How does one classify a unique restaurant such as Masa? Let me give it a whirl: a slightly upscale Southwestern eatery (think Border Café casualness combined with more experimental, daring cuisine). Executive Chef Philip Aviles’s unconventional usage of ingredients and his eclectic menu have had customers returning in droves to this South End mainstay. How appropriate, then, for Masa to be situated on equally dynamic Tremont Street. Would Paul’s Palate find himself lassoed into this sizzling Southwestern scene?
Masa makes no apologies for its casual appearance and atmosphere. While we’re in for a superior dining experience, it’s as if the colors and walls instruct us to sit down, relax, sip a margarita, and enjoy ourselves. It’s obvious (and slightly embarrassing, I might add) that we’ve overdressed for the occasion. Clearly, dressing down is an acceptable custom here. And that’s OK by us.
To the left, the copper bar is a nice touch, and the main dining area is spacious enough. The high ceilings do not prevent us from conducting a coherent tableside conversation with our companions. The chandeliers are an oddity in the room (is someone aiming for the Southwestern Victorian era?), but that’s just knit-picking. For better or for worse, given its Southwestern ambience, brown colors dominate the scene (I oddly feel transported into a UPS commercial). I will, however, point out my dissatisfaction regarding the ‘lipped’ booths. I felt like I was doing the meringue just to get in and out of my seat. And that’s not even accounting for the expectant couple with whom we dined. What dance did she need to learn in order to maneuver into her seat? Also a glaring negative: the calamitous state of the bathrooms was, how do I put this politely, reminiscent of the O-K Corral? Casualness needs to have its boundaries.
I’ve heard that Masa’s cocktails are notorious for offsetting some of its zesty fare. I must therefore admit slight disappointment with these beverages. The caramelized apple martini sounds promising, but packs minimal apple flavor and no hint of caramel. The pear mojito comes with excess vodka, too little pear. My favorite of the bunch is the sangria margarita, which is modestly sweet, smooth and refreshing.
While Masa’s cocktails are a mild let down, its cuisine, in the words of the show Iron Chef America, reigns supreme. For starters, my wife orders negra modelo battered fish tacos, and yes, they’re as scrumptious as they sound. The silky smooth fish is served in a soft tortilla wrap, with dollops of a creamy avocado salsa verde and a chipotle taramind sauce that lends a wonderfully smoky flavor to the dish. I order the smoked mussel and tilapia ceviche cocktail, which consists of a dramatic combination of clamato (think spicy clam-tomato base – yum!) and cilantro. But that’s not all: our wonderfully affable, attentive, and knowledgeable server (he somehow reminds me of the charming American Idol contestant, David Archuleta) recommends pouring a potent tequila floater over the ceviche. Throw in homemade cornbread with a trio of distinctive spreads (peppery cream cheese, bean, and molasses butter – yum, again!), and Chef Aviles has successfully cast his spell upon us.
The aforementioned appetizers are glorified showstoppers. The entrees, equally creative and delicious in their own right, could easily have headlined this evening’s event had we not encountered some minor gaffes with the sides that accompanied them. My chipotle apricot glazed short ribs are cooked perfectly medium rare, and possess a wonderfully velvety texture. The apricot jam is not overpoweringly sweet, though the chipotle’s spiciness is missing. What the dish lacks in spice, however, it more than accounts for with its sides. The grilled pineapple salsa is a deceptively zesty compliment (I must admit that my wife mistook it for mashed potatoes, and after one bite, rushed to sip her glass of water). The crisp Southwestern cole slaw, however, is so fire-alarmingly hot that it is practically inedible. My wife’s crushed chile pepper grilled pork tenderloin with ‘Masa’ gnocci is good, but not great. The pork is yet again perfectly cooked, but the sides, once again, are perplexing. Had it not been for my wife’s dairy allergy, I believe she would have certainly enjoyed the dish more: in lieu of what sounds to be a luscious topping of Mexican chocolate cherry mole, the chef substitutes this with a mild chile-lime sauce that lacks punch. The fresh strawberry salsa is minimal and not as flavorful as it sounds. The gnocci, albeit tasty, total only four potatoe-y pellets in all.
Dessert is the unanimous winner of the evening. Imagine this ethereal combination: warmed banana bread pudding with chocolate-banana ice cream (did I say yum already?). In fact, as I let the bread pudding sit on my palate, I unexpectedly discover a mild spiciness begin to set in. The ice cream counters this sensation and serves as the perfect balance to the dish. When asked about the ingredient that has caused my senses to stir, our server politely (almost with a humorous wink, no doubt he has heard this line of questioning from other diners) tells us that he unfortunately cannot divulge the chef’s secret ingredient.
Masa in Spanish means 'dough.' And like many astute customers, I’m not only concerned about the variety that’s being kneaded in the kitchen. The dough to which I’m alluding is the amount of cash that leaves my wallet at the end of the evening. When drinks range from $8-10, appetizers between $7-12, and entrees around $20-25, I equate this to money well spent (just keep in mind that there’s a $16 valet charge on top of all this). Casual ambience, great service, and delectable, often inspiring fare: these traits all translate into a winning culinary combination in my book.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Monday, March 31, 2008
Gaslight Adds Fuel to Fiery South End Dining Scene
Ever have the urge to sample delicious French cuisine without leaving the comfortable confines of Massachusetts? Some diners might actually prefer taking the red-eye to Paris than splurging on a meal fit (and priced) for a king at the upscale Back Bay eatery, L’espalier. Gaslight Brasserie, conveniently located in the South End on Harrison Ave, is a more reasonably priced alternative established by Boston’s renowned culinary team, Aquitaine Group. Boston Magazine and Phantom Gourmet have recently bestowed the dreaded ‘it’ label upon this new dining hotspot. Would Paul’s Palate agree with these assessments or spit out Gaslight’s cuisine like bad pate?
Give Gaslight’s creative team credit: in terms of overall authenticity, the restaurant’s mosaic subway tiles, reclaimed wood floors, nicotine-stained walls, beamed wood ceilings, and shimmering antique mirrors all shine brightly (no pun intended). Although the handcrafted Parisian zinc bar is visually breathtaking, it attracts such a large number of hip patrons this evening that they practically spill over into the dining area. While I am appreciative that Aquitaine Group intended for this bistro to be more casual, these surroundings are completely devoid of any sense of privacy and intimacy. Our party needs to resort to shouting in order to maintain any semblance of conversation. It doesn’t help matters that we’ve been seated behind a partition that is not completely shielded from the main entrance, which results in sporadic, periodic bouts of the chills. Seating arrangements are creative enough, if not a tad chaotic, ranging from café and communal tables to booths and banquets.
Gaslight’s cuisine, however, is what has attracted us to this locale in the first place, and fortunately it offsets any minor issues we’ve encountered with the ambience. Though its fare is less sophisticated than L’espalier, Gaslight serves what is essentially Parisian comfort food. For starters, the Onion Soup Gratinee (fancy term for French Onion Soup) is the ideal remedy to the aforementioned chills we’re experiencing, with its hearty broth saturated with sweet onions and gooey slabs of cheese. The Escargots de Bourgogne (snails served with garlic and parsley) are neither as meaty nor garlicy as I had hoped. The moist steak tartare, however, which comes highly recommend by our patient, courteous server, is a revelation, served with aioli and croutons. The former ingredient infuses the tartare with just the right amount of spice.
Entrees are equally enjoyable. I find myself strangely drawn to a non-Parisian dish, the Choucroute Garni. This German-themed dish consists of frankfurter, garlic sausage, braised apples, duck confit, and sauerkraut. Strange choice, you ask? You bet. Overall, I’d rate the dish as slightly above satisfactory for the following reasons: the frankfurter is a tad bland, the garlic sausage above average, and the duck is moist and divine. I would have preferred a more pungent apple broth base (sorry, no actual apples to be had) as opposed to overkill on the amount of sauerkraut. I must, however, applaud Gaslight for its willingness (like my dining tastes) to venture out of its comfort zone. They refuse to play their food selections safe. Other foreign items on the menu I’d venture to try the next time I’m there include veal wiener schnitzel and daube nicoise (braised beef ragout with olives, orange, tomato and buttered noodles).
My wife orders a more traditional French steak frite with béarnaise sauce, and it is mouth-wateringly good, perfectly cooked to a pink medium. The bar steak is equally delectable, and a tad spicier, layered with a mustard cream sauce. The couple across from us order the poelee espagnol (cod pan roast with shellfish and chorizo). While the fish is moist enough, the chorizo lacks expected spice, in part due to the accompanying sauce a l’amoricaine, which is nothing more than a fancy term for bland marsala wine sauce.
Without a moment’s hesitation, our server recommends the housemade chocolate beignets with crème anglais. What are these, you ask? Imagine chocolate fried dough with a molten chocolate lava center. Hey, are you still with me here? I forgive you for your lack of attention. I, too, lost my focus when dreaming of popping these delicious bite-sized morsels into my mouth. This concoction is the showstopper of the evening, and has all of raving about it long after we have departed for the evening.
In terms of value, what’s not to like about Gaslight? For one, I’ll take the complimentary free parking, a rarity in this section of Boston. Hors D’oeuvres (appetizers) average between $7-$10. Cocktails fluctuate between $8-$11. The majority of Plats prinipaux (entrees) range between $16-$19 and all desserts come in just a shade under $7. You do the math: take a highly satisfactory meal, about three-quarters that of what you’d experience at L’espalier, but cut your bill there in half. I don’t claim to possess strong math acumen, but I believe former game show host Bob Barker said it best: the price is right.
Give Gaslight’s creative team credit: in terms of overall authenticity, the restaurant’s mosaic subway tiles, reclaimed wood floors, nicotine-stained walls, beamed wood ceilings, and shimmering antique mirrors all shine brightly (no pun intended). Although the handcrafted Parisian zinc bar is visually breathtaking, it attracts such a large number of hip patrons this evening that they practically spill over into the dining area. While I am appreciative that Aquitaine Group intended for this bistro to be more casual, these surroundings are completely devoid of any sense of privacy and intimacy. Our party needs to resort to shouting in order to maintain any semblance of conversation. It doesn’t help matters that we’ve been seated behind a partition that is not completely shielded from the main entrance, which results in sporadic, periodic bouts of the chills. Seating arrangements are creative enough, if not a tad chaotic, ranging from café and communal tables to booths and banquets.
Gaslight’s cuisine, however, is what has attracted us to this locale in the first place, and fortunately it offsets any minor issues we’ve encountered with the ambience. Though its fare is less sophisticated than L’espalier, Gaslight serves what is essentially Parisian comfort food. For starters, the Onion Soup Gratinee (fancy term for French Onion Soup) is the ideal remedy to the aforementioned chills we’re experiencing, with its hearty broth saturated with sweet onions and gooey slabs of cheese. The Escargots de Bourgogne (snails served with garlic and parsley) are neither as meaty nor garlicy as I had hoped. The moist steak tartare, however, which comes highly recommend by our patient, courteous server, is a revelation, served with aioli and croutons. The former ingredient infuses the tartare with just the right amount of spice.
Entrees are equally enjoyable. I find myself strangely drawn to a non-Parisian dish, the Choucroute Garni. This German-themed dish consists of frankfurter, garlic sausage, braised apples, duck confit, and sauerkraut. Strange choice, you ask? You bet. Overall, I’d rate the dish as slightly above satisfactory for the following reasons: the frankfurter is a tad bland, the garlic sausage above average, and the duck is moist and divine. I would have preferred a more pungent apple broth base (sorry, no actual apples to be had) as opposed to overkill on the amount of sauerkraut. I must, however, applaud Gaslight for its willingness (like my dining tastes) to venture out of its comfort zone. They refuse to play their food selections safe. Other foreign items on the menu I’d venture to try the next time I’m there include veal wiener schnitzel and daube nicoise (braised beef ragout with olives, orange, tomato and buttered noodles).
My wife orders a more traditional French steak frite with béarnaise sauce, and it is mouth-wateringly good, perfectly cooked to a pink medium. The bar steak is equally delectable, and a tad spicier, layered with a mustard cream sauce. The couple across from us order the poelee espagnol (cod pan roast with shellfish and chorizo). While the fish is moist enough, the chorizo lacks expected spice, in part due to the accompanying sauce a l’amoricaine, which is nothing more than a fancy term for bland marsala wine sauce.
Without a moment’s hesitation, our server recommends the housemade chocolate beignets with crème anglais. What are these, you ask? Imagine chocolate fried dough with a molten chocolate lava center. Hey, are you still with me here? I forgive you for your lack of attention. I, too, lost my focus when dreaming of popping these delicious bite-sized morsels into my mouth. This concoction is the showstopper of the evening, and has all of raving about it long after we have departed for the evening.
In terms of value, what’s not to like about Gaslight? For one, I’ll take the complimentary free parking, a rarity in this section of Boston. Hors D’oeuvres (appetizers) average between $7-$10. Cocktails fluctuate between $8-$11. The majority of Plats prinipaux (entrees) range between $16-$19 and all desserts come in just a shade under $7. You do the math: take a highly satisfactory meal, about three-quarters that of what you’d experience at L’espalier, but cut your bill there in half. I don’t claim to possess strong math acumen, but I believe former game show host Bob Barker said it best: the price is right.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
'Met'-Like Collapse
Like the epic collapse of baseball’s New York Mets (how befitting this parallel in names is) at the conclusion of last year’s regular season, Met Bar & Grill suffers a similar fate. The Met is unable to live up to the enormous amounts of pressure and lofty expectations set forth by its esteemed ‘big brother’ eatery just down the road along Route 9, Chestnut Hill’s more formal Metropolitan Club.
Sure, it seems like a great idea for the upscale Metropolitan Club to create a more family-oriented, informal dining destination that maintains its trendy edge. Ingenious, I might add, to expand within the bustling Natick Collection, New England’s largest mall. Like the vast expanses of the mall itself, with its unique curves, spectacular skylights, and stores both high-end (Nordstram’s, Louis Vuitton) and more pedestrian (JC Penney and McDonald’s) in nature, Met Bar & Grill at least succeeds in attracting all types of crowds through its doors. And like the throngs of customers who have traveled through the ‘great indoors’ and have finally arrived at this dining destination, our appetites are whetted.
Fashion-wise, the restaurant’s appearance is hit-and-miss. Much like the Natick Collection’s stunning architecture, Met Bar’s appeal is sleek and can be easily viewed from its entrance. Take for instance the enthralling burger bar, where about a dozen seats surround a fire-breathing vertical grill. The illuminated bar is also a plus, though on the small side for a moderately-sized eatery. The walls are splashed with a warm, yet far too dark tan-brown paint, which not only clash with the dark brown mahogany tables but make for difficult menu viewing. Walk out back behind the bar, and to our chagrin, there resides an expansive dining room with paintings of both international and domestic city landscapes plastered across the back walls. The crumbs strewn across the room’s carpeting, however, are a major blemish. I highly doubt that the Met’s intention was to replicate metropolitan dining in this level of detail.
Most unfortunately for us, Met Bar & Grill’s food does not justify the effort it takes to get there. Drinks are fine enough, though a tad high in price. My Barcelona Club, more commonly known as red sangria, comes highly recommended by our astute server, and consists of wine, Methilda poire, basil, and seasonal juices. The cocktail wins high marks for its lack of tartness and moderate sweetness, which is exacerbated by an inclusion of fresh pears. After the drinks, however, the quality of our meals rapidly plummets.
Word on the street is that it’s the signature, handmade, cooked-to-order hamburgers, creatively segmented by international and domestic geography, for which this establishment is renowned. So why is it that my exorbitantly priced $14 Tokyo burger (labeled a double burger, but small in portion), which allegedly consists of a richer cut of Kobe beef and is topped with a seemingly mouth-watering array of condiments that includes soy sauce, wasabi mayo, and pickled ginger, so utterly bland, dry and tasteless? It makes me thankful that I didn’t order one of the mini burgers, which are more prone to being overcooked. The french fries are equally dry, a tad cold, and offensively salty. A quick glance around the table reveals several downward glares and long bouts of silence from my eating companions. It is easy to ascertain that they, too, are not enamored with their selections. Had our toddlers not accompanied us to this more family-friendly environment, we would have promptly sent these back to the kitchen without hesitation.
Sadly, Met Bar and Grill does little to impress this critic. On a scale from poor to fantastic, at best I’d rate this meal as a ‘Met-za, Metza’ experience. In fact, if you're looking for a cheaper, more succulent burger alternative, less the trendy atmosphere, head over to Mr. Bartley's in student-friendly Harvard Square. They segment their burgers into celebrity names (such as the Bill Clinton), and unlike the Met's geographically named meats, Bartley's beef is the real deal.
Sure, it seems like a great idea for the upscale Metropolitan Club to create a more family-oriented, informal dining destination that maintains its trendy edge. Ingenious, I might add, to expand within the bustling Natick Collection, New England’s largest mall. Like the vast expanses of the mall itself, with its unique curves, spectacular skylights, and stores both high-end (Nordstram’s, Louis Vuitton) and more pedestrian (JC Penney and McDonald’s) in nature, Met Bar & Grill at least succeeds in attracting all types of crowds through its doors. And like the throngs of customers who have traveled through the ‘great indoors’ and have finally arrived at this dining destination, our appetites are whetted.
Fashion-wise, the restaurant’s appearance is hit-and-miss. Much like the Natick Collection’s stunning architecture, Met Bar’s appeal is sleek and can be easily viewed from its entrance. Take for instance the enthralling burger bar, where about a dozen seats surround a fire-breathing vertical grill. The illuminated bar is also a plus, though on the small side for a moderately-sized eatery. The walls are splashed with a warm, yet far too dark tan-brown paint, which not only clash with the dark brown mahogany tables but make for difficult menu viewing. Walk out back behind the bar, and to our chagrin, there resides an expansive dining room with paintings of both international and domestic city landscapes plastered across the back walls. The crumbs strewn across the room’s carpeting, however, are a major blemish. I highly doubt that the Met’s intention was to replicate metropolitan dining in this level of detail.
Most unfortunately for us, Met Bar & Grill’s food does not justify the effort it takes to get there. Drinks are fine enough, though a tad high in price. My Barcelona Club, more commonly known as red sangria, comes highly recommended by our astute server, and consists of wine, Methilda poire, basil, and seasonal juices. The cocktail wins high marks for its lack of tartness and moderate sweetness, which is exacerbated by an inclusion of fresh pears. After the drinks, however, the quality of our meals rapidly plummets.
Word on the street is that it’s the signature, handmade, cooked-to-order hamburgers, creatively segmented by international and domestic geography, for which this establishment is renowned. So why is it that my exorbitantly priced $14 Tokyo burger (labeled a double burger, but small in portion), which allegedly consists of a richer cut of Kobe beef and is topped with a seemingly mouth-watering array of condiments that includes soy sauce, wasabi mayo, and pickled ginger, so utterly bland, dry and tasteless? It makes me thankful that I didn’t order one of the mini burgers, which are more prone to being overcooked. The french fries are equally dry, a tad cold, and offensively salty. A quick glance around the table reveals several downward glares and long bouts of silence from my eating companions. It is easy to ascertain that they, too, are not enamored with their selections. Had our toddlers not accompanied us to this more family-friendly environment, we would have promptly sent these back to the kitchen without hesitation.
Sadly, Met Bar and Grill does little to impress this critic. On a scale from poor to fantastic, at best I’d rate this meal as a ‘Met-za, Metza’ experience. In fact, if you're looking for a cheaper, more succulent burger alternative, less the trendy atmosphere, head over to Mr. Bartley's in student-friendly Harvard Square. They segment their burgers into celebrity names (such as the Bill Clinton), and unlike the Met's geographically named meats, Bartley's beef is the real deal.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Livin' La Vida Rocca
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?
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?
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.
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