May 18, 2011
Haddington's
If Austin dining is to become fully enclosed in a fresh pine box of hipster gastronomy and mixology, then Haddington's is a fine, final nail in the lid. The wood in question is sourced and milled in the Pacific Northwest – Portland, to be specific – where mustachioed, vintage-clad young men are spawned from the cold Willamette like salmon, fitted with sleeve tattoos and shoved unceremoniously into a farmer's market to develop MacGyver-like gustatory ingenuity or perish into heroin-addled dissipation. Here, take this pork belly, broccolini and six pounds of mustard seed and MAKE MAGIC.
Being seated at Haddington's was like an instant jaunt up to PDX. Give credit to the city – they've spawned a generation of inked-up cocktail engineers, eager to concoct absurdities like animal fat-infused rye whiskey, not to mention what appears to be an entire subculture of interchangeable service employees who singlehandedly keep the fixed-gear cycling industry in business. As much as I'd like to claim that Austin is purely original culture, it's hard to see the hipster restaurant craze as anything more than a full-scale migration from Portland.
Then again, if the food is good, who gives a shit, right? I'm all for smashing the hegemonic dominance of iconic, monied chefs and their "properties" and "concepts." Austin has plenty of those, and many of them produce fabulous food, but it's good to let the kids muck around in the kitchen every now and then. Sooner or later they come up with a winner, which is why you can't ever seem to get into Barley Swine, even on a weeknight.
Haddington's is properly called a "gastropub," which translates loosely into "bar that actually changes the fryer oil more than once a month." The cocktail menu is a sight to behold, including the aforementioned Sazerac-duck fat infusion and the profligate use of exotic bitters and even more inexplicable poisons, like mescal. I can't hold forth on the quality of the drinks as I'm on a hiatus from hooch, but scores of Yelpers will assure you that, yes, you can get adequately fucked up here to bolster your confidence prior to stumbling down to Key Bar to make a pass at that paralegal you've been digging on. You'll pay handsomely: twelve bucks seems to be the going rate for advanced mixology in Austin these days. That may be the only way we've completely caught up with New York City.
My attorney and I went heavy on the pork: home-fried cracklins to start, along with a pork-chili stew and porchetta sandwich as mains. I tossed in some mussels to break things up a bit. Eight bucks gets you about six mussels in a spicy tomato broth flecked with bits of bacon and tomatoes. The broth is sweet, rich and quite spicy, with a noticeable hint of alcohol that the server confirmed was a "sweet white wine." It was good enough to lap up with a soup spoon. The mussels weren't bad, either.
The pork stew, a special for the day, came topped with a poached egg, which was helpful as the portion of stew itself couldn't have been more than a couple of ounces. It was heady, rich with dark chilis and spinach, and deserving of a weighty porter or stout to accompany it. I'd get it again, but I'd order two of them so as to not walk away hungry. The porchetta sandwich disappeared quickly – the rich, glistening fattiness would have been too much in a bigger portion, but sliced about pinky-thick and served on rye, it was perfect.
Regarding the cracklins: Haddington's are pure skin, no meat, so if you're a fan of Louisiana truck stop cracklins that include a generous chunk of belly, you might be disappointed in these. They're about as light and fluffy as something that comes off a pig could ever be – well seasoned, oversized, upscale chicharrones. Good bar food, but then again so are spicy peanuts. Get them if you're drinking and want something salty and a little greasy to munch on.
Decor here is full-on faux British pub, with slightly-cramped, windowed dining rooms decked with garage sale-quality, antique framed art on padded walls, looking out onto a main bar room that features the exact type of dark wood and fixtures you'd expect from someone's vague concept of pub authenticity. It's all too perfect, in a strange way, from the exterior logotype to a far too generous wine list, and one hopes that it will come upon some genuine pub charm sooner or later. Breaking a barstool over someone's head would be a great way to start.
Posted by brentbuford at 04:01 PM | Comments (0)
September 29, 2008
Flying Saucer, 4600 Guadalupe (in the Triangle)
The titular spacecraft, er, pub franchise landed early in the Triangle, advertising "please don't call us a chain" funkiness, zaftig barmaids in skimpy schoolgirl attire, and a card-swiping club that encourages premature liver damage through excessive alcohol consumption, rewarded with prizes of dubious value. In other words, my kind of place. You know the rest: Dark wood, fall-in deep chairs, boisterous patio clouded with smoke, flat screen televisions, trivia night, the sonorous lull of overserved retching in the men's room – it's a beer bar, by god, and it's nearly within stumbling distance of home. Time to get my name on a plaque.
Burgers, brats and (exceptionally good) pretzels complement the extensive beer selection, but the menu has aspirations beyond simple pub grub. Beer and cheese pairings round out a small selection of charcuterie including smoked salmon and sopressata, all of which come in generous portions in any combination you wish. There are salads (yes, salads) and the omnipresent wraps. Pizza, sandwiches, nachos and a bewildering variety of fried and sometimes drenched potatoes provide the remainder of the alcohol-absorption duties. Sorry, no fish and chips.
I admire any kitchen that is willing to decorate a plate of cheese-drenched nachos with sausage – I mean, why the hell not? The Beer Brat Nachos are a perfect over-the-top accompaniment to a 12% Belgian abbey ale and a couple of shots of Irish whiskey after you've just gotten the bad news from your broker. Caramelized onions are a welcome – but oddly panty-waisted – addition to a dish that needs no further accoutrement. Toss the aioli over your shoulder at the 12-top of giggling Chi-Omegas and just pour the rest of your buddy's Guinness on the damn plate. That's about the only thing that could improve it.
Most everything else here is what you would expect: reasonably greasy, filling, and designed to be consumed with substantially impaired manual dexterity. What I didn't expect from a pub with culinary designs on surpassing the traditional role of booze co-pilot was the only true disappointment on the menu: the burger. The Flying Saucer serves quite possibly the Worst Burger I have Ever Eaten.
That's a bold statement, to be sure. I've suffered through years of public school lunches; eaten dried up, shrink-wrapped burger-like things from a gas station microwave; hell, I've even been to Jack in the Box. In most of those cases, though, you have an expectation that the meal will stink. The relative level of disappointment is thus much lower.
At the Flying Saucer, I galloped through juicy bratwurst, creative sandwiches, the aforementioned nachos and a few other dishes before trying the signal dish of the American beer bar: the cheeseburger. For whatever reason, the kitchen sent me a desiccated disc of cardboard so dry and flavorless that it made me long for the virtuoso gourmet stylings of the Plano Independent School District. This burger was, truly, a piece of shit.
I'm not sure where it came from, or whether it was even made from actual flesh of an animal, but the server verified that the wispy, arid patty was not the veggie burger. Whatever it was, it was thin and worthless and indistinguishable from simply eating a dressed hamburger bun. Avoid it at all costs. Even better, order one from Galaxy Cafe next door and have them deliver it to your table. Think of it as a public protest. A burger like this one is a true American tragedy, and a black mark on an otherwise respectable drinking, eating and retching establishment.
Recommended, except for the burger.
Posted by brentbuford at 06:28 PM | Comments (0)
July 31, 2008
Galaxy Cafe, 4600 Guadalupe (in the Triangle)
I've finished eating my way through the Triangle, so it's time to pass judgement on the rest of the establishments there (see a review of Sago here). I'll save the annoying Which Wich? for a forthcoming sandwich roundup, and the jury remains out on the affable but inconsistent Mandola's. If you've been itching for outer-space themed dining and drinking experiences, look no further than the eerie minimalism of a new Galaxy Cafe, docked next to the malt-soaked prurience of the Flying Saucer. A better exercise in contrast could not have been imagined by either proprietor. Let's tackle the lighter side first.
For those pining for a dining experience designed by Stanley Kubrick, the ascetic white and orange minimalism of the new Galaxy Cafe will leave you wondering where, exactly, the HAL 9000 is located. Soaring ceilings, Gilliam-esque duct-shaped light fixtures, stark Ikea chairs and an Orwellian flat screen presentation of a mesmerizing, animated logo (and nothing more) bring to mind the lighter side of fascist architecture. Indeed, as you are channeled via a low, colored ceiling back toward the strangely dark ordering counter, one has the impression of entering an exquisitely designed abattoir.
Thankfully, Anton Chigurh is not manning the register here, although the sound of compressed air might send me running for the door. Galaxy is an order-at-the-counter, "fast-casual" joint like sister establishment Zocalo, and if the food wasn't worth a damn at either one of these places, the sheer force of image management and clever grace notes would be oppressive. Galaxy Cafe is sort of an anti-matter version of Applebee's – just as calculated, but engineered for a hip, health and design-conscious audience.
The food is inexpensive, the after-order service attentive, and the overall sensation is one of trains running perfectly on time. I applaud Galaxy for countenancing a "light" cuisine of sorts – I just wish it didn't leave me hungry two hours later. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are served, and many dishes attempt to strike a balance between gourmet aspirations and girth-controlling portions. In the case of the PLT – a proscuitto, tomato and mixed greens sandwich with pesto mayo on a baguette – the formula works; it's a moderately clever twist on a diner classic. The French Breakfast, a rich quiche paired with fresh fruit, showed simplicity and contrast; the meatball sub threw a subtle curve with feta and fresh spinach.
As to the "signature wraps", that whole debased burrito-renaming concept fell out of favor with me five years ago when KFC started offering the things. These are burritos, and in general they're pretty good – dense and customizable, as a burrito should be. Unlike some of the other morning offerings, the breakfast burrito will fuel you well into the afternoon. Other dishes didn't fare as well. The migas were insubstantial and, worse, pretty bland. The french toast is generous but gets cold before you can make your way through much of it. The salads are, by and large, competent.
I like what Galaxy and its sister establishments are trying to do – reasonably priced food with healthy options, sandwiched somewhere between sit-down dining and fast food. The overabundance of calculation and cuteness does make for a slightly cold dining experience, as if the concept got overtaken by engineers at some point. When you suck the character out of the environment, we search for warmth in the food. Galaxy's food, while decent on many counts, doesn't exactly scream character either, and the lasting impression is perhaps just a bit too clean for me.
Recommended.
Posted by brentbuford at 02:26 PM | Comments (0)
June 18, 2007
Three Forks, 111 Lavaca
If you awoke at five this morning in a feverish sweat wondering why there weren't enough goddamn high-dollar steakhouses in downtown Austin, you can eat another handful of Tums and go back to sleep. From now on, when you can't squeeze your party into Sullivan's, Ruth's Chris, Fleming's, Eddie V's or Lambert's, you can call the only meat joint in a ten-block area not sporting a possessive proper name and indulge in opulent oil-baron decadence at Three Forks.
Whether or not Austin needs another purveyor of bank-breaking prime beef and over-oaked cabernets is really beside the point; Three Forks appears by all accounts to have been implanted into the earth directly from outer space (outer space being Dallas) and its pitch-perfect, humidor-like dimness gives one the distinct sense that a complex network of tunnels supplies the establishment with cattle and kitchen help that rarely see the light of day. Were it not for the lamentable intrusion of plasma televisions, a shadowy booth here would be the perfect place not just to plan but to execute your next murder.
On the topic of murder, Three Forks has its knives out for your expense account, so expect the same kind of tab you'd run up at any of the aforementioned joints, with another 10-15 percent thrown in for the Forks' particularly intense brand of service. In fact, any harm you could do an estranged business partner would be cleaned up so quickly and discreetly by the staff that a few well-greased palms might make this the perfect place to dispose of your latest problem.
Looking beyond the hyper-attentive staff and the forced but not-unenjoyable ambiance, Three Forks adds marginal twists to the super-premium steakhouse formula. Sides of surprisingly spicy cream corn and green onions and tomatoes are available with all the entreés, but starters like bacon-wrapped scallops and crab cakes receive merely competent executions. The steaks are very good – which they should be at $32 and up (and up, and up) – and cooked to temperature.
A special of beef medallions with andouille sausage and grilled prawns showed some creativity, with a heavy but not morbidly rich sauce and prawns that teetered on the wrong side of overcooked. The wine list is tilted predictably toward massive cabernets, merlots, Bordeaux and their ilk; we stuck in the relative (ha) bargain land of the southern hemisphere and clinched our teeth through an obsessively tight South African red blend to arrive at a perfect Argentine malbec.
With what appeared to be a genuinely heartbroken realization that we weren't going to top off our Saturnalian consumption with dessert, the staff offered up homemade Irish creams on the house; to me, they tasted slightly of Coco Lopez (the server confided, unsolicited, that the recipe was a closely-guarded secret, though none of us had asked), but the cocktail was a pleasant surprise.
Of course, such grace notes should be expected when you drop five or six bills for dinner, so I predict a rush of price increases and pointless flourishes as the downtown steak wars heat up. Three Forks' secret weapon may be the cheesy, pastoral-painted plates that the entreés arrive on; you've got to admire the cojones of plating up a forty-odd dollar dish on something that looks like a platter picked up at an estate sale in Midland.
Should you drop your hard-earned coin here? They don't appear to need yours, or mine for that matter, but they've carved out a reasonably entertaining niche: completely over-the-top conservatism. If you can put aside the cattle/oil riches theme-park aspect of the experience and you find comfort in precise, obsequiously attentive service, well, you're probably nodding quietly to the WSJ editorial page right now instead of reading this codswallop. Have your assistant make that reservation immediately. The rest of you should go to Hofbrau and save your money for binging on expensive scotch and esophagus surgery.
Recommended for high rollers
Posted by brentbuford at 09:38 PM | Comments (0)
April 08, 2007
Lambert's, 401 W 2nd Street
Like Castle Hill many years before it, Lambert's has managed to navigate a transition from cramped, charming confines to a big, boisterous establishment. Unlike Castle Hill, Lambert's has more or less abandoned the subtle, precise cuisine of its former digs and opted for a high-end, yet avowedly populist, take on Southern food and barbecue. It would be unfair to call the new Lambert's a very expensive barbecue joint (the menu's subtle joke lies at the bottom of each page: "Fancy Barbecue?"), or even an absurdly upmarket Black-Eyed Pea, but one look at the organization of the a lá carte mains and sides might prompt you to wonder what on earth you are doing dropping a C-note for a few plates of smoked meat and some collard greens.
Luckily there is more here than meets the eye. That's good for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is a decor and ambiance that could best be described as mid-century cowboy dadaism. High-modern pendant lights float over wood planks and cow paintings, and the wait staff sport matching black western shirts and enough body ink and piercings to staff Emo's on a weekend.
Their service could be charitably characterized as "casual" – even by the debased standards of Austin service, one expects a bit more attentiveness with their $32 steak. Then again, Lambert's continues to wrinkle its nose at any whiff of pretense, forging ahead with its bold mission to serve fine wines in cheap, square-sided tumblers – presumably, in this case, because that's the way ranchers and cowboys drink their $60 bottles of malbec.
Whether or not Louis Lambert recognizes – or even cultivates – the irony of this sort of democratization is beyond me (the tumblers are one notable carryover from the old establishment), but I've never found wine served this way (especially light and medium-bodies reds) to be as enjoyable as a real wine glass.
The democratic implications of a $32 steak are another matter altogether. Our bone-in strip was impressive both in size and preparation, a murderous swath of meat big enough for two, cooked perfectly and accompanied with thin-sliced fried onions. I chose the herb-crusted prime rib, which came smoked and then finished on the grill. The meat was superb – smokey and tender – but the horseradish sauce had so little kick to it that it might as well have been mayo.
We tried smoked bacon braised collard greens and spicy ranch beans from the menu of family-style sides; both were hearty and authentic. Our waiter was kind enough to comp a dessert for us (we had let him know at the outset of the meal that his fly was open); we opted for coconut cream pie and – as you would expect from a renowned pie master – it was spectacular. Light and airy, sweet and flaky, it was the perfect postscript to our meaty narrative.
Fancy barbecue? Well, yes, I do. Fancy barbecue? The concept demands a a series of logical twists to swallow – but we can probably trust Mr. Lambert to get it right over time. Austin seems to have an unlimited appetite for meat at both the high and low end, and I applaud Mr. Lambert for using natural and local ingredients as much as he does. Lambert's is a bit pricey for the service, but the food is undeniably good. If you want to save yourself a trip to Lockhart or Llano and prefer a big red over a Big Red, you can't do much better than Lambert's.
Recommended
Posted by brentbuford at 03:33 PM | Comments (0)
August 17, 2006
Blue Star Cafeteria, 4800 Burnet Rd
Blue Star Cafeteria arouses suspicion immediately. Contrivances abound, from the impeccably modern (if a bit wooden) logo and menu design to the inconsistently pretentious section naming - "Leaves and Oils" stands in for salads, but pizzas merit only "Pizzas"? Why not "Sauced Flatbreads"? The transformation of the interior of the short-lived Parallel Market is similarly half-assed: An appealing, gleaming sit-down counter and clever light fixtures give way to off-pink walls, a mirror-panel suspended ceiling and some of the tackiest faux-diner seating I've ever seen. Clearly, the budget got cut somewhere prior to outfitting the dining room.
Luckily, the retro flourishes aren't overwhelming, which is good for a restaurant brave enough to essay modernized cafeteria food in a halogen-lit hipster palace. We've been down this road before, and the results have been mixed, at best. Nearly every bloody re-invention of classic diner food manages to cost twice as much as the real greasy spoons and offers half the satisfaction. The point, after all, of all that oil, gravy and mashed up stuff is comfort, and comfort is hard to come by in a $12 cheeseburger delivered by a starch-shirted would-be model.
Given such prejudice I can say with reasonable objectivity that Blue Star serves up some pretty decent stuff. It's not as overpriced as it could be and the kitchen shows restraint and - dare I say - a sense of simplicity in preparation and presentation. This isn't reinvented or modernized cafeteria food as much as it is simply decent, refined American cooking with an eye toward the meat-and-potatoes end of the menu.
Not that there aren't some artful touches here. The fried artichoke heart starter is quite good; dusted in semolina and herbs and deep-fried, it's not at all greasy and almost manages to be both hearty and subtle. The crispy chicken breast is updated with panko breading and was moist and tender, if not particularly exciting.
The true test came with the pork chop, and a minute less of finishing heat would have made this one nearly perfect; marinated in honey and red wine vinegar, the bone-in chop came out beautifully caramelized and full of flavor, though just a notch too dry. Crisp, fresh green beans and a small bowl of exquisitely creamy mac and cheese rounded out this dish well; a definite winner.
Which brings us to the only true disappointment of the evening, and a rather unexpected one: Dessert. For six bucks a slice, "modern" cafeteria pie should, at the very least, deliver the satisfaction of its diner equivalent, but the coconut chess pie seemed slightly stale and the flavor was uninspired. An artsy drizzle of sauce and dusting of powdered sugar on the plate gave the dessert that desperate, hog-in-a-tutu feeling of dolled-up mediocrity.
Bring your magnifying glass if you want to read the wine list or, better yet, order a local beer and thumb your nose at the trendies sipping shiraz with their $10 cheeseburgers. Staff is friendly and attractive, if a little uptight.
Recommended.
Posted by brentbuford at 10:13 PM | Comments (0)
Blue Star Cafeteria, 4800 Burnet Rd
Blue Star Cafeteria arouses suspicion immediately. Contrivances abound, from the impeccably modern (if a bit wooden) logo and menu design to the inconsistently pretentious section naming - "Leaves and Oils" stands in for salads, but pizzas merit only "Pizzas"? Why not "Sauced Flatbreads"? The transformation of the interior of the short-lived Parallel Market is similarly half-assed: An appealing, gleaming sit-down counter and clever light fixtures give way to off-pink walls, a mirror-panel suspended ceiling and some of the tackiest faux-diner seating I've ever seen. Clearly, the budget got cut somewhere prior to outfitting the dining room.
Luckily, the retro flourishes aren't overwhelming, which is good for a restaurant brave enough to essay modernized cafeteria food in a halogen-lit hipster palace. We've been down this road before, and the results have been mixed, at best. Nearly every bloody re-invention of classic diner food manages to cost twice as much as the real greasy spoons and offers half the satisfaction. The point, after all, of all that oil, gravy and mashed up stuff is comfort, and comfort is hard to come by in a $12 cheeseburger delivered by a starch-shirted would-be model.
Given such prejudice I can say with reasonable objectivity that Blue Star serves up some pretty decent stuff. It's not as overpriced as it could be and the kitchen shows restraint and - dare I say - a sense of simplicity in preparation and presentation. This isn't reinvented or modernized cafeteria food as much as it is simply decent, refined American cooking with an eye toward the meat-and-potatoes end of the menu.
Not that there aren't some artful touches here. The fried artichoke heart starter is quite good; dusted in semolina and herbs and deep-fried, it's not at all greasy and almost manages to be both hearty and subtle. The crispy chicken breast is updated with panko breading and was moist and tender, if not particularly exciting.
The true test came with the pork chop, and a minute less of finishing heat would have made this one nearly perfect; marinated in honey and red wine vinegar, the bone-in chop came out beautifully caramelized and full of flavor, though just a notch too dry. Crisp, fresh green beans and a small bowl of exquisitely creamy mac and cheese rounded out this dish well; a definite winner.
Which brings us to the only true disappointment of the evening, and a rather unexpected one: Dessert. For six bucks a slice, "modern" cafeteria pie should, at the very least, deliver the satisfaction of its diner equivalent, but the coconut chess pie seemed slightly stale and the flavor was uninspired. An artsy drizzle of sauce and dusting of powdered sugar on the plate gave the dessert that desperate, hog-in-a-tutu feeling of dolled-up mediocrity.
Bring your magnifying glass if you want to read the wine list or, better yet, order a local beer and thumb your nose at the trendies sipping shiraz with their $10 cheeseburgers. Staff is friendly and attractive, if a little uptight.
Recommended.
Posted by brentbuford at 10:13 PM | Comments (0)
April 18, 2005
Zin Bistro, 1601 W. 38th St.
I appreciate honest servers, to an extent, but when someone tells me to avoid a dish I like to know why. Dietary preferences sometimes intervene - "I haven't tried that because I don't eat meat" is a common refrain with the damn hippies around here. Other times they simply don't care and steer you to the popular dishes, refusing to render any personal judgment whatsoever on the food and instead subjugating your decision making to the popular will. This, I think, explains the sales figures for Bloomin' Onions, and perhaps the ascendancy of George W. Bush.
Anyway, when the server at Zin - the establishment that made over Ella's old space with halogen lights and big plasma screen - told us to avoid the gumbo at all costs, I had to know why. "I don't consider it real gumbo without okra in it" was her first reason, followed by a disquisition on her Cajun cred (a boyfriend from Louisiana) and further proscriptions against gumbos being either dark or possessed of anything more piquant than a dash of filé. Paul Prudhomme, had he been able to squeeze through the entry way, would have fallen off his little scooter.
She was actually right about the gumbo, for all the wrong reasons. Chicken and andouille gumbo should be – or at least can be – dark, spicy and preternaturally rich and smoky. The best ones come from the blackest of roux, held so close to burning that another second of heat renders them inedible. Lighter roux is fine for seafood and will hold its own with meats in a pinch, but if you're going to hit me with smoked meat and sausage, give me a roux that stands up to it. I don't want point-counterpoint, I want a blow to the head.
Zin's gumbo, at least on this particular evening, should never have left the kitchen. The roux had separated and, while someone made an game attempt to cover that fact (perhaps with beef broth), water and oil did not mix properly somewhere along the line. The result was a thin, dark mess, nearly tasteless save for empty spiciness. This diluted gruel was perhaps the worst gumbo I've had outside a cafeteria, and a terrible start to the meal. Score one for the server.
The rest of the meal disappointed along different lines. Zin charges handsomely for the privilege of dining in the evening, with most entreés hovering in the $22-30 range and a few over $30. I'm not averse to shelling out this kind of dough for a meal in Austin, but there are only a few restaurants that truly merit such prices; they either have cachet (Jeffrey's), expensive raw materials and labor (our better sushi bars and steakhouses) or unique and superior food (Vespaio).
Zin has none of these. The menu promises typical eclectic wine country cuisine paired with a extensive wine list. There are plenty of mashers and demis here, the requisite game dishes and lots of fish, but nothing earth-shattering. One would look, then, to either exceptional service or preparation, but Zin hasn't impressed me with either of those (though the host and bar crew are usually on their game).
We ordered duck, salmon and a small plate of crab cakes – the latter, our server emphasized more than once, were "pure crab meat, nothing else," which led me to wonder what on earth was wrong with a little bit of binder now and then; is there anything more achingly deserving of mayo than lump crab meat? (Don't answer that.) The crab cakes were fine – delicate and well-prepared, competent. Competency, indeed, was the theme for the rest of the meal.
The duck breast came medium rare as ordered, though not without a quizzical look from the server, who said most of her patrons were shocked that the chef would recommend cooking a duck breast medium – that was too rare for fowl. (Who are these people?) The bird sat next to bland garlic mashers topped with some truly pathetic-looking asparagus (unless there is a baby asparagus craze that I haven't heard about) that had all the crunch cooked out of it. Two small puddles of balsamic demi sandwiched the veggies, too large for a presentation garnish and too small to provide much sopping enjoyment. Not terrible, certainly – indeed, competent. I'd probably enjoy a similar dish at another restaurant for $15, or $18 - but $25? Sorry, I'm not that eager to help pay off your remodel.
The salmon was a little better, though we couldn't tell if the corn pudding came out cold intentionally or not. It was, if nothing else, a generous piece of fish, fresh and cooked properly. Whether or not it justified its nearly $30 price tag is another matter. With all the other choices in town, I believe you should choose your expensive dinners carefully, unless you prefer to throw a lot of money around for the hell of it. Zin's patio may be enough of a romantic attraction to keep couples coming in for pricey dinners, but there is little else to recommend this restaurant. Try it for lunch instead if you must.
Outdoor dining has an occasional downside as well, beyond the bugs and the heat. We considered dessert, but as I watched the woman across from us disgorge a chihuahua from her handbag, and then observed the dog licking the remainder of her entreé off the plate, I lost my appetite. I wondered why the staff would let someone bring an animal in and allow them on the table (this isn't the Crown and Anchor, after all); then a number of servers came and sat with her, and it was clear she was a friend or fellow employee. I'm not sure if that makes the whole scene better or worse.
Posted by brentbuford at 09:26 PM
February 15, 2005
Crimson, 405 Colorado
"Fusion" is rapidly becoming one of our more useless gastronomical terms, and not just because any upscale establishment whose name doesn't begin with "Le" can reasonably be assumed to be practicing some form of fusion cuisine. No, the problem with fusion is that what the term implies in theory – a fusing of cuisines or disparate ingredients to form something both new and cohesive – and what fusion so often results in in reality – say, a ribeye with hoison sauce on top – are often worlds apart. Perhaps that's why so few chefs even use the word these days, preferring instead to cook what they feel like cooking and let the diners and the critics figure out the proper labels.
The term persists, however, and in downtown Austin you can't throw a panko-encrusted lamb chop without hitting a fusion restaurant or two. The latest entry in the culinary miscegenation department is "Crimson," (in the former Gilligan's space) an establishment that wears "Fusion" with a capital F prominently on its shoulder. Crimson's particular brand of alchemy involves the pairing of "Southern Comfort Food" with Asian sauces and ingredients, reinforcing the nagging feeling I've always had that what fusion really means is that adding the word "lemongrass" to any entreé description will fetch an additional $5 per dish.
The danger with something so novel as what Crimson is attempting is that the line between novel and novelty is as thin as a stalk of the aforementioned aromatic herb; even if you pull it off, how often will diners come back once the sensation has passed? I guess we'll find out soon enough, but in the meantime, Crimson at the very least can serve as a case study in everything that's wrong with fusion cooking these days.
The danger with something so novel as what Crimson is attempting is that the line between novel and novelty is as thin as a stalk of the aforementioned aromatic herb; even if you pull it off, how often will diners come back once the sensation has passed? I guess we'll find out soon enough, but in the meantime, Crimson at the very least can serve as a case study in everything that's wrong with fusion cooking these days.
Dinner at Crimson opens firmly rooted on the Southern side, with a glass plate (rectangular, mind you, like a sushi dish) of jalapeño cornbread muffins and sweet glazed pecans. The pecans kick you with a secret dash of cayenne, but the muffins are dry and served at room temperature with no butter; why even bother? Presenting the menu, the server takes great pains to explain the theoretical underpinnings of fusion cuisine, or at least that there's going to be some crazy sauce you've never had on pork chops before. While the typography on said menu is exquisite, there are a number of things that just don't sound right. Asian Jambalaya with curry mushrooms and coconut milk? No thank you. I've dined on grilled intestines in Patagonia and some things I couldn't even identify in Cambodia, but I don't want coconut milk in my jambalaya. Call me a traditionalist.
We opt for a cup of gumbo and a "Plantation" salad (who came up with that?), followed by a fried pork chop on one side of the table and a fried chicken breast on the other. The turkey and sausage gumbo is pleasantly dark-looking but thin as water; they even bring you filé to thicken it, helpfully explaining the purpose of filé and its provenance in the sassafras tree. Why they feel the customer should decide the thickness of the gumbo is beyond me; a dark-roux, meat-based gumbo should be naturally thick, the filé reserved for thinner and lighter seafood varieties. The plantation salad evokes no feelings of plantation life, though it is quite tasty, if unoriginal; well-dressed greens with plenty of blue cheese, shaved pecorino, more of those spicy pecans, and a couple of slices of marinated pear that feel conspicuously like beets in the mouth.
The entreés are partially successful. My chicken breast is coated with a pleasantly toothsome breading and served on garlic mashers with green beans laced with plenty of tasso. The chicken comes sauced with a sweet, soy-based reduction that would probably be tastier with beef but seems to work reasonably well. However, I don't find this dish any more satisfying than the fried chicken breast at Hoover's, where the breading actually holds on to the breast, the meat is juicier, and the damage is at least $7 less. Next time I'm at Hoover's, I'll order it without cream gravy and douse it with hoison sauce and see if I can save you all a few bucks.
Our other entrée is a fried pork chop, so popular as a special that they had to make it a permanent menu item. Considering that the place has only been open 4 months, this seems a bit much, but we buy the hype and order it. Hammered thin and coated in a fine-textured breading, its striking resemblance to another type of ethnic dish is probably unintentional - it looks just like Austrian weinerschnitzel. Fortunately, this one is more tender and subtle than its unwitting doppleganger, but flavor and character in general are lacking. If fusion is happening here, maybe it's the breading - it's not unlike that which coats the unidentifiable fried meats so popular in smoky Tokyo beer bars - but it isn't very compelling. Quick, pass me the hoison sauce.
Crimson was probably only one-third full on a Friday night; whether that was because of the holiday weekend (Labor Day in this case), the horrifying dearth of parking in the warehouse district, or the food is hard to tell. The service is fine, the wine list is small but decent, and the overall dining experience was pleasant, but something isn't clicking with the food. Call me a crank, but I don't want soy sauce on my chicken fried steak any more than I want cream gravy on my sashimi; some cuisines just have an inherent limit on cross-pollination. Successful fusion cuisine not only creates new tastes but shows you new ways to think about them. It is a Raushcenberg collage, not an Angora goat with a tire around its belly.
Posted by brentbuford at 11:10 PM | Comments (0)