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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.
