possesses the same moistness of its fowl predecessor, it contains a sprinkle of mild cranberry gastrique so as not to make the dish overpoweringly sweet. Its skin is buttery and smooth, atypical of the crunchy, tasteless covering that typically surrounds this type of bird. Underneath the duck lies a superlative wild mushroom risotto, undeniably the best Paul’s Palate has ever consumed. Unlike most risotto, which is pasty in texture and heavy on the stomach, this concoction is light, yet hearty, and plenty flavorful (the sweet mushrooms take center stage). I would have been more than content spending my entire evening wolfing down this miraculous side dish. Neither does my wife’s roasted rack of Colorado lamb disappoint. Three ‘ginormous’ (yes, they’re that large) are playfully presented atop - what else – that unforgettable mushroom risotto, and prove to be meaty, fatless, and perfectly cooked. Chef Mammano’s cuisine has thus far left a most positive imprint.
Desserts provide a saccharinely sensational conclusion to the evening. My wife’s eyeballs immediately shoot skyward upon delving into a rich, dense Belgian chocolate sorbet. Where else but here would such a rare sorbet be offered to the dairy-deficient masses? My warm apple tart with maple walnut ice cream, albeit simple in presentation, is the ultimate comfort food. The sweet and sour flavored theme that worked to perfection with the aforementioned foie gras reappears here with equally striking success.
Let me be frank: Paul’s Palate immensely enjoyed Mistral, enough so, perhaps, so as to place this esteemed establishment on his top five all-time favorites list. In fact, I can’t wait to go back there. Wait, let me re-phrase that: my empty wallet prohibits me from doing so. Let’s do the math: appetizers average $16-$18, entrees between $35-$40, and desserts at $10. Tack on a couple of cocktails ($12 apiece) and customary $15 valet parking, and your tab soars well north of $200. That’s a hefty price to pay for near perfection, to which Mistral comes awfully close. Looking for that romantic dining spot to celebrate a special occasion? Certainly. A return affair, however? Only if you’re buying, my dear friends. I believe Mastercard said it best: ‘the cost of a wonderfully prepared gourmet meal: $200; the mortified expression on your face having perused your ridiculously expensive bill: priceless.’
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Spanish Inquisition
When Paul’s Palate is invited to a cordial after-work Holiday party, he finds himself transformed into a latter-day Ebenezer Scrooge. “Bah hum-bug,” I say, to overrated holiday spirit and hopes for a bright new year. But when this invitation is accompanied by the words ‘…at one of Rhode Island’s nicest restaurants,’ well, his interest, and taste buds immediately awaken. The restaurant in question: Spain, a decorous outfit situated on busy Route 2 in Cranston, RI, whose ‘authentic’ Spanish cuisine supposedly has local food aficionados in the Ocean State swimming with praise. Would Paul’s Palate find himself swept along in this tide of superlatives or would he end up drowning in negativity?
As far as ambience goes, Spain has oodles of it, if not an excess of it. Despite being cramped in alongside bustling Route 2 and having a shockingly limited amount of parking for such a large establishment, it is evident that Spain desperately wants customers to feel as if they have been whisked away into the streets of Madrid. From its glamorous courtyard dining area, to a posh bar, to segmented rooms on a luxurious second floor, however, the term ‘authentic’ does not exactly spring to mind. Having traveled across this bucolic country several years ago, Paul’s Palate recalls how this region prides itself in its simplicity and graciousness (more on that later). Spain (the restaurant), however, seems to find itself caught in an identity crisis: from its marble tiles to its backlit bar to its ‘I’m cooler than you’ll ever be’ staff, this establishment speaks in a foreign tongue. Spain can’t decide if it’s better to dine in a tranquil Spanish garden or a more elaborate upscale, gourmet setting, so it bafflingly elects to be both.
While the food at Spain rates as certainly above average, the menu offerings do not yell out authentic Spanish fare. Spain half-heartedly gets things right with such side dishes as esparragos a la vinagreta (imported Spanish white asparagus topped with olive oil and shaved vinaigrette), grilled smoked chorizo (Spanish sausage), and gazpacho. Other dishes, however, are just plain insulting in terms of their categorization as Spanish fare: Picasso and Spain salads are nothing more than seasonal lettuce sprinkled with olive oil dressing and Gorgonzola cheese. And what gives with Spain’s insistence to stuff anything in everything with shrimp, scallops, and crabmeat, such as mushroom caps, and vieras rellenas (stuffed scallops)? Surely, Picasso (the late, great Spanish artist) would be rolling in his grave at such non-traditional nonsense. Other appetizers, such as calamari, jumbo shrimp cocktail, and clam casino are certainly not Spanish delicacies. Bring on some tapas, demands this confounded critic, but sadly, there are none of these tiny, tasty regional specialties to be had. To make matters worse, the white sangria, a mix of orange juice and white wine, lacks the customary zip that Paul’s Palate expects from this typically potent beverage.
The entrees, in all fairness, appear to be more successful in their attempt to re-create the Spanish fare I’ve come to know and love. Dishes such as veal Jerez (veal filets sauteed with asparagus, spinach, imported prosciutto, and provolone in a light Jerez sherry sauce), solomillo del cerdo (pork tenderloin with a port wine wild berry shitake mushroom sauce), camarones diablo (shrimp prepared in a Romano tomato with an herb spice sauce) and paella marinera (shellfish baked in saffron rice) all sound appetizing. Our server confidently recommends the veal Spain, which consists of a provimi veal loin chop with – you guessed it – lobster, crabmeat, smoked ham, Castilian cheese, and topped with a mushroom Malaga wine sauce. The impressive presentation of this dish is eye-popping, for sure, and the sheer enormity of the loin chop instantly brings this image to mind: Fred Flintstone’s car topping over upon ordering his gigantic order of brontosauras ribs. The meat is succulent enough, but would it hurt the chef to err on the side of simplicity, not excess? There’s too much filler in the meat. Paul’s Palate would be content with lobster, crabmeat, or ham with his veal, but digesting all three makes him nauseous.
Speaking of wave-inducing nausea, Paul’s Palate finds the much-heralded level of service at Spain intolerable. While it is universally acknowledged that Spain (the country) prides itself on conducting meals at a leisurely pace, Spain (the restaurant) serves its meals at that of a snail’s. Our main server appears to be indifferent, if not downright rude to our table. It seems as if an hour has passed by before he takes our order, and he abruptly delegates the remainder of the meal to a group of servers. While these waiters are more attentive to our needs, there is a lack of continuity to the meal that that detracts from what should be a memorable dining experience. While Paul’s Palate is delighted to bite into homemade banana bread pudding, topped with a creamy vanilla-raspberry sauce, as the evening’s finale, the damage has already been done and, I’m afraid, is irreparable.
Although value is considered more than fair, with appetizers averaging $9 and most entrees ranging between $15-$22, overall Spain rates poorly given its lack of (or, dare I say, warped sense of) authentic Spanish atmosphere and cuisine. A lackluster, pretentious level of service does not help matters. Where’s the 'amor (love),' you ask? Paul’s Palate recommends seeking it out in the real Spain, not at this imposter of a fine dining establishment.
As far as ambience goes, Spain has oodles of it, if not an excess of it. Despite being cramped in alongside bustling Route 2 and having a shockingly limited amount of parking for such a large establishment, it is evident that Spain desperately wants customers to feel as if they have been whisked away into the streets of Madrid. From its glamorous courtyard dining area, to a posh bar, to segmented rooms on a luxurious second floor, however, the term ‘authentic’ does not exactly spring to mind. Having traveled across this bucolic country several years ago, Paul’s Palate recalls how this region prides itself in its simplicity and graciousness (more on that later). Spain (the restaurant), however, seems to find itself caught in an identity crisis: from its marble tiles to its backlit bar to its ‘I’m cooler than you’ll ever be’ staff, this establishment speaks in a foreign tongue. Spain can’t decide if it’s better to dine in a tranquil Spanish garden or a more elaborate upscale, gourmet setting, so it bafflingly elects to be both.
While the food at Spain rates as certainly above average, the menu offerings do not yell out authentic Spanish fare. Spain half-heartedly gets things right with such side dishes as esparragos a la vinagreta (imported Spanish white asparagus topped with olive oil and shaved vinaigrette), grilled smoked chorizo (Spanish sausage), and gazpacho. Other dishes, however, are just plain insulting in terms of their categorization as Spanish fare: Picasso and Spain salads are nothing more than seasonal lettuce sprinkled with olive oil dressing and Gorgonzola cheese. And what gives with Spain’s insistence to stuff anything in everything with shrimp, scallops, and crabmeat, such as mushroom caps, and vieras rellenas (stuffed scallops)? Surely, Picasso (the late, great Spanish artist) would be rolling in his grave at such non-traditional nonsense. Other appetizers, such as calamari, jumbo shrimp cocktail, and clam casino are certainly not Spanish delicacies. Bring on some tapas, demands this confounded critic, but sadly, there are none of these tiny, tasty regional specialties to be had. To make matters worse, the white sangria, a mix of orange juice and white wine, lacks the customary zip that Paul’s Palate expects from this typically potent beverage.
The entrees, in all fairness, appear to be more successful in their attempt to re-create the Spanish fare I’ve come to know and love. Dishes such as veal Jerez (veal filets sauteed with asparagus, spinach, imported prosciutto, and provolone in a light Jerez sherry sauce), solomillo del cerdo (pork tenderloin with a port wine wild berry shitake mushroom sauce), camarones diablo (shrimp prepared in a Romano tomato with an herb spice sauce) and paella marinera (shellfish baked in saffron rice) all sound appetizing. Our server confidently recommends the veal Spain, which consists of a provimi veal loin chop with – you guessed it – lobster, crabmeat, smoked ham, Castilian cheese, and topped with a mushroom Malaga wine sauce. The impressive presentation of this dish is eye-popping, for sure, and the sheer enormity of the loin chop instantly brings this image to mind: Fred Flintstone’s car topping over upon ordering his gigantic order of brontosauras ribs. The meat is succulent enough, but would it hurt the chef to err on the side of simplicity, not excess? There’s too much filler in the meat. Paul’s Palate would be content with lobster, crabmeat, or ham with his veal, but digesting all three makes him nauseous.
Speaking of wave-inducing nausea, Paul’s Palate finds the much-heralded level of service at Spain intolerable. While it is universally acknowledged that Spain (the country) prides itself on conducting meals at a leisurely pace, Spain (the restaurant) serves its meals at that of a snail’s. Our main server appears to be indifferent, if not downright rude to our table. It seems as if an hour has passed by before he takes our order, and he abruptly delegates the remainder of the meal to a group of servers. While these waiters are more attentive to our needs, there is a lack of continuity to the meal that that detracts from what should be a memorable dining experience. While Paul’s Palate is delighted to bite into homemade banana bread pudding, topped with a creamy vanilla-raspberry sauce, as the evening’s finale, the damage has already been done and, I’m afraid, is irreparable.
Although value is considered more than fair, with appetizers averaging $9 and most entrees ranging between $15-$22, overall Spain rates poorly given its lack of (or, dare I say, warped sense of) authentic Spanish atmosphere and cuisine. A lackluster, pretentious level of service does not help matters. Where’s the 'amor (love),' you ask? Paul’s Palate recommends seeking it out in the real Spain, not at this imposter of a fine dining establishment.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Stella Finds Its Groove
Would Stella, a swanky new addition to the South End’s “restaurant row” situated on Washington Street, live up to its billing? After all, an inordinate amount of praise has been heaped upon this establishment, whose trendy ambience and Italian fare have allegedly made this one of Boston’s new dining hotspots. Would Paul’s Palate, like the late Marlon Brando in “A Streetcar Named Desire,” scream aloud Stella’s name in the form of superlatives or shame?
‘Chic’ is the first word that immediately comes to mind upon entering Stella’s pristine interior. Its main dining area is quite large (seats 60) and extends from front-to-back, and if you loop around by the busy kitchen, you’ll find a hidden treasure buried nearby: a smaller, more intimate private room (seats 50) directly overlooking both busy Washington Street and Stella’s seasonal terrazino (an outdoor patio which seats 50 more patrons!). Stella’s all-white interior, dimmed lighting, and illuminated bar create a sleek, modern vibe that is undeniably intoxicating. I half-heartedly expect some type of celebrity to walk into the room at any moment.
This is not to say that Stella’s atmosphere does not have its shortcomings. For one, Paul’s Palate nearly resorts to shouting in order to maintain any semblance of conversation given the poor acoustics, even in the private room. Despite Stella’s painstakingly complex interior design, the plastic wavy white chairs at our table are a fashion monstrosity, if not downright humorous. Lastly, we almost miss the restaurant itself given its lack of exterior lighting and signage. Noise factors aside, most of these minor flaws appear easily correctible.
Fortunately for us, my wife recognizes Stella’s Executive Chef, Robin King, as an acquaintance of hers. Mr. King is outgoing, energetic, and most importantly, both knowledgeable and passionate about the food he prepares. He later arrives at out table and shares with us his favorite dishes on the menu that evening.
The assortment of antipasti from which we choose is both unique and delicious. We begin with crispy fried artichoke hearts, which are playfully served on a narrow plate, and sit atop creamy, zesty country mustard remoulade. I would be more than happy to simply nibble on these tasty tidbits all evening long, but I remind myself that there is much more in store for the remainder of the meal. King also highly recommends the tuna tartare with fried eggs, to which Paul’s Palate responds with slight apprehension given his lack of exposure to raw tuna. One bite of this dish, however, and his tastebuds sing. This most certainly is a winning dish, and makes me want to run into the kitchen and thank Robin for his spot-on suggestion.
As if he were reading my mind, Mr. King brings out a couple of complimentary appetizers to our table. Of the two dishes, the grilled ‘pizze’ with Quattro funghi, shiitake mushrooms, crimini, oyster, and white truffle oil is my least favorite. It is surprisingly bland and lacks the crispness previously relayed to us by Robin. The marinated beet salad, however, served with goat cheese, champagne vinaigrette, and a crunchy crostini, is a marvel of a dish. This salad, along with the tuna tartare, is the last thing Paul’s Palate would ever consider ordering from the menu. Mr King and his diverse menu have miraculously, as the Monkees’ hit song goes, transformed me into a believer.
Pasta dishes are equally delectable. My hearty homemade spaghetti, although a simple dish, is perfectly cooked al dente, and possesses several layers of complexity in flavor, with its toasted garlic, olive oil, and parmesan ingredients. My wife’s orecchiette is also tasty, though a tad too spicy for my liking (King himself rates this dish an 8 out of 10 on the spicy scale), with its chile flakes interwoven with sausage and cured tomato. The couple seated across from us is also deeply appreciative of the quality of their meals. On one plate resides Stella homemade gnocchi, which is wonderfully light, packs a potent potato flavor, and is mixed with tomato, basil, and reggiano. On the other rests a succulent lamb shank surrounded by scrumptious mushroom risotto.
For dessert, the apple crostini comes in a light and fluffy pastry, but not surprisingly, the real stars are the apples, which are moist, warm, and lumpy. Might I add that this dish is accompanied by a steamy-sweet caramel sauce for dipping purposes? This sweet symphony proves so heavenly that Paul’s Palate actually passes on vanilla gelato that also accompanies this dessert.
Value-wise, Stella ranks as one of Paul’s Palate’s all-time favorites. There is simply a dearth of high-end gourmet restaurants that offer appetizers averaging $10 and entrees from $14-$26. Given the lack of weight removed from my wallet that night, I didn’t hesitate to surrender $16 for valet parking. Novelist Terry McMillan got it right after all: Stella most certainly has got her groove back, and Paul’s Palate finds this new culinary kid on the block groovy.
‘Chic’ is the first word that immediately comes to mind upon entering Stella’s pristine interior. Its main dining area is quite large (seats 60) and extends from front-to-back, and if you loop around by the busy kitchen, you’ll find a hidden treasure buried nearby: a smaller, more intimate private room (seats 50) directly overlooking both busy Washington Street and Stella’s seasonal terrazino (an outdoor patio which seats 50 more patrons!). Stella’s all-white interior, dimmed lighting, and illuminated bar create a sleek, modern vibe that is undeniably intoxicating. I half-heartedly expect some type of celebrity to walk into the room at any moment.
This is not to say that Stella’s atmosphere does not have its shortcomings. For one, Paul’s Palate nearly resorts to shouting in order to maintain any semblance of conversation given the poor acoustics, even in the private room. Despite Stella’s painstakingly complex interior design, the plastic wavy white chairs at our table are a fashion monstrosity, if not downright humorous. Lastly, we almost miss the restaurant itself given its lack of exterior lighting and signage. Noise factors aside, most of these minor flaws appear easily correctible.
Fortunately for us, my wife recognizes Stella’s Executive Chef, Robin King, as an acquaintance of hers. Mr. King is outgoing, energetic, and most importantly, both knowledgeable and passionate about the food he prepares. He later arrives at out table and shares with us his favorite dishes on the menu that evening.
The assortment of antipasti from which we choose is both unique and delicious. We begin with crispy fried artichoke hearts, which are playfully served on a narrow plate, and sit atop creamy, zesty country mustard remoulade. I would be more than happy to simply nibble on these tasty tidbits all evening long, but I remind myself that there is much more in store for the remainder of the meal. King also highly recommends the tuna tartare with fried eggs, to which Paul’s Palate responds with slight apprehension given his lack of exposure to raw tuna. One bite of this dish, however, and his tastebuds sing. This most certainly is a winning dish, and makes me want to run into the kitchen and thank Robin for his spot-on suggestion.
As if he were reading my mind, Mr. King brings out a couple of complimentary appetizers to our table. Of the two dishes, the grilled ‘pizze’ with Quattro funghi, shiitake mushrooms, crimini, oyster, and white truffle oil is my least favorite. It is surprisingly bland and lacks the crispness previously relayed to us by Robin. The marinated beet salad, however, served with goat cheese, champagne vinaigrette, and a crunchy crostini, is a marvel of a dish. This salad, along with the tuna tartare, is the last thing Paul’s Palate would ever consider ordering from the menu. Mr King and his diverse menu have miraculously, as the Monkees’ hit song goes, transformed me into a believer.
Pasta dishes are equally delectable. My hearty homemade spaghetti, although a simple dish, is perfectly cooked al dente, and possesses several layers of complexity in flavor, with its toasted garlic, olive oil, and parmesan ingredients. My wife’s orecchiette is also tasty, though a tad too spicy for my liking (King himself rates this dish an 8 out of 10 on the spicy scale), with its chile flakes interwoven with sausage and cured tomato. The couple seated across from us is also deeply appreciative of the quality of their meals. On one plate resides Stella homemade gnocchi, which is wonderfully light, packs a potent potato flavor, and is mixed with tomato, basil, and reggiano. On the other rests a succulent lamb shank surrounded by scrumptious mushroom risotto.
For dessert, the apple crostini comes in a light and fluffy pastry, but not surprisingly, the real stars are the apples, which are moist, warm, and lumpy. Might I add that this dish is accompanied by a steamy-sweet caramel sauce for dipping purposes? This sweet symphony proves so heavenly that Paul’s Palate actually passes on vanilla gelato that also accompanies this dessert.
Value-wise, Stella ranks as one of Paul’s Palate’s all-time favorites. There is simply a dearth of high-end gourmet restaurants that offer appetizers averaging $10 and entrees from $14-$26. Given the lack of weight removed from my wallet that night, I didn’t hesitate to surrender $16 for valet parking. Novelist Terry McMillan got it right after all: Stella most certainly has got her groove back, and Paul’s Palate finds this new culinary kid on the block groovy.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Getting Spoiled at L'Espalier
Had Marie Antoinette, the French queen renowned for her extravagant lifestyle centuries ago, survived the guillotine to see L’Espalier, would she flock to eat at this prestigious French dining establishment, which also has been known to demonstrate a flair for the dramatic? After all, Chef/Proprietor Frank McClelland’s restaurant is widely regarded as the most romantic hotspot in all of Boston which boasts arguably the finest modern French cuisine around. In the absence of a time machine in which Paul’s Palate could travel to Versailles and query the Queen directly, he took it upon himself to travel in the present time to Boston and investigate this matter further.
Nestled slightly off of tranquil Gloucester Street (parallel to more bustling Newbury Street) in Boston’s Back Bay, L’Espalier’s sophistication is instantly evident. Beyond a regal-looking iron-gate entrance resides a restored 1880 townhouse in which L’Espalier is embedded. The restaurant’s pristine main dining area overlooks Gloucester Street, and its taupe and cream colored walls and cathedral-like ceiling provide a spacious, yet intimate setting. Our affable and knowledgeable Maitre d’, Louis Risoli, escorts my wife and I to our table. L’Espalier’s atmosphere, similar to its dress code, can be downright haughty and intimidating, but only if you permit it: after all, while jackets and ties are the encouraged methods of attire for male patrons, they are not required. After glancing across the room, it appears that my culinary counterparts, sans jackets and ties, provide a refreshing glimpse into what L’Espalier ultimately can be: a refined, yet relaxed dining experience.
Our first course is nothing short of excellence. My wife dives into a crisp salad layered with a zesty vinaigrette dressing and crunchy, flavorful nuts. Our server also brings over a large bowl solely containing a tiny circular substance, which leads me to ponder whether or not L’Espalier has actually fallen into the age-old stereotype of ‘French fare equates to plate bare.’ Thankfully, however, he swiftly returns and theatrically pours hot, steaming orange squash soup into the bowl. That aforementioned, questionable circular substance proves to be candied pumpkin, an innovative ingredient that meshes wonderfully with the squash and infuses additional flavor into this light, delightful concoction. Oh, and lest I forget to add that the homemade bread, particularly that of the fig and black olive varieties, is simply divine.
Our entrees also rate strongly, if slightly less so. My wife’s pan-roasted halibut is served in preserved lemon vinaigrette alongside tasty couscous. While the fish is light and buttery, the side order of couscous is almost an afterthought given its disappointing scarcity on the plate. My confit rabbit leg is cooked to perfection, which is no small feat, but once again, the meat on the leg is a bit lacking. The accompanying mashed potato-like polenta and brussel sprouts seem an odd pairing with rabbit at face value, but they surprisingly pull the dish together quite nicely.
Dessert is pure bliss. The chocolate decadence cake is artistically presented in a rectangular plate, alongside luscious blackberries and raspberries, wild strawberry anglaise, and a dollop of ethereal, uniquely flavored orange blossom ice cream.
As is to be expected in such an extravagant setting, service is superior. Although I would not characterize our server as being overly friendly, one cannot underscore the importance of the relaxed pacing he brought to the meal. Shouldn’t a meal ultimately resemble the contemplative nature one takes when sampling a fine wine, whereby conversation is reduced to a minimum so that the aromas and tastes may be more fully appreciated?
In terms of value, patrons may simply decide that traveling to France may prove more economical that venturing out to Gloucester Street. We were fortunate enough to sample the 3-course prix fixe lunch menu, which comes reasonably priced at $24 per person. Come dinner time, however, these prices soar to $75. For more ravenous (and wealthier) customers, a 7-course degustation tasting can be had for $94, and the chef’s tasting for a whopping $175. Tack on an additional $16 for valet parking (evenings only) given the congested traffic in the area and that Parisian trip might not sound so crazy after all.
Marie Antoinette was once rumored to have exclaimed, “Let them eat cake,” in reference to her unsympathetic stance on the decaying state of France’s impoverished citizens. The bottom line is this: Paul’s Palate happily ate his cake and more at L’Espalier, but could very easily have joined the ranks of the impoverished in the process. Make no mistake: he thoroughly enjoyed his dining experience there. Memorable? Yes. Unforgettable? Let’s just say that it did not make Paul’s Palate forget Paris.
Nestled slightly off of tranquil Gloucester Street (parallel to more bustling Newbury Street) in Boston’s Back Bay, L’Espalier’s sophistication is instantly evident. Beyond a regal-looking iron-gate entrance resides a restored 1880 townhouse in which L’Espalier is embedded. The restaurant’s pristine main dining area overlooks Gloucester Street, and its taupe and cream colored walls and cathedral-like ceiling provide a spacious, yet intimate setting. Our affable and knowledgeable Maitre d’, Louis Risoli, escorts my wife and I to our table. L’Espalier’s atmosphere, similar to its dress code, can be downright haughty and intimidating, but only if you permit it: after all, while jackets and ties are the encouraged methods of attire for male patrons, they are not required. After glancing across the room, it appears that my culinary counterparts, sans jackets and ties, provide a refreshing glimpse into what L’Espalier ultimately can be: a refined, yet relaxed dining experience.
Our first course is nothing short of excellence. My wife dives into a crisp salad layered with a zesty vinaigrette dressing and crunchy, flavorful nuts. Our server also brings over a large bowl solely containing a tiny circular substance, which leads me to ponder whether or not L’Espalier has actually fallen into the age-old stereotype of ‘French fare equates to plate bare.’ Thankfully, however, he swiftly returns and theatrically pours hot, steaming orange squash soup into the bowl. That aforementioned, questionable circular substance proves to be candied pumpkin, an innovative ingredient that meshes wonderfully with the squash and infuses additional flavor into this light, delightful concoction. Oh, and lest I forget to add that the homemade bread, particularly that of the fig and black olive varieties, is simply divine.
Our entrees also rate strongly, if slightly less so. My wife’s pan-roasted halibut is served in preserved lemon vinaigrette alongside tasty couscous. While the fish is light and buttery, the side order of couscous is almost an afterthought given its disappointing scarcity on the plate. My confit rabbit leg is cooked to perfection, which is no small feat, but once again, the meat on the leg is a bit lacking. The accompanying mashed potato-like polenta and brussel sprouts seem an odd pairing with rabbit at face value, but they surprisingly pull the dish together quite nicely.
Dessert is pure bliss. The chocolate decadence cake is artistically presented in a rectangular plate, alongside luscious blackberries and raspberries, wild strawberry anglaise, and a dollop of ethereal, uniquely flavored orange blossom ice cream.
As is to be expected in such an extravagant setting, service is superior. Although I would not characterize our server as being overly friendly, one cannot underscore the importance of the relaxed pacing he brought to the meal. Shouldn’t a meal ultimately resemble the contemplative nature one takes when sampling a fine wine, whereby conversation is reduced to a minimum so that the aromas and tastes may be more fully appreciated?
In terms of value, patrons may simply decide that traveling to France may prove more economical that venturing out to Gloucester Street. We were fortunate enough to sample the 3-course prix fixe lunch menu, which comes reasonably priced at $24 per person. Come dinner time, however, these prices soar to $75. For more ravenous (and wealthier) customers, a 7-course degustation tasting can be had for $94, and the chef’s tasting for a whopping $175. Tack on an additional $16 for valet parking (evenings only) given the congested traffic in the area and that Parisian trip might not sound so crazy after all.
Marie Antoinette was once rumored to have exclaimed, “Let them eat cake,” in reference to her unsympathetic stance on the decaying state of France’s impoverished citizens. The bottom line is this: Paul’s Palate happily ate his cake and more at L’Espalier, but could very easily have joined the ranks of the impoverished in the process. Make no mistake: he thoroughly enjoyed his dining experience there. Memorable? Yes. Unforgettable? Let’s just say that it did not make Paul’s Palate forget Paris.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Lineage is a Tradition Worth Keeping
Given that this ravenous reviewer intends to take his mother out for an unforgettable birthday dinner, and spend it alongside his spouse, his brother, and his brother’s wife, what finer and more fitting way then but to spend it at Lineage, a Brookline-based eatery that celebrates family heritage? After all, Jeremy and Lisa Sewall form a potent husband-and-wife tandem whose concept of “Lineage” spawns from the former’s very own (for instance, one fascinating tidbit is that one of his predecessors served as Brookline’s first Town Clerk and even lent the name of his family’s “Brooklin” lands to this very community). Will Lineage ultimately continue Mr. Sewall’s longstanding family tradition of perfection or will Paul’s Palate recommend that this establishment be removed from the family tree?
Lineage’s interior is sleek, yet warm, and deceptively large. To our left, we discover an airy dining area, and straight ahead, a greenish, modestly-lit bar where several lively patrons are seated. We select a more slightly intimate room to our right, which includes plush carpeting and a soothing maritime painting sprawled against its back wall. Our jovial hostess greets us and directs us to our table.
What our server lacks in vivacity and menu mastery, she accounts for in both courtesy and attentiveness. Her first cocktail recommendation is a Brazilian rum that is supposed to be sweet but resembles nothing more than a bland mojito. The refreshingly sweet Lineage Lemonade, however, is a real crowd pleaser: refreshing, sweet, and playfully presented in the form of a “black and tan” (in this case, red and yellow).
For appetizers, our server encourages us to sample the luscious halibut tacos, a unique dish whose buttery, moist fish is the most mouth-watering I’ve had in recent memory. The only shortcoming here is that only four are plated. This reviewer is prepared to jump out of his seat and seek out Mr. Sewall to ascertain if this particular family recipe is for sale. Not to be outdone, however, is the homemade tomato soup served with truffle oil and crisp beignets. The soup is light, yet hearty, sooths one’s stomach, and is the perfect lead-in to our main courses.
My spouse’s pork is both succulent and meaty, accompanied by savory roasted figs, fingerling potatoes, and spinach. The remainder of our table gnaws on savory steak layered with bleu cheese and mashed potatoes. I must admit, however, that my homemade potato gnocchi dish reigns supreme. In stark contrast to most gnocchi dishes which are typically served Italian style (on the heavier side with tomato sauce), the Sewalls bravely render this delicacy as if it has emerged straight from their own personal garden. Sweet corn and vibrantly colored lobster mushrooms adorn this light, yet delectable dish.
The dessert debate begins and abruptly ends with Lineage’s signature dish, its butterscotch pudding. Once again, the Sewalls break slightly from tradition by replacing the prototypically gooey-textured concoction with a pasty, Mazapan-like sweet substance, which is drizzled with both Chantilly cream and caramelized pecans. This dish would convert the most skeptical of pudding phobes, myself included.
In terms of its location, Lineage can be viewed as either a blessing or a curse. For atmosphere alone, the restaurant resides on bustling Harvard Street just outside of college-friendly Coolidge Corner. Parking spaces, however, are scarce in this vicinity, so be prepared to walk. I, however, would gladly venture across all of Boston just to get a taste of what the Sewalls have cooked up. After all, their menu is reasonably priced compared to their urban bretheren (appetizers average $12, entrees come in around $24, and desserts at $8). Lineage ultimately upholds two key traditions: first, maintaining Mr. Sewall’s upstanding family reputation within the Brookline community, and most importantly, appealing to Paul’s Palate’s taste buds.
Lineage’s interior is sleek, yet warm, and deceptively large. To our left, we discover an airy dining area, and straight ahead, a greenish, modestly-lit bar where several lively patrons are seated. We select a more slightly intimate room to our right, which includes plush carpeting and a soothing maritime painting sprawled against its back wall. Our jovial hostess greets us and directs us to our table.
What our server lacks in vivacity and menu mastery, she accounts for in both courtesy and attentiveness. Her first cocktail recommendation is a Brazilian rum that is supposed to be sweet but resembles nothing more than a bland mojito. The refreshingly sweet Lineage Lemonade, however, is a real crowd pleaser: refreshing, sweet, and playfully presented in the form of a “black and tan” (in this case, red and yellow).
For appetizers, our server encourages us to sample the luscious halibut tacos, a unique dish whose buttery, moist fish is the most mouth-watering I’ve had in recent memory. The only shortcoming here is that only four are plated. This reviewer is prepared to jump out of his seat and seek out Mr. Sewall to ascertain if this particular family recipe is for sale. Not to be outdone, however, is the homemade tomato soup served with truffle oil and crisp beignets. The soup is light, yet hearty, sooths one’s stomach, and is the perfect lead-in to our main courses.
My spouse’s pork is both succulent and meaty, accompanied by savory roasted figs, fingerling potatoes, and spinach. The remainder of our table gnaws on savory steak layered with bleu cheese and mashed potatoes. I must admit, however, that my homemade potato gnocchi dish reigns supreme. In stark contrast to most gnocchi dishes which are typically served Italian style (on the heavier side with tomato sauce), the Sewalls bravely render this delicacy as if it has emerged straight from their own personal garden. Sweet corn and vibrantly colored lobster mushrooms adorn this light, yet delectable dish.
The dessert debate begins and abruptly ends with Lineage’s signature dish, its butterscotch pudding. Once again, the Sewalls break slightly from tradition by replacing the prototypically gooey-textured concoction with a pasty, Mazapan-like sweet substance, which is drizzled with both Chantilly cream and caramelized pecans. This dish would convert the most skeptical of pudding phobes, myself included.
In terms of its location, Lineage can be viewed as either a blessing or a curse. For atmosphere alone, the restaurant resides on bustling Harvard Street just outside of college-friendly Coolidge Corner. Parking spaces, however, are scarce in this vicinity, so be prepared to walk. I, however, would gladly venture across all of Boston just to get a taste of what the Sewalls have cooked up. After all, their menu is reasonably priced compared to their urban bretheren (appetizers average $12, entrees come in around $24, and desserts at $8). Lineage ultimately upholds two key traditions: first, maintaining Mr. Sewall’s upstanding family reputation within the Brookline community, and most importantly, appealing to Paul’s Palate’s taste buds.
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