Yesterday was a grey and useless day, the kind that sends your mood spiraling down down down. Despite a productive morning, I spent the afternoon sitting in my dim apartment, eyes dull and spirits listless, while Mr. Food Musings tried to cheer me up. We ditched a wine tasting I was dreading, but then missed the movie we wanted to see and couldn't get a reservation at the new Jack Falstaff. Mr. FM proposed a walk, possibly down to the store for some sort of A/V cable for our new DVD player. "I'd rather jump off a bridge," I replied. (Melodramatic? Who, me?)
As I lingered on the cusp of neverending despair, Mr. FM cheerfully suggested we call Tartare, another restaurant we've been meaning to try. The chef, George Morrone, formerly of Aqua and the Fifth Floor, has launched a bright red boite of a restaurant in North Beach with plenty of raw dishes on the menu, mainly tartares and carpaccios. It's been immensely popular.
"Yeah, right," I tossed out with a roll of the eyes. "We'll never get in there."
Well, knock me over with a truffle: we scored an 8:45 pm spot! My mood immediately lifted to the point that I was able to manage a weak smile, a request for a pre-dinner cocktail and a foot rub. Then we tuned into Thursday's TiVo'd episode of The Apprentice to kill time before dinner (Go Donald Go!)
Tartare is one of those restaurants that, though not perfect, is bound to delight. The food suffered a few missteps on our visit, but the mix of some undeniably great dishes, a warm, convivial room and the staff’s genuine affability made for a thoroughly enjoyable meal.
It started with the valet, who noticed our searching eyes as we walked down the block. “Looking for Tartare?” he called out. “Well, you’ve found it. Have a great evening!” Such a nice boy, as my grandmother would say.
The hostess was the only exception to the friendly staff. Hers was a stiff greeting, overly formal and a touch awkward. She looked like a heroin addict gone straight, and her “I’m so bored” routine was out of place among an otherwise genial crew. She didn’t offer to take our coats, or anyone else’s – it would seem they don’t have a coat rack, which is a shame and small annoyance since there’s plenty of room near the bathrooms.
We settled in to our corner of the rosy-hued room to take in the place, me against the banquette (it's an unwritten rule that I get the seat facing the restaurant). Morrone has utterly transformed it from its Elisabeth Daniel days, when the hushed room and neutral tones made you feel you had to whisper over dinner. Tartare is the most vibrant spot in town: the ceiling, covered in strips of dark wood woven into a unique architectural sculpture, arches high above the small room, and everything from the walls to the carpets to the table accents breathe red. Last night the place was not quite full but still bustling, even when we left close to 11. Chef Morrone popped up in the dining room several times, mainly to chat with friends at the table next to ours; his compact build and relaxed grin immediately endeared him to me. I waggled my eyebrows at Mr. Food Musings, Groucho Marx-style, to signal who was at his elbow. As expected, my over-the-top hint went wholly unnoticed.
The meal kicked off with a dish of pickled spiced baby veg – carrots, white and red onions and mushrooms – and a graceful china bowl of bread. (The china, a series of sloping bowls and long, sharp plates, is not to be missed. A lot of care evidently went into its selection.) After we ordered a glass of smooth French champagne, just barely chilled and pleasantly low on bubbles, we chatted with Paul Einbund, the exuberant sommelier whose energy sneaks out in bounces and gesticulations and funny faces when he talks about wine. He took great delight – rightly so – in finding us a Pinot that satisfied our warring palates (fruity for me, earthy for Mr. FM). The result, a 2002 single-vineyard Shea from the Willamette Valley and a Pommard clone, did an outstanding job.
Though there were a few serving errors, including the arrival of our oysters before our champagne (a personal pet peeve) and the too-early arrival of our next course, the staff was fittingly embarrassed and hopped about to correct things. We obliged them with patience and, when necessary, gentle hints.
The oysters, a selection of seven Hog Islands, were served with a tiny pitcher of red jalapeno mignonette (carrying the red theme through to the food). The presentation was smart – no more losing the oyster in the dish of sauce – and I got a kick out of pouring it like tea at a tea party. Unfortunately, the heat from the pepper overpowered the mild oysters. Perhaps a brinier variety would have held up better.
In a nod to the restaurant’s raw theme, Mr. Food Musings and I each had a tartare. I won with the chef’s signature ahi tuna tartare, laced with habanero-infused sesame oil, pine nuts and a hint of mint to balance the spice. Topped with an egg (quail, judging by the size) the tartare disappeared quickly onto my fork and the sweet, thick slices of brioche toast they set out. Mr. FM fared less well with the ostrich tartare; we both agreed that the Roquefort vinaigrette muffled the flavor of the lean meat too much.
When the entrees came around, it was Mr. FM who won, again with a Morrone classic dating back to his Aqua days: tuna topped with foie gras and coyly termed a “melt” for the way it disappears on your tongue. Mr. FM ate every last bite, while I struggled to get through my huge Diver scallops. The broth they swam in was too salty, though I liked the fresh cilantro and red jalapeno; they made for a dish prettier than it was tasty. We finished with the raw milk cheeses, a selection of goat, cow and sheep that sparkled next to the candied almonds I devoured.
Though there wasn't an amuse bouche to start, the post-prandial mini carrot cupcakes with cream cheese frosting and candied lemon peel more than made up for it - and knocked my leopard-print pony hair mules right off my feet. They were worth the entire price of the meal. (Hmm. Is that the merest hint of hyperbole I sense? Nope. False alarm.)
The jovial staff, more great dishes than limp ones and great wine kept our spirits up throughout the evening and gave us a night far better than the day it followed. Although some of the food was a small disappointment, Mr. Food Musings and I will definitely be back – perhaps the next time we get the San Francisco blues.
Grade: B+
Tartare, San Francisco, 550 Washington Street, 415-434-3100
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