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muckefuckSo, lovely church and all, but what I promised ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monshu was the skinny on Spring. It's a restaurant we've both long been intrigued by, but for various reasons we've never made the effort to eat there. That's why, when his_regard made the suggestion, I jumped at the chance even though it was late on a school night. monshu, however, couldn't be so easily convinced; we'd had a spendy dinner at Mercat a la Plantxa earlier in the week and he'd plunked down a small fortune on a leg of lamb for Spring Dinner on Saturday, so he was feeling a bit poor besides.
First of all, it's as lovely within as it appear from without. Very attractively contemporary without feeling too stylised or forced. Second, service was top notch without being either too fussy or too casual. When the hosts offered to take my coat, I asked if I could leave my bag as well. They both readily agreed, but as I removed my jacket and exposed my scarf, one of them commented, "Oh, I don't know about that. A Cardinals scarf?" "I'll make a deal with you," I said. "If the Cubs ever make it into the World Series, I promise to root for them, okay?" Then we traded positive impressions of Miller Park. Our waiter was a cute little Frenchman without a trace of snottiness. His recommendations sounded honest and--best of all--didn't come prefaced with that obnoxious "Well, my favourite is..." I've gritted my teeth through elsewhere.
And the food. We had a lovely spoonful of salad for our amuse-bouche, which I followed up with a flawless Kumamoto oyster. (I warned the others that the fresh wasabi on it would spoil for them forever that green paste from a tube, and it seems they took it to heart.) For a starter, I had the potato and scallop "raviolis", which I was told would be a twist on the traditional dish with the potato taking the place of the pasta. From that, I expected something more than simply a sliced scallop atop a bed of crisps--perfectly fried crisps, mind you, with a succulent piece of shellfish and a rich truffly sauce that I mopped up with a bit of bread, but nothing to frame the familiar in a startling new light or anything.
The barramundi entrée was a more mixed success. I ordered it on the strength of the sides, knowing that a fish described as "like perch" would leave something to be desired in the texture department. Unfortunately, only the ramps lived up fully to their promise. The "Thai pancetta" was so sparse as to hardly register and the "buckwheat gnocchi" were, well, let's just say they would've been better described as something else, like "pillows". Once more, they'd led me astray with their cutesy description: "Gnocchi" raises the expectation of something tender and chewy, but these cubes of pasta were so soft I initially mistook them for overcooked root vegetable. The sauce was also spicier than expected--not in a bad way at all, but not in a pleasantly surprising way either. More like in an "ordering off an unfamiliar Thai menu without little pepper icons" kind of way.
Dessert was a winner, however: An "affogato" drowned in coconut milk and tarragon syrup, which was far lighter and more delicate than that simple description suggests. It was accompanied by mini-donuts (with all the chew I wanted the "gnocchi" to have) which were airy enough to make perfect receptacles for a soupy mixture of melted gelato and sauce. For drinks, I passed on the cocktails and went with a sake flight. Again, perfectly nice, but nothing on a par with what I've been served at Agami or Oysy.
Looking back, it reads like a disappointment, but between my buoyant mood and the excellent company, it definitely didn't feel that way. At the time, I joked about making an entry of some of the daft food combinations we came up with at some point, but if that was my intention, I really should've had a notebook handy, because my age- and sake-addled brain just can't recall any of them. What I remember is that sometime, very soon, I will see more of my companions and we will eat more good food in a cozy surroundings (and--fortunately for my pocketbook--at a slightly lower price point).
monshu was the skinny on Spring. It's a restaurant we've both long been intrigued by, but for various reasons we've never made the effort to eat there. That's why, when his_regard made the suggestion, I jumped at the chance even though it was late on a school night. monshu, however, couldn't be so easily convinced; we'd had a spendy dinner at Mercat a la Plantxa earlier in the week and he'd plunked down a small fortune on a leg of lamb for Spring Dinner on Saturday, so he was feeling a bit poor besides.First of all, it's as lovely within as it appear from without. Very attractively contemporary without feeling too stylised or forced. Second, service was top notch without being either too fussy or too casual. When the hosts offered to take my coat, I asked if I could leave my bag as well. They both readily agreed, but as I removed my jacket and exposed my scarf, one of them commented, "Oh, I don't know about that. A Cardinals scarf?" "I'll make a deal with you," I said. "If the Cubs ever make it into the World Series, I promise to root for them, okay?" Then we traded positive impressions of Miller Park. Our waiter was a cute little Frenchman without a trace of snottiness. His recommendations sounded honest and--best of all--didn't come prefaced with that obnoxious "Well, my favourite is..." I've gritted my teeth through elsewhere.
And the food. We had a lovely spoonful of salad for our amuse-bouche, which I followed up with a flawless Kumamoto oyster. (I warned the others that the fresh wasabi on it would spoil for them forever that green paste from a tube, and it seems they took it to heart.) For a starter, I had the potato and scallop "raviolis", which I was told would be a twist on the traditional dish with the potato taking the place of the pasta. From that, I expected something more than simply a sliced scallop atop a bed of crisps--perfectly fried crisps, mind you, with a succulent piece of shellfish and a rich truffly sauce that I mopped up with a bit of bread, but nothing to frame the familiar in a startling new light or anything.
The barramundi entrée was a more mixed success. I ordered it on the strength of the sides, knowing that a fish described as "like perch" would leave something to be desired in the texture department. Unfortunately, only the ramps lived up fully to their promise. The "Thai pancetta" was so sparse as to hardly register and the "buckwheat gnocchi" were, well, let's just say they would've been better described as something else, like "pillows". Once more, they'd led me astray with their cutesy description: "Gnocchi" raises the expectation of something tender and chewy, but these cubes of pasta were so soft I initially mistook them for overcooked root vegetable. The sauce was also spicier than expected--not in a bad way at all, but not in a pleasantly surprising way either. More like in an "ordering off an unfamiliar Thai menu without little pepper icons" kind of way.
Dessert was a winner, however: An "affogato" drowned in coconut milk and tarragon syrup, which was far lighter and more delicate than that simple description suggests. It was accompanied by mini-donuts (with all the chew I wanted the "gnocchi" to have) which were airy enough to make perfect receptacles for a soupy mixture of melted gelato and sauce. For drinks, I passed on the cocktails and went with a sake flight. Again, perfectly nice, but nothing on a par with what I've been served at Agami or Oysy.
Looking back, it reads like a disappointment, but between my buoyant mood and the excellent company, it definitely didn't feel that way. At the time, I joked about making an entry of some of the daft food combinations we came up with at some point, but if that was my intention, I really should've had a notebook handy, because my age- and sake-addled brain just can't recall any of them. What I remember is that sometime, very soon, I will see more of my companions and we will eat more good food in a cozy surroundings (and--fortunately for my pocketbook--at a slightly lower price point).