L’Espalier and White Barn Inn (Spring 2013)

White Barn Inn Exterior

Recently, I had the opportunity to return to L’Espalier (lunch) and White Barn Inn (dinner), my two favorite New England restaurants. Because I have already reviewed each restaurant twice on this blog, I figured I would adopt a different approach for this write-up and compare them. They are the most formidable outposts for luxury dining in New England and so I think they make for a natural comparison.

Obviously, the starkest difference between the two restaurants is that L’Espalier is located in a large city while White Barn Inn is situated in Kennebunkport, ME. Both restaurants are heavily defined by their settings. Since relocating a few years ago, L’Espalier now exudes a polished urbanity. On the other hand, White Barn Inn is very self-conscious of its summer community location and is a bit more whimsical in its décor; not only is it housed in a barn, but a plethora of antiques on the upper level of the barn generate a sense of vacation land nostalgia. One could dine at L’Espalier without feeling as though they left their external environment, while White Barn Inn exists more as a world unto itself. Despite its seclusion, the fantastical White Barn Inn setting is not out of line with Kennebunkport’s identity. The pleasures of dining at L’Espalier center on the luxurious, big-city feel of gazing down from the second-story dining room onto the street below. In contrast, I appreciate White Barn’s dining room for its incorporation of kitschy artifacts and nostalgic Maine-centric antiques.  In any event, the two well-integrated settings stand in contrast with Menton, one of the only other ultra-fine dining New England restaurants, which imposes itself on its working class neighborhood to the point that the restaurant feels awkward and insecure.

Comparing L’Espalier with White Barn Inn really demonstrates how regionality can refer not only to the ingredients themselves but also involves a conceptual, folkloric dimension. Both restaurants use local ingredients; L’Espalier sources many of their ingredients from their affiliated farm, Apple Street Farms, and the cuisine changes to accommodate whatever is fresh at a given moment. Similarly, White Barn Inn makes good use of Maine ingredients like scallops, sole, and lobster. Both restaurants draw from French cuisine, although L’Espalier is more committed to the actual dishes of New England and therefore embodies the conceptual dimension of regionality. For example, they often feature a New England-style clam bake and my main course on my recent lunch was broiled salmon with Boston baked beans—a terrific Bostonian treatment of high-quality seafood. Meanwhile, the cuisine at White Barn Inn is far more static, although to be fair it isn’t static in a dated sense so much as a timeless one. The menu structure reminds me of Everest in Chicago, as signature dishes such as the steamed lobster and the salmon with scallop and ham never seem to leave the menu and continue to get praised. In the end, both restaurants are whimsical, but White Barn does so in a more abstract, globally-inspired manner that draws less from classically New England dishes.

What We Ate

Bread service at L’Espalier was rosemary focaccia and sea-salted rolls. Both were made in-house and delicious.

The amuse bouches were pumpkin financiers and creamiscle gelees.

Amuse Bouches

Our appetizers really showcased the kitchen’s proclivity for two-dimensional compositions, and there is definitely more of a pristine, understated aesthetic than at White Barn Inn. I had the warm Wellfleet oysters with smoked bone marrow, charred leak, faux gnocchi, samphire, and vermouth, while my dad chose butternut squash soup with wild orange custard.  Both had very rich flavors that managed to avoid being overly heavy.

Oysters with Charred Leek, Vermouth

Butternut Squash Soup with Orange Custard

There were two main courses I wanted to try, and so my dad and I shared one of them: East coast halibut with English peas, toasted farro, and sauce gaspard. In Maine, fish is almost always grilled (and I don’t care for halibut grilled), and so it was a real treat to be able to enjoy halibut in a more delicate form. The kitchen was kind enough to give us separate plates, each with all of the accompaniments.

Halibut with Maitre Gaspard

My main course was broiled salmon with garden vegetables and Boston baked beans. The vegetables were poorly matched with the fish, but the molasses in the baked beans was a genius pairing with the salmon.

Salmon with Boston Baked Beans

My dad’s main course was beef tenderloin with bone marrow custard, and caramelized Vidalia onion. L’Espalier is following in the lead of a number of New England fine dining restaurants by sourcing its beef from Maine, and it was outstanding.

Maine Beef Tenderloin

In my experience, the one area of deficiency for L’Espalier is their pastry program. Roughly a year ago, they lost their all-star pastry chef, Jiho Kim, and promoted the second in command. I never tried Kim’s desserts but I can only imagine that the pastry program has really suffered because I have never been impressed with what I’ve received from them. On this visit, I had apple tarte tatin with fromage blanc ice cream and kataifi. As with past desserts I’ve had at L’Espalier, the components never went together well, which is also reflected in the disjointed composition.

Kataifi-Topped Apple Tarte Tatin

Our dinner at White Barn Inn was more ritualistic. Even though White Barn Inn offers a four-course prix fixe with many options, I dine at the restaurant to revisit the renewably entertaining steamed lobster with cognac coral butter sauce, one of my favorite dishes anywhere. My dad chose the same option for his main course.

There were several breads nice breads offered; the amuse bouche was  a generous portion of duck liver with rhubarb gastrique.

Duck Liver Amuse

For a starter, I had the Kennebunkport lobster bisque with lobster wontons, and my dad chose the lobster spring rolls. Both of these obviously showed an Asian influence; I loved each, as they had an appealing textural contrast without overpowering the lobster. As I noted in my last writeup, White Barn Inn is the rare Maine fine dining restaurant where the lobster dishes are actually the most impressive items on the menu.

Kennebunkport Lobster Bisque

Lobster Spring Roll

Kitsch is a prominent aspect of White Barn Inn, and it is to their credit that they incorporate this component into both the cuisine and ambience. One notable example was the enthusiastic crab below, which was made of silverware and served as the centerpiece for our table.

Proud Crab Centerpiece

Campy elements surfaced periodically in the cuisine. For example, our palate cleanser of raspberry sorbet included test tubes of raspberry vodka.

Sorbet Intermezzo

Our lobster main courses showcased a familiar balance of flavors and textures. Meat from a whole lobster is served with housemade fettucine, snow peas, carrots, and cognac coral butter sauce. Somewhere in the dish is a mysterious ingredient supplying a moderate dose of heat.

Lobster with Cognac Coral Butter

Our pre-dessert was white chocolate mousse with blueberry and granola.

Pre-dessert

For dessert, I chose a doughnut duo: an old-fashioned blackberry donut and lemon zeppola. They were served with matching coulis and pistachio ice cream.

Duo of Doughnuts

My dad chose roasted banana soufflé with dark chocolate sauce and burnt caramel ice cream. Both of our desserts were terrific; I don’t care for soufflés but the execution was flawless, while the doughnuts were creative without being alienating.

Banana Souffle

We closed with an impressive mignardise selection and chocolate financiers.

Mignardise

Chocolate Financiers

It is both fitting and counterintuitive that L’Espalier and White Barn Inn should coexist within the ultra-fine dining sector. They are each time-honored institutions that have existed for at least 35 years and rely on regional ingredients, although L’Espalier offers a much more urban, contemporary experience. With both restaurants, there are modernist touches, although they never become the dominant theme of the dish; it is for this reason that I argued in my last writeup that L’Espalier offers one of the more accessible interpretations of molecular gastronomy that I’ve encountered. Both restaurants draw heavily from Europe, although L’Espalier tends to incorporate elements of historical New England cuisine while White Barn Inn draws from Asia and other regions. Compared with each another, L’Espalier and White Barn Inn reveal the flexibility of the ultra-fine dining category in New England.

Walters (Portland, ME)

Walters has been one of my favorite Portland lunch spots for a few years now, and I am not alone—the restaurant is constantly packed at lunchtime as it really caters to the power lunch crowd. In a city that offers a formidable amount of compelling dining options (though comparably few nice lunch options), Walters has always distinguished itself through its aggressive fusion style. I have never been for dinner, but the evening menu is even more effusive in its baroque cross-cultural approach. Although I am not usually in Portland during lunchtime, my dad and I were in town on a recent weekday and we took advantage of the opportunity to return.

Walters attracted a good deal of attention a few years ago when it relocated from Exchange Street to the current location at Portland Square. The new location feels more ‘big city’ (insofar as this is possible in Portland), analogous to the relocation L’Espalier undertook in 2008 when it moved from the townhouse on Gloucester Street to its current location on Boylston. To my mind, the relocation had a major impact on the restaurant’s identity, as the Exchange Street location was better synched with the funky cuisine. At the same time, Walters has always maintained a discrepancy between its cuisine and the clientele, with a contrast between its eccentric dishes and business-focused patrons. In this regard, the severe ambiance of the current location reflects a commitment to the customer base, even if the setting does not exactly correspond with the cooking.

The menu at Walters is immense on two levels; first, there are a huge amount of options, with 6 salads, 4 “Bowls,” and 9 “Sandwiches and Such.” Second, each dish appears to have more ingredients than necessary—or at least, they list more ingredients than most restaurants. While I usually prefer briefer menu descriptions as they avoid ‘giving too much away,’ I think the long captions are necessary in order to show off the chef’s multicultural agenda. There were many interesting options, but I chose the “Voodoo Stew,” which I have ordered on each past visit. I also ordered a side Japanese Caesar, which was to be coursed distinct from the entrée. My dad selected the “Chicken Tosto,” which was basically a chicken panini.

The Japanese Caesar was so named because it combines the requisite romaine hearts with miso wasabi dressing, smashed edamame, cashews, and strips of wonton. It was visually underwhelming, but this is usually the case with this salad genre. The taste made up for the appearance, with the miso and cashew particularly refreshing. This was a surprisingly balanced dish and it is easy to see why it has been on the menu for a long time.

My dad’s chicken sandwich provided a bit more color than the salad, courtesy of the red cabbage. It was not what I would have ordered but he enjoyed it and that is what matters.

I had high expectations for the Voodoo Stew—one of the main reasons for lunching at Walters was so that I could enjoy it once again. I don’t understand where this dish gets its name, but it is commensurate with the faint silliness of the cuisine. The ingredients include shrimp, chicken, chorizo, mussels, tomatillos, dirty rice, tortillas, and a spicy broth involving lime and beer. The ingredients were fun and an intuitive fusion between Mexican and Spanish cuisines. Unfortunately, this preparation was pretty sloppy; the rice was entirely bland and the tortillas didn’t even appear to be grilled. This dish was a good reminder of the importance of consistency in evaluating a restaurant. There are a few “ritual” dishes I order every time I go to a restaurant—the lobster with cognac coral butter at White Barn Inn, or the mussels at Street & Company, for example—and I love dining at these restaurants because I know my favorite items will meet the established standard. Before this lunch, I viewed the Voodoo Stew in these terms, but moving forward I would have a very tough time ordering the dish.

We still had some time on our hands and took a look at the interesting dessert menu. I am often let down by dessert menus, but virtually every option looked satisfying. In the end, we chose the sticky toffee bread pudding, which was served with caramel sauce and unnecessary powdered sugar. The bread pudding itself had a textbook execution, and the caramel was appropriate; however, a liquor of some sort would have added some depth. Interestingly, the online menu now mentions that the dessert is served with a brandy sauce, and this would have really enhanced the preparation. Still, the iteration we received was certainly competent.

Ultimately, this lunch was the definition of hit or miss, with the lackluster main course bookended with a super salad and solid dessert. Even if my main course was a disappointment, the elephantine scope of the menu ensures that I’ll find something to my liking next time. Fusion cuisine is an easy punching bag because so many of the ingredient combinations are antithetical and a bit ridiculous (in a good way), but the menu combinations were accessible enough. In the end, as Portland’s preeminent member of the fusion genre Walters packs a punch and its novelty makes it worth returning to periodically.

o ya (Boston, MA)

At the Chef’s Counter at o ya

In most cities, there are a select few restaurants that hardly ever seem to receive any negative press from public and critics alike—Fore Street in Portland, Alinea in Chicago, and o ya in Boston are three examples that come to mind. For me, the experience of dining at these restaurants involves the added theme of wondering how they are able to elicit such mass appeal—what do these restaurants do to engineer this reception? It would appear that o ya is possibly the most decorated restaurant in Boston; chef/owner Tim Cushman won the Best Chef Northeast James Beard Award for 2012, and after opening in 2007, Frank Bruni famously called it the best new restaurant in America. Evaluating o ya was to be difficult since I have almost no experience with sushi restaurants. In fact, the only other omakase experience I’d had was at Miyake in Maine. Still, I was obviously aware of the strong acclaim and made a reservation for the chef’s counter on a recent Saturday evening.

One potential challenge facing o ya is its location; located in the leather district (near Chinatown), the setting would appear antithetical for a fine dining restaurant. As a believer that restaurants should take a synthetic approach to décor that acknowledges the building’s history and the surrounding neighborhood, I was curious to see how the restaurant would avoid simply imposing itself on a landscape that didn’t accommodate it, a problem I found with Acadia in Chicago. Interestingly, o ya solves this issue through maintaining an exterior that is as nondescript as possible—there really isn’t a clear façade to the space. Similar to Alinea, this has the effect of making the space feel exclusive without being too fancy for the environs.

The unusual interior combines traditional Japanese stylings with modernity; one wall features horizontal sliding windows and a geometric pattern that seemed borrowed from an Ozu film. Meanwhile, this highly traditional Japanese motif contrasts with the music, which spanned hard rock, jazz, and even campy songs such as the “Trolley Song” from Meet Me in St. Louis. The dining room is also structured in an unusual way; even though one enters it vertically, the space is horizontally organized. With two rows of seats—a bar and a single row of two-tops—it is arranged analogously to a classroom with two rows of desks. While very condensed, the cramped feel is difficult to avoid when there are only 37 seats. Having noted the spatial limitations, the room manages to be handsome in a grungy way, with ample amounts of exposed brick. It is also exceptionally dark, which organically creates a decent amount of drama but made me grateful for the track lighting, without which taking pictures would have been impossible.

Online reservations at o ya are only available at the chef’s counter, though I was grateful for this since it gave me a prime view of the chefs’ virtuoso technique. I don’t usually enjoy counter-style seating since the space is not as well-demarcated, but the visual attraction was engaging enough that this wasn’t a problem.

As with most sushi restaurants, the menu at o ya is immense. Also, while I understand that I am more interested in menu font than most, in this case I think it held some significance. The title was written in an elongated, ornamental pattern, while the rest of the menu was in comic sans. I am probably making something out of nothing, but in the context of a Japanese restaurant, the fonts resonated as a cultural cliché reflecting a veiled Orientalism. Writing style aside, the menu was impressive in its girth; there were two pages of a la carte options, as well as two omakase options. The regular omakase involved 17 courses, while the grand omakase featured 20 and used more luxury ingredients. I selected the grand omakase, and also upgraded from the Kagoshima wagyu to the pure kobe beef. In fact, the main impetus for dining at o ya was that they are to my knowledge the only New England restaurant offering pure kobe beef. Considering this, it might seem surprising that I would choose a menu involving 20 courses and that didn’t serve the wagyu until the end. However, I still had to construct a meal and figured that the rest of the courses would be satisfying enough in their own right. Still, this dinner raised the issue of how to approach a long meal in which one’s enthusiasm is concentrated predominantly on a single dish.

The meal got started with a kumamoto oyster topped with watermelon pearls and cucumber mignonette. The sweetness of the watermelon nullified the brininess of the oyster, but this was still a refreshing opener.

Next came a succession of nigiri courses, beginning with hamachi and spicy banana pepper mousse—tasty but the heat of the pepper was a bit of a shock following the oyster.

A structural inefficiency surfaced immediately involving the delivery system. For some reason, the cooks in front of me did not deliver the dishes themselves, and the waitstaff was instead tasked with this duty. After retrieving the plates at the counter, they then walked back to the kitchen to determine where to deliver the dishes. As a result, I would see my plate in front of me on the counter, only to have a server take it to the kitchen and then deliver it back to me. I try to be tolerant of different serving methodologies, but the logistics were so bizarre that I can’t understand the thought process that went into this system.

Second was kinme dai with ume, Japanese plum vinaigrette, and shiso.

Third was Kamasu wild Japanese barracuda, served with yuzu, white truffle oil, and shiso. It was also quite good, although I couldn’t taste the white truffle oil. This issue surfaced throughout the meal, and it irks me when restaurants serve high-end ingredients but in paltry quantities that don’t allow one to receive their full impact.

Next was wild bluefin chutoro, served with republic of Georgia herb sauce. I forgot to take a picture of it but it was nice

The meal progressed to some of o ya’s signature items. First among these was Santa Barbara sea urchin and California white sturgeon caviar, served over rice. As one would expect, the creamy brininess of the urchin went great with the caviar.

The seventh course was another o ya signature: fried kumamoto oyster with yuzu kosho aioli and squid ink bubbles. This was a very eclectic combination that worked great, although much heavier than the earlier oyster course. It was unusual to receive the same protein (oyster) twice in the meal, though I appreciated the opportunity to compare this warm oyster with the cold one that opened the meal. I wish that more restaurants would serve the same ingredient (with different preparations) twice in the same menu, as it shows off the creativity of the kitchen and versatility of the ingredient.

Moving away from the nigiri courses, the next course was Tasmanian ocean trout with smoked ikura and wasabi vinaigrette. On its own merits, this course was quite stunning, although after the heaviness of the fried oyster this would have been better served earlier in the meal. Instead of serving it after the cooked oyster, I would have placed this after the raw one. This course was also another example of the flashy serviceware used at o ya. With every course there was clear intentionality to the serving vessels, and o ya is the rare restaurant where its plating aesthetic must not only include the compositions themselves but also the plates on which they are served.

The next dish would have ordinarily been a scallop dish, but with my allergy I was instead served salmon tartare with cucumber yogurt coulis, argon oil, dill, and California white sturgeon caviar. The salmon and caviar were great, but the sauce was terrific as well.

Course 10 was another o ya trademark: foe gras with miso and shaved preserved California yuzu on top. The miso rested below the foie gras and all of the components were well-harmonized. Still, this dish would likely polarize someone expecting a traditional omakase—not only did it involve foie gras, but a heavy dose of molecular gastronomy as well. Instead of following a classic omakase progression, this dish felt like something of an island in the tasting progression. To this end, it raised the issue of whether a course is worthwhile if it makes a great impact but disrupts the established rhythm—I always place a good deal of importance on the narrative of the meal, and in that regard this course was disorienting. While it may have muddled the progression of the meal, I still feel as though the incoherence was not a problem since the dish made such a strong impact.

Next was garlic shrimp with tarragon and white truffle oil. Again, the white truffle oil was indiscernible; whether this was a result of the strong effects of the garlic or they simply didn’t use enough is irrelevant—if an ingredient cannot be identified, it shouldn’t be listed in the description.

I next received wild bluefin toro, served with wasabi oil and lots of green onion. I watched the chef in front of me prepare this more than any other dish, and the toro was quite luxurious. My feelings toward the wasabi oil are less enthusiastic and the heavy dose was a bit intense for me.

Course 13 was kanpachi, served with jalapeno sauce, sesame, apple, and myoga. Everything worked quite nicely.

The next dish was yuzu cured artic char, smoked sesame brittle, cumin aioli, and cilantro. It was served with a lid that was then uncovered to release a hickory scent. This course was another example of the kitchen deviating from the progression (in a good way); not only was this the only cured meat course, but the serving theatrics also added some drama.

The last of the seafood courses was butter poached lobster, accompanied by shaved Perigord truffles, bonito, and a ponzu butter fondue. The lobster/black truffle combo is always a pleaser, although I would have liked to see more truffles. I also don’t understand why they called the ponzu butter sauce a fondue—it seems as though more and more restaurants are unjustifiably including “fondue” (and “flan”) in their menu descriptions, perhaps attempting to capitalize on the novelty of using a foreign term.

The next dish would be my third caviar course: “Faberge” onsen egg with white sturgeon caviar, gold leaf, dashi sauce, and green onion. I think this composition was predicated more on simply overwhelming the diner more than building on the previous courses, and it didn’t intuitively build on the lobster. However, as with the foie gras, it made an immense impact and the execution was exceptional. Conceptually, I love how this played with the egg/caviar combination, and the heavier sauce made it an appropriate fit for the latter half of the meal.

The only vegetable course followed next: grilled king oyster and shitake mushroom sashimi, with rosemary garlic oil, sesame froth, and soy. As a mushroom enthusiast, I appreciated the contrast between the grilled and sashimi mushrooms—another of my favorite dishes for the meal.

The only meat course was the kobe; it was served with confit potato and white truffle oil. The steak itself was seasoned simply with Maine sea salt. I had been expecting to receive the beef at a rare temperature and found it slightly overcooked. Obviously, the meat itself was quite fatty to begin with, but I would have appreciated an even softer mouthfeel. As it was, the steak was still delicious, but with such a high price tag I think I was more sensitive than I’d usually be with regard to the temperature.

Another example of o ya’s creative serviceware, the penultimate course was a wedge of Delice de Bourgogne cheese. There was some disguise at work here, as they marinated it in miso, which cut through the creaminess of the cheese and resulted in an alarmingly strong flavor. For someone who usually finds Delice de Bourgogne a bit heavy, I really enjoyed this preparation.

The omakase ended with foie gras nigiri, served with balsamic chocolate kabayaki, Claudio corallo raisin cocoa pulp, and a shot of 8-year aged Japanese sake. For all of my critiques about the somewhat awkward course progression, placing the foie gras nigiri as the last course was bold and a perfect fit. I don’t ordinarily like warm foie gras as much as cold preparations, but this late in the meal the sweetness of the liver worked great. I was surprised when the aged sake tasted like dessert liquor—apparently, the aging process really sweetens it, because it tasted uncannily like sherry.

 In retrospect, the foie gras would have made an appropriate end to the meal, but my server offered a dessert menu. There really weren’t any interesting options, but I chose the warm chocolate pudding cake with banana tempura and goma gelato, mostly because I wanted to try the sesame gelato. What I received was basically an injustice to the kitchen—the cake itself tasted straight out of a brownie mix, and while the gelato was fine, none of the components really went together well. It is clear that a great deal of thought went into placing the foie gras dish last, and so if they want that to be the final taste of the evening, I’m not sure why they offer a dessert menu in the first place.

Considering that the main reason I went to o ya was for the kobe (which fell short of expectations), it would be easy to call the meal a disappointment. This was not the case, however; a number of dishes, including the egg/caviar, mushroom, fried oyster, and dehydrated foie gras, were among the most delicious items I’ve ever tasted. Even though the hyperbolically priced meal cost 1.5 times as much as Alinea, I remain quite satisfied with the experience. Each dish felt like an event unto itself, and I think Chef Cushman is more concerned with crafting exceptional dishes than weaving them into a lucid omakase presentation. I get the sense that Chef Cushman treats his kitchen as a sort of atelier, and the free-flowing, extended menu is more of an amalgamation of his greatest hits than a carefully-devised progression.

I think it’s also worth noting that years ago Chef Cushman worked for Lettuce Entertain You, the restaurant group in Chicago. One might think that the ostentatious personality of LEY would clash with the more minimalist compositions of a sushi restaurant. However, I think the over-the-top dishes from this meal—three caviar courses, two foie gras dishes, and a black truffle course—can perhaps be attributed to Cushman’s history with LEY. Additionally, I was surprised by how Cushman’s cuisine is really sauce-based (the salmon, lobster, mushroom, and egg dishes constituting the best examples); most everything had a sauce (or foam) of some sort. Integrating so many sauces into an omakase framework is not only one of the defining aspects of Cushman’s style but may also result from his time with the Chicago restaurant group.

As a sushi neophyte, I do wonder whether I am more accepting of the eccentric ingredients and course sequence than someone expecting a traditional omakase. Instead of a flowing rhythm, the meal followed more of a start-and-stop rhythm that was unconventional but made each course more dramatic. Similar to Alinea, o ya capitalizes on the benefit of surprising the diner; in most tasting meals, the diner is lulled into a predictable rhythm early in the meal, and even if they can’t predict what will be served from one course to the next, they are not usually shocked. In contrast, o ya conditions a dynamic in which one not only cannot predict the ingredients that will be served but also has no idea which texture the ingredients will be served in or the serving vessel used. This surprise was affective and thrilling, but also made this one of the most exhausting meals I’ve experienced. Considering the ample risk taken by the kitchen, I am a bit surprised that o ya doesn’t seem to alienate more people. I think the restaurant engineers a positive response through innervating the diner with aesthetic, olfactory, and taste overload. Ultimately, I think people enjoy feeling overwhelmed when they go out to eat, and o ya makes such a strong impact that it would be hard to leave unsatisfied.

San Juan Cafe (Wilmington, NC)

San Juan Cafe Dining Room

San Juan Café distinguishes itself through serving Puerto Rican cuisine in a city bereft of compelling Puerto Rican (or Latin American) choices. Chef Danny Keegan opened San Juan Café in February of 2010 and based on an admittedly small sample size, the restaurant seems to do pretty well. The restaurant piqued my interest for two reasons: first, I am Puerto Rican, love the cuisine, and rarely have the chance to sample it in a restaurant. Second, I was curious to observe how broad a scope the restaurant took; Puerto Rican restaurants are quite rare in North Carolina, and I wanted to see which (if any) concessions the restaurant takes in order to maximize customers.

As the picture at the top demonstrates, the interior is rose-colored and reflects the vibrancy one finds in many Hispanic restaurants. The warm colors established a welcoming feel—a hospitable tone commensurate with the restaurant’s website description “At San Juan Café, your happiness is our highest priority.” There are photographs and kitschy artificats, such as a parrot. I suppose that the décor is designed to maximize exoticism, but I actually found it had the opposite effect, to the point that its “exoticism” should be referred to with quotation marks. What was ostensibly exotic—the bright colors and loud decorations—were clichéd rather than out of the ordinary, and it was actually amusing to consider the sheer number of clichés at work within a relatively confined space. Although the artwork was of Puerto Rico, I think anyone entering the restaurant (unaware of the name) would assume that it was Mexican, and it is a bit sad to me that San Juan Café borrowed from the interior stylings of Mexican family restaurants rather than shooting for a more original ambience. Paradoxically, the décor would have been more arresting if it showed more restraint, thereby distancing itself from the visual signs of Mexican eateries.

To its credit, San Juan Café is honest about its cultural heterogeneity and lists Puerto Rican, Colombian, Venezualan, Dominican, and Cuban cuisines as falling under its purview. At the same time, a quick glance at the menu reveals an even broader focus, with Mexican classics such as nachos, burritos, and tacos. Considering how rare Puerto Rican restaurants are, it is remarkable just how familiar the menu feels—with the inclusion of the Mexican dishes, one senses that the chef is afraid of alienating customers. Overall, the menu confuses because there are nicely composed, chef-driven Puerto Rican/Caribbean items standing side-by-side with kitschy Mexican items. For example, the duck two ways and lobster mofongo contrasted sharply with the nachos and steak burritos. This menu contrast made me wonder, does a restaurant actually have a culinary style when its menu items contain such diversity? Or can one simply excuse the Mexican items under the premise that the restaurant needs to offer them in order to stay financially afloat? I suppose my opinion is somewhere in between, but in any case the restaurant’s attractive niche (there are other Mexican restaurants in Wilmington but no Puerto Rican ones) is diluted.

Another aspect of the menu that I didn’t care for was its declaration that “San Juan Café’s Cuisine Contains NO MSG or Preservatives!” I suppose I can understand why they feel the need to dispel any cultural stigmas that might engender people to believe that they would use MSG. However, I think there are broader implications behind this seemingly benign notification—why even invite the possibility that people will harbor these beliefs? The very mention of MSG reflects timidity from the kitchen, as though they had internalized the worst forms of culinary prejudice regarding ethnic cuisine.

Naturally, we selected the Puerto Rican/Caribbean options. To start, we shared the Tostones with tuna tartare and caviar, Camarones al Ajillo, and Seared Portales Chorizo. As a main, I chose Dos Patos (duck two ways), and my brother selected the Pollo Ajili Mojili.

We were surprised when the first item to arrive was a completely unnecessary basket of chips and salsa. They were fine.

The tostones arrived in a quartet—two with tuna tartare and two with paddlefish caviar and cilantro lime crema. These were terrific and would have constituted a far more satisfying set of opening bites than the chips and salsa.

Our other starters arrived with the tostones. The Camarones Al Ajillo were served with strips of plantain and a lemon and garbanzo puree. The menu description mentioned that they were served with Serrano chile (as is common with gambas al ajillo preparations) but there was no chile to be found. This was not a problem as I don’t care for hot peppers anyhow. Overall, the composition was a bit messier than I’d like but this was still a tasty dish.

The chorizo didn’t look like any I’d ever seen. The thick patty was actually reminiscent of a hamburger. The flavor was quite spicy but not overwhelming. However, the thick texture made the spice overwhelming, transforming what could have been a nice dish into an unpleasant one.

My duck arrived in a capacious portion featuring generous amounts of both breast and confit leg. The arepas were an outstanding accompaniment, and while I don’t care for green beans, they were a suitable complement. I have mixed feelings about the meat itself; the breast was terrific and went nicely with the caremlized onion demi glace, but the skin of the leg was overly salty, necessitating its removal. Overall, this was still a terrific dish that simply needed a bit less seasoning on the leg.

My brother was eager to try his Pollo Ajili Mojili. He took the picture below with his phone camera after he’d started eating the dish, and the presentation was more composed than it appears. The meat itself was quite tender and my brother enjoyed it. This preparation sought to replicate an iconic Puerto Rican dish rather than offering a more original design, but that is in line with the restaurant’s mission and so it wasn’t a problem.

There were three dessert offerings (flan, chocolate cake, and coconut cake), but they weren’t very inspired and we’d had already consumed quite a bit of food anyhow.

Ultimately, we were satisfied with our meal and most of the dishes were very appealing. I am confident that anyone dining at San Juan Café—even someone with a narrow palate—could find something to their liking. This has the benefit of keeping the restaurant popular, but at the same time, including banal Mexican dishes obscures what could be a distinct niche concentrating on Puerto Rican/Caribbean cuisine. I don’t subscribe to the belief that an ethnic restaurant can or should serve as a sort of classroom educating the diner about a particular culture. However, the kitchen’s cultural mingling muddles the expectation for Puerto Rican cuisine one would harbor from the restaurant’s name. The menu feels as though the chef devised several interesting dishes and retroactively decided to add some standard offerings to avoid alienating his customer base. The menu construction, in conjunction with the clichéd interior decoration and “No MSG” pronouncement, all speak to a lack of confidence. On its own merits, San Juan Café is certainly satisfying enough, but I would love to see what the restaurant could become with a more assertive personality.

Trattoria Athena (Brunswick, ME)

Trattoria Athena Dining Room

Trattoria Athena takes its name from its merging of Italian and Greek cuisines, which I suppose makes it a fusion restaurant of some sort. At the same time, pairing Italian and Greek invites the question: is it actually fusion if the two cuisines being combined are stylistically and geographically so similar? I actually think an Italian/Greek combination is quite compelling since they are just different enough to create an interesting contrast but similar enough that the grouping avoids getting sloppy. My parents are also fond of Mediterranean cuisine and so Trattoria Athena looked like a dream restaurant for a three-way family meal.

The ambience at Trattoria Athena is cramped, colorful, and rustic. In general, I appreciate small dining rooms because they feel more precise, but they also make me nervous because of the propensity for overloading the number of covers and establishing too much of a communal feel. Thankfully, the dining room allowed us just enough room to breathe and our table didn’t feel like an afterthought. I do have mixed feelings about the color choice, as a restaurant takes a pretty big risk when they paint the walls bright green. On the one hand, the color made for a vibrant décor, but it also felt like we were dining in Technicolor. There is also the issue of how refined a restaurant can be when they paint the walls so bright—I always enjoy contrasts, but if the color looks straight out of a cartoon, it frames the restaurant as casual, no matter how luxurious the ingredients are.

The dining room has two main focal points: on one wall are the maps of Greece and Italy, and on the other is an enormous chalk board boasting a litany of specials. Obviously, I understand the reasoning behind the maps, but I can’t understand why the restaurant chooses to offer so many specials, particularly because the menu proper is already quite large. This brings me to one of the stranger aspects of Trattoria Athena: the redundancy of the menu. With eight entrees already on the menu and four extra main courses on the chalkboard, the menu was overwhelming. In general, I enjoy restaurants that change their selections often since it reflects an inspired kitchen, but if the specials board is half the size of the menu, why bother with a seasonal menu? The menu redundancy was reflected in our choices, as my parents each ordered braised lamb dishes (one from the seasonal menu, one from the chalkboard), while I chose the duck/wild boar belly skewer special. For starters, we selected a number of Greek spreads and olive oils; my mother also ordered a salad special, and I chose the Insalata Grigliata con Guanciale.

Our oils and spreads were coursed out. First, we received a duo of olive oils—a Greek (Lakonia) oil and an Italian (Casa Pietraia) one. The Italian oil had a nice deep flavor but the Greek one was overwhelmingly fruity. Overall, I preferred the spreads; we ordered taramasalata (carp roe and bread puree), tzatziki, and htipiti (feta and grilled hot pepper). All of them were outstanding, but the bread was not crusty enough to handle the thick spreads.

I hardly ever order salads but I was interested in the textural contrast of this one—it had grilled romaine, bagna caoda dressing, house-cured pancetta, farro, and fried chick peas. The toothsome crunch of the chick peas and farro made this a fun and delicious take on a grilled Caesar salad.

My main dish contained grilled duck and boar belly, duck fat fried potatoes, and savoy cabbage. I figured that this dish was a safe bet as I love duck and cabbage, but the execution was not up to par—the duck and boar had been significantly overcooked and arrived dry. This dish exposed a problem I’ve found with Maine restaurants in general—the tendency to overcook meats. This issue is most notable with seafood. Maine has some of the best seafood in the country, but restaurants routinely overcook it to the point that the fish dries out. One restaurant that exemplifies this problem is Primo, a restaurant that prides itself on its local sourcing. By all means, I support a regional focus, but overcooking the fish kills the texture and flavor. While the duck and wild boar were not sourced locally, the kitchen’s preparation was reflective of a statewide tendency.

The kitchen actually confused my parents’ dishes and they were served each other’s plates. My dad was brought braised lamb shank with Greek orzo in a tomato-wine sauce and grated myzithra cheese. Meanwhile, my mother was served braised lamb with fettucine. The mix-up was not a problem since they each enjoyed the dishes, but I can’t understand the thought process that went into putting two braised lamb dishes with pasta and cheese on the menu. This issue raises the question: how different from one another do menu items have to be to justifiably coexist? I have no problem with a restaurant featuring two items from the same general group (for example, a beef and a veal dish, or duck and pigeon), but I think offering two braised lamb dishes is pretty difficult to justify.

(Two Braised Lamb Dishes)

Thankfully, the dessert menu was much shorter and there were only a few offerings. I am not particularly fond of phyllo dough and so I went with the lone Italian item, a tiramusu preparation that our server had recommended. The presentation looked fine (though I don’t care for powdered sugar), but the execution was lacking. Specifically, there was no liquor whatsoever, and it blows my mind that our server could recommend a tiramisu dish lacking a necessary ingredient.

As one can see, this meal started out quite strong but the latter half was disappointing. I think Trattoria Athena would benefit from paring down the menu and letting the quality of the ingredients shine by cooking the proteins less. More than this, though, my reservations are conceptual; I feel as though the restaurant would be a more compelling project if it actually combined Greek and Italian cuisines rather than offering Greek dishes and Italian ones side-by-side on the same menu. Consequently, the restaurant feels as though it is trying to satisfy two separate audiences—those looking for Greek food and those craving Italian—rather than a more ambitious approach that synthesized the two cuisines.

With its bright green walls, it is clear that Trattoria Athena wants to project a funky vibe. This is hardly a problem, as there is a pleasantly unstructured feel to the ambience. However, when the culinary execution and menu design are as unfocused as the décor, there is no unifying element holding the restaurant together, and this fundamental lack of precision is my biggest gripe about Trattoria Athena. Going into the meal, combining Italian and Greek cuisines seemed like an intuitive pairing, but this meal was ultimately one of the more unfocused I’ve had in some time.

Herons (February 2013)

(Herons Dining Room)

My brother and I enjoyed our lunch at Herons back in November, although the meal left me feeling as though I still hadn’t gotten a complete reading of the restaurant’s talents. While our lunch was well-prepared, the selections were relatively standard and the plating arrangements slightly awkward. One of my favorite topics concerns those restaurants that serve lunch and dinner, and how different the two services often are; lunch poses a challenge because the typical clientele come from diametrically opposed factions: either those with lots of time on their hands, or those on a more condensed, business-oriented schedule. Where a restaurant can usually know what to expect from its dinnertime customers, lunch poses this challenge and the net result is menus that are conservative while offering ‘just enough ambition.’ In any event, we were anxious to experience Herons at night and dined there on a recent February evening with the intent of ordering the tasting menu.

In my last write-up, I noted that the dining room looked a bit dated and that the open kitchen (a visual attraction in most restaurants) was banal to the point of detracting from the ambience. For the most part, this was still the case; our table was at a nice corner banquette that offered a prime view of the kitchen, but the kitchen was too segregated to get a good sense of the intricacies of their craft. In the end, the chefs looked like laborers rather than entertainers, and watching how hard they worked actually made me feel sorry for them as the meal went along. The kitchen was also so large that it felt analogous to a giant movie screen, distracting attention away from my table and toward the empty “spectacle” of the chefs.

Another issue with the dining room is that it clashes with the website description, which states that it is “an intimate 98-seat dining room.” This portrayal simply doesn’t make sense—how can you have a dining room large enough for 98 seats that still manages to be intimate? Obviously, it would be naïve to put any sort of truth value into a website description, but I still feel like most websites are a bit more accurate. Even so, we occupied what I considered to be the nicest table in the room—just secluded enough without being relegated to an afterthought. As a side note, I always find it interesting to glance around the room and envision how different my meal would be were I to sit at another table, as it would organize my attention in an entirely different way and have a crucial impact on the perception of both cuisine and setting.

We had already determined that we’d order the tasting as it featured personal favorites like guinea hen and tuna. I was also interested in the beef belly dish, which Executive Chef Scott Crawford had recently prepared at a James Beard event. We also supplemented the five-course tasting with the foie gras off the a la carte menu, and asked for the chef to send out an additional dessert. Our requests were approved without hesitation.

Our amuse bouche was a cracker topped with beet and duck prosciutto; it was delicious, but I was surprised to receive it since the resort setting didn’t seem like they would be able to cure the meat on the premises. Sure enough, they source their cured meats from a local supplier.

We enjoyed the bread at our lunch and so it came as no disappointment to see the same selections once again; the offerings included raisin, wheat, and small scones.

The tasting kicked off with an enormous tuna dish, which was at least three times the size I’d been expecting. It was caramelized and served with daikon radish puree, pineapple, and tortilla chip. This was a difficult dish on many levels, beginning with the presentation. In particular, the composition exhibited an unusual degree of redundancy—one could cut the plate in half and be left with two identical plates. If this were a main course, the design wouldn’t have bothered me as much; however, I think it reflects negatively on a kitchen to basically waste good ingredients on such a repetitive design, and it was a poor use of plate space. Making matters worse, the daikon radish (the large white droplets) had been applied with a heavy hand and completely ruined the dish—it had a horrific taste and I couldn’t take more than a couple bites. This was a real shame since I actually enjoy daikon radish, so long as it is used in more of an accenting role. I’ve never had such an offensive dish this early in the meal, raising the issue of whether the impact of a terrible dish is more severe if it occurs earlier or later in the meal. I think either position has merit, but I can certainly say that receiving such an awful preparation this early created a less than enthusiastic outlook toward the rest of the meal.

The next dish was our foie gras supplement, which was presented compliments of the kitchen as an apology for the tuna. I was curious to see where they would place the foie in the progression and while one could argue that it would have been more appropriately served third, it worked nicely here. As one can see below, there was a hot and a cold preparation—the former was seared and accompanied by muscadine grape gelee, toasted milk bread, and salted peanuts. The cold preparation was served torchon-style with a cookie crust, almost in the manner of a pirouline cookie. Chef Crawford is fond of serving two-way preparations and presenting them in a split-screen manner—this was a salient example of the style and a terrific dish.

Our next offering was celery root soup, served with char roe, green apple, almond, and mustard crisp. Herons always serves a soup course in their tasting, and their prix fixe menu has a designated soup course as well. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to meet Chef Crawford as he was not in that evening—this was a shame, since I really wanted to ask him about why there was a soup dish on the menu. I feel like it has become anachronistic to include soup in tasting menus, and I would have loved to ask Crawford whether it was actually his idea to include soup. As such, this dish provided a useful look at the structural constraints imposed by a hotel/resort operation. On its own merits, the soup tasted fine, although it still didn’t have the ambition of the other courses.

I was really looking forward to the next dish: milk-poached guinea hen with juniper and lingonberry. Unfortunately, this was terrible; poaching the hen in milk must have robbed it of its taste, as the meat tasted like dry chicken. I love guinea hen, and this had none of the faint gaminess that I usually enjoy. Though not as offensive as the tuna, this was still pretty awful and we barely touched it.

As an apology for the guinea hen, we were brought tasting portions of the spice-rubbed venison from the a la carte menu. It was served with chestnut barbeque and served with black trumpet mushrooms, date pudding, and parsnip puree. This preparation was wonderful; the date pudding worked particularly well as a creative accompaniment to the gamey meat and the chestnut sauce gestured toward the region’s affinity for barbeque.

The last savory dish was smoked beef belly, served with hen of the woods mushrooms, cashew, and vanilla-infused sweet potato. A sauce of birch beer was poured tableside. I’d been looking forward to this dish for weeks, and it was quite stunning—every bit as tasty and interesting as the cuisine I enjoyed at McCrady’s earlier this year. Smoking the beef belly was an amazing decision and another interpretation of southern barbeque. I also enjoyed the composition, as the segregation between the potato and beef reproduced the split-screen aesthetic of the foie gras. The only aspect that disappointed was the sweet potato, specifically the amount that was served—just as the portion of tuna had been way too large, there was an excessive amount of potato.

The pre-dessert was cranberry panna cotta with pecan and orange—it was great and served its purpose nicely.

Our first dessert was sourdough pudding, supplemented by milk chocolate custard and blood orange sorbet. We had loved the desserts on our first visit and this was every bit as impressive. Herons’s pastry chef, Daniel Benjamin, does an excellent job with balancing flavors and textures and the large portion size was necessary in allowing us to explore the different ingredient combinations.

Lastly, we were served “Turkish Coffee”: coffee ice cream, cardamom “grounds,” rose cream, and milk chocolate. The monochromatic presentation didn’t look like much; I think most chefs would have incorporated a brightly-colored ingredient to balance out the dark tones, and this was a situation where the aesthetic demands were not met. Luckily, the flavors went together quite well and were especially appropriate for a final course.

I forgot to take a picture of the mignardises; the offerings were standard but tasty and included canele, strawberry macaron, passion fruit gelee, and a mint chocolate truffle. Similar to the Fearrington House Restaurant, they only brought out one of each for us to share. They were happy to bring out another after I inquired, but it still baffles me why a restaurant would do this—perhaps it’s specific to Southern fine dining, or maybe the two restaurants simply aren’t familiar with standard protocol.

In most any tasting menu, there are bound to be a couple dishes that disappoint. That said, this meal felt more bipolar than most, with my enjoyment disproportionately tied to the venison, beef belly, and desserts. For better or worse, reflecting on this meal I am just as likely to remember the tuna as the beef belly, which I suppose makes this the epitome of a “mixed experience.” I do think Chef Crawford offers exciting interpretations of barbeque, I enjoy his plating technique, and the pastry program is one of my favorites. At the same time, the ratio of ingredients was polarizing, most notably the use of daikon in the tuna preparation and the sweet potato in the beef dish. In this regard, this meal really amplified the effect that ingredient scale can have in disrupting the harmony of a dish. I do wonder whether we simply caught the kitchen on a night where they overdid it with certain ingredients—for all I know, they might typically be more balanced. Ultimately, I don’t quite understand how Herons was awarded with the Forbes 5-Star and AAA 5-Diamond designations, but I am grateful that the second half of the meal went a long way towards redeeming a brutal opening half.

Port Land Grille (Wilmington, NC)

(Port Land Grille Dining Room)

Port Land Grille is always mentioned in conversations of Wilmington’s best-regarded restaurants. Although the name would suggest a location in Maine or Oregon, the website explains that it derives from the owners’ favorite vacation spot in Oregon and their dual commitment to land and sea: “we truly love the North Carolina coast where Wilmington is known as the “Port City.” The name “Port-Land” is a play on that as well.” This explanation is so simple as to seem almost tongue-in-cheek—serving food from land and sea doesn’t reinvent the wheel. Still, my brother and I took a chance and made a reservation for a recent Friday evening.

Our reservation was for 6:00, and there were only a couple of tables taken. The space was conservatively decorated, with black and tan tones; it wasn’t out of fashion, but it was also bland to the point that it would never have been in fashion either. The space was huge, and so it was odd that it was filled with more tables than there should have been. I think it’s helpful to “read” the dining room in conjunction with the menu, as the prices are informed by the number of covers; in this case, Port Land Grill would do well to eliminate several tables, even if it necessitates raising their prices.

The menu is one of the more interesting aspects of Port Land Grill—way too large, one can’t help but be overwhelmed with the options. To be fair, while I generally prefer small menus, I do enjoy large ones when they are thematically unified without being redundant. However, not only was this menu repetitive, but the dishes were all over the place, almost as though 2 or 3 restaurants had joined forces and simply kept their preexisting dishes. There were 7 different steaks and about 25 snacks/small plates/salads, not to mention a huge array of main dishes. The main dishes are divided into three sections: “from the port,” “from the land,” and “from the simple grille.” The options from the port and land were creative but had a messy cross-cultural approach with too many ingredients. For example, the pan-seared grouper was served with blue crab meat, English pea, pancetta risotto, butter wilted baby organic spinach, and a roma tomato, saffron, basil, melted sweet onion “fondue sauce.” To be fair, the finished product probably looked much simpler than it sounds and I have had strong meals at places that used lots of ingredients, but I think dishes like the grouper would be more appealing if they used (or at least, listed) fewer ingredients. The effect was overwhelming and I was turned off by much of the menu.

The “Simple Grille” took the opposite approach; the diner chooses from a template of five different protein choices and adds two sides, similar to the approach found at barbecue restaurants. I am not inherently opposed to the Simple Grille, but I can’t understand why a chef committed to using so many ingredients in his other entrees would include a section that is so simple—what he gains in breadth he loses in focus. Also adding to the confusion was that the prices were all over the place—where the simple grille items were $21, the grouper was $36 and most of the other options were over $30 as well. In sum, I have rarely come across a menu that was so impenetrable, reiterating the potential for menu construction to shape a meal.

In the end, I settled on the tomato-root vegetable-pancetta soup and the chicken, while my brother chose blue crab mac-and-cheese and the prime sirloin (from the simple grille.)

The bread service included a hearty whole wheat bread that was quite good, although the butter had an overwhelming lemon flavor.

My soup was served way too hot, a problem that is all too common. Making matters worse, there were no root vegetables to be found. The two most pronounced flavors were goat cheese and cream, and while I like cream, it feels like a cheap tactic to use it in a dish where it is unneeded. Oddly, when I asked our server about why there were no root vegetables, she stated that they might have been pureed (not likely), an odd explanation that was probably pure speculation.

The blue crab mac-and-cheese was large enough for four people, and I don’t understand how they make any money off it given its $14 price tag. I didn’t try it, although my brother enjoyed it. Still, this dish should have been an entrée and it was another example of Port Land Grille’s curious menu construction—I can’t imagine a person being able to consume this dish and being hungry for a main course.

I ordered the chicken because I wanted to try the “pound cake mashed potatoes” that accompanied the bird. This was a complete misnomer as they were just ordinary mashed potatoes. The chicken was well-prepared and the bacon-braised Brussels sprouts were comforting, but it’s always a let-down when the most anticipated component of a dish winds up mediocre.

After consuming his mac-and-cheese, my brother wasn’t able to finish his steak. I helped him out with it and it was delicious. Broccoli is my favorite vegetable and they were excellent; the other side dish was tator tots—an odd item at an upscale restaurant, but still quite tasty. This dish convinced me that the simple grille is the restaurant’s specialty.

At this point, my brother was well-past full, but I noticed “Southern Comfort bread pudding” on the menu and so we ordered it to share. The presentation was quite underwhelming, as the copious amounts of powdered sugar made it look as though a young child had prepared it. There was also no discernible taste of Southern Comfort—most likely, they sprinkled a thimbleful of liquor so that they could include it in the menu description. Finally, I can’t understand why one would include whipped cream and ice cream as they were mutually exclusive in this context.

There is no doubting that Port Land Grille is skilled at cooking protein; in my experience, where they struggle is creating coherent accompaniments, appetizers, and desserts. For this reason, the simple grille makes for the most satisfying experience they offer. This is also a restaurant where one’s experience is contingent on their ability to navigate the menu unscathed. It’s unfortunate that the restaurant doesn’t excel in more areas and I do think they would benefit from eliminating at least half of the menu. Still, provided that one approaches it with tempered expectations and knows what to order, one can easily have an enjoyable meal. I could see myself returning regularly for a nicely prepared protein, an uncomplicated appetizer, and no dessert.