Dining on a Dime or Two

So Ugly It's Cute.  Not

D and I often find ourselves attending a performance at the Kalita Humphreys Theater in Dallas.  The place is a local treasure because it was designed and built by Frank Lloyd Wright.  Like royal subjects in the story about the Emperor's New Clothes, we all look past its squatty ugliness and profess admiration for its low ceilings and tiny, trapezoidal windows.  I believe the building may have been constructed during Wright's "I've Got a Splitting Headache" period.

Anyhoo, on the way to this frumpy landmark we like to drop by Morton's Steak House for a pre-theater dinner because it is on the way and you can dine divinely on Bar Bites during their non-prime time hours.  (Order before 6:30 or after 9:00 and you can pay for their nice selection of apps with the loose change you found in your couch.)  I know, I know, I cop to being a restaurant chain snob, but food goodness and high value trump delusions of grandeur any day.

Cocktail Wrangler Ryan

Ryan is the bartender and he is quick with a smile and remembered us after the first time we came.  (Either due to tipping largesse or a drunken brawl, I don't remember which.  Since he always seems especially welcoming my money's on the former.) He can make a mean martini ("You really have to commit to some serious shaking to get it cold enough to form ice crystals on top" says he) and he's smart and funny and hospitable.  He does not act all superior even though he is onto our cheap eats scam, and politely gives us the two minute warning before prices skyrocket so we can cram some more deeply discounted food in our gaping maws.

So we ordered their USDA Prime Cheeseburger Sliders featuring a one ounce patty, good cheddar cheese, tiny tomato, red onion and lettuce sandwiched in a miniature brioche bun.  They come as a set of three for $6, so roughly $1 a bite.  I snarfed up 6 ice cold raw oysters with freshly ground horseradish and spicy cocktail sauce served on a tray of crushed ice--again, a steal at $1 a piece.  My mom (has anyone noticed I mention her in almost every post?) always admonished us kids never to eat anything bigger than our heads, but this did not stop us from ordering the enormous platter of warm, house made potato chips surrounding a generously portioned crock of artery clogging blue cheese dip.  It was enough to feed an Irish family of 4 for the paltry sum of (surprise!) $6.  Since we needed something green we ordered the four tiny wedge salads made of crisp iceberg lettuce topped with chopped tomato, bacon and more blue cheese.  I am keeping the price of this last menu item a secret, but I'll give you a hint:  It starts with an S and ends in an ix.

Mmmmmmmm, Sliders

The drinks are cheap too, so we were outrageously fed and beveraged for a grand total of $38 before tax, title, and license.  Then we drove the short distance to Fred Flintstone's house and fell promptly into a restful slumber just as the show began.  Happens every time.  I blame Frank.

Fish Tale

I am a big fan of John Tesar.  The "most hated chef in Dallas" (the title in a D magazine feature about him last year) is actually a compelling, if complicated, guy.  He resuscitated the Mansion on Turtle Creek from two decades of stultifying, smoky Southwestern cuisine (now available at a Fearing's near you!) and opened Cedars Social to well-deserved gastronomic fanfare.  Though short-lived, his Commissary at One Arts Plaza boasted the best burgers in town.  After a too-early departure from this season's Top Chef (felled by the danged Curse of the Risotto) he opened Spoon Bar and Kitchen in swanky Preston Center late last year.  Last night, we had reservations and were excited to dine there.

Surprisingly mellow at 8:45 on a Saturday night (several empty tables and a twenty person bar with three people seated at it), we were none the less informed by the dim-witted, albeit perky, hostess that our table would be ready in a few minutes.  Although seemingly a ruse to force cocktail purchase in the bar, we happily complied.  FYI they don't have Skyy, Stoli, or Absolut, just Tito's, Grey Goose, and Belvedere.  (Not sure if this is vodka snobbery or just a limited imagination.)  There were 15 workers aimlessly milling about behind the bar like newly minted zombies and we were asked 4 times if we'd been helped--once even after our drinks had been served. After 15 minutes the hostess with the leastest came over and offered to seat us at a deuce three feet from the front door bathed in the unflattering light of a Payless Shoe Store.  We declined, saying we'd rather sit somewhere that didn't reek of Loser's Aroma. (I didn't actually say that, but I thought it really loud.)

5 minutes later she offered us a table closer to the center of the restaurant (which had been sitting empty the whole time we'd been there) and at last we were seated and watered.  Our very tall waiter came over and mumbled something without lowering himself to ear level.  ("What?" became the secret word of the night--though I never won a hundred dollars.)  It turned out he'd said he was going to bring us dinner menus.  We were thunderstruck by this unforeseeable pronouncement.

That menu is nine months pregnant with dollar signs and decimal points.  The a la carte entrees ranged from $38 to $75.  ($75?  My wallet tearfully whimpered and then threw up in its mouth a little bit.) Most of the offerings hovered in the high forties.  Reeling from sticker shock, I was relieved when a food runner plunked down a complimentary amuse bouche.  I don't know what it was but it tasted like fish armpits.  Since fish don't have arms I guess this was a minor triumph.

I ordered a fried clam salad thingy (oops, they'd just run out of that, sighed the Food Whisperer) so instead got the "market price" salade du jour, which turned out to be a $12 decent if tiny roasted beet and goat cheese number which cameoed on every menu in the Western Hemisphere last year.  D got the Rick Noonen Clam Chowder, which John had cooked to great acclaim on Top Chef.  It tasted like a liquified salt lick.

About this time I realized I hated the damned place.  I hated the decor (white on white on white), and the pretentious menu (it has two afterthought non-fish entrees, both exorbitantly priced and asterisked with a terse reminder that "we are a fish restaurant." Okay then.)  I hated our clueless waiter.  (What?  I can see your lips moving but I can't freaking hear you!  I finally asked him to just use American Sign Language or Pictionary drawings.  He replied "what?")  I hated the table next to us (botox and deep cleavage on the women and Dockers on the men.  (Dockers on a Saturday night?  Or ever? Seriously?)

$45 worth of tepid lobster agnoli (a total of 5 slightly undercooked ravioli) and $39 for four overcooked scallops swimming in a silky, salty broth with delicious baby carrots later, we were anxious to make like a baby and head out.  Our tab came in an envelope marked "The Damage" which I'd seen before and thought mildly amusing when it wasn't so true.

I still think you're a great chef and I look forward to your next venture, but sorry, John, I'd rather stab a knife in my thigh than fork over any more of my dough at your Spoon.

Great Service and the Lack Thereof

Those of you who have been loyally slogging through my blogging know that food is my love, my life, my passion.  Indulging in this edible sport is fraught with the specter of pants splitting open at the seat while bending over and/or projectile buttons flying off a way too tight shirt, no doubt putting someone's eye out in the process.  Therefore, I dutifully log plenty of gym time to compensate for my gluttony.

Yesterday I whipped through my weights routine and whirled through thirty-five minutes on the elliptical monster while listening to the soundtrack of Les Miserables.  (This was unintentional irony.)  Soaking wet, I staggered breathlessly to the locker room, peeled off my disgusting gym wear and headed to the shower.  There was no water running in the first one, so I literally nakedly searched for one that was working until it dawned on me that there was no water to be had anywhere.  I yanked my shirt and jeans over my sweaty, heat rashed (yet chiseled) body and headed to the front desk to report the problem.

The pretty college-aged girl at the desk looked up at me as I approached.  When she didn't say "Can I help you?" or even the more terse "Yes?" I realized that she had slightly raised one eyebrow which clearly was to communicate that if I had something to say I'd better spit it out so she could get back to her Us Weekly (the celebutante magazine with more pictures than words.) I asked "has anyone reported..." when she interrupted me and said "no water?" Yeah, there's a work order." I said "thank you" to which she replied "no problem."  Really?  It was no problem that I was sweating so heavily through my clothing that a large puddle had formed beneath my feet?  A passing workman noticed it and placed a yellow Caution Wet Floor sign on the floor beside me. One day I shall decode Millennial speak and understand that "no problem" actually means "I am so terribly sorry for your inconvenience I could just cry, Sir."  (Man, do I sound grumpy or what.)

Fast forward several hours.  Two of my favorite people, A and E, were in town to visit my most favorite person, P, and the five of us decided to meet for dinner at DISH, a trendy, scenester place with delicious, playful food and a smart and sexy ambience.  I used Open Table to make a reservation for  5 at 7:30, but the earliest they had was 8:45.  I sneakily changed my party size to 4 and voila!  Confirmed at 7:30.  I figured I'd just casually say oh sorry, we had a surprise joiner when I checked in at the hostess stand.  (Kind of underhanded, I know, but that's about as Hell's Angels as I get.)

P and the others were already there at the bar (natch) when we arrived and she said "you made a reservation for 4?  S and B are here too so there are 7 of us!  They said they were working on it" she said skeptically.  I murmured something about no doubt being banished to Siberia (the elevated section to the left where they usually seat people with plastic name tags on lanyards or Ed Hardy tee shirts.)  The Manager hurried over with a pained look and said "Mr. Wood?  You made a reservation for 4 but you're actually 7?" (Sheesh, I thought, first the rude girl at the gym and now I am going to be scolded by a harried Maitre D').  But then a miracle happened.  He smiled (and slightly bowed in a charming, non-obsequious manner) and said "No problem.  Because you are a VIP around here, we will have your table ready in a moment."

What the what?  I'm a VIP?  Since when?  Then I realized that Open Table puts a symbol by your name if you are a frequent diner who uses it a lot.  Smart restaurateurs train their door staff to notice things like that, and also to check the system's guest history.  No doubt the manager saw that I had dined there approximately 6,000,000 times in the past three years.  True to his word, my new BFF returned and led us not to Siberia but to a choice table for 7 with a splendid view of the bustling kitchen.  There was an envelope on the table with my name on it, and inside was a hand written note welcoming me back and thanking me for my patronage signed by the entire DISH team.  While we were ordering drinks, the owner came over and said hello and again, thanked me for returning.  WOW is an understatement.

We scarfed down fried artchoke hearts, calamari and my favorite, shishito peppers (I quietly bogarted most of those while the others were talking.) We had wild forest mushroom soup and clean green salads with Bibb lettuce and Granny Smith apples.  We had melty, savory short ribs, an abundance of crispy, buttermilk fried chicken, the BEST scallops ever, and tasty tenderloin ribeye chili.  The dessert eaters shared some chocolate and toffee concoction which made them moan audibly and yearn for a cigarette in the afterglow.

This morning I got an automated survey from Open Table asking me how my experience was.  I gave DISH 5 stars in every category including food, service, ambience, lighting, location, toilets, seat comfort, and background music.  After I submitted the rave review, I got back a response thanking me for my input.

I happily replied "no problem."

Destination Dining: Komali

I like to try new restaurants rather than dining at the same old, same old.  A lot of people have regular haunts they frequent, possibly because the crowd shouts "Norm!"* when they walk in, or maybe they have found what they like and don't want to possibly squander precious dining dollars on a less than desirable outcome, like at the world famous Heart Attack Grill.  I am excited about an upcoming visit to Dallas' hottest new restaurant du jour, FT33, which has swooning patrons and raving critics in abundance.  I've never been so I am anxious to try it.

Yes, Chef Abraham is sitting on a nose

That being said, I do have an old standby that I find myself returning to quite frequently called Komali, a stylish neighborhood joint that proffers self-described Contemporary Mexican Cuisine.  Its location in an underwhelming strip mall (not far from a couple of strip clubs) belies its chic, urban sophistication.  The Chef/Owner is Mexico City born Abraham Salum, who also operates his wildly successful New American restaurant, Salum, right next door.


Will You Marry Me?

This is not a place you will find Velveeta Queso or Refried Lard & Beans.  There's a dreamy Cream of Poblano Soup that nicely warms ones cockles on a brisk, wintry evening.  There's a happy Red Snapper Ceviche redolent of fresh fish, bright cilantro and lime.  All hail the Albondigas, traditional Mexican Meatballs swimming in their own fragrant broth. But my favorite dish by far is Callos de Hacha, which is  Pan-seared Scallops with a Mixed Mushroom, Serrano Pepper, White Hominy & Tomato Salad.  I had it again last Saturday, and before diving in fork first I got down on one knee and asked for its hand in marriage.  The hominy was game but the scallops demurred.

Other Komali components worthy of mention are a coed squad of bartenders who are generous with pours and smiles, shy bus boys who invisibly whisk away dirty dishes, a soothing, understated but posh interior design, and an energetic, diverse crowd whose cheerful conversations bring the room to life without requiring shouting over them in order for one's bon mots to be duly appreciated by one's tablemates.

If you haven't been to Komali, I'd suggest you put it on your restaurant bucket list.  And if you do visit, look around because I might be there.  Just ask the hostess where you can find Norm.




*If you don't get this reference I envy your youth.