Destination Dining: Salum

Chef Abraham Salum is one of my favorite chefs in the city of Dallas.  After gaining quite a bit of attention while cooking at the long-time Oak Lawn standby Parigi (which, btw, is how they pronounce Paris in Italian) he opened his namesake restaurant Salum eight or so years ago in a nondescript strip mall near a couple of strip clubs.(My favorite newspaper headline of all time is "Headless Body Found In Topless Bar".)  It seemed like an odd, sort of risky place to operate an upscale dining experience intended for mature audiences but it does very well. A couple of years back Chef Abraham opened Komali, his take on modern Mexican cuisine, right next door so the neighborhood must not be that sketchy.  Or maybe all that stripping makes a body hungry.  And they'd always have tip money for the valet.  Hmmm, an unusually thoughtful business plan...

It's Not Really This Dark 

We recently revisited Salum and I must say it was even better than I had remembered.  Super busy but not frantic on a Saturday night, we willingly agreed to sit at the bar until our table was ready.  This doesn't bother me when you have a reservation and you don't have to wait longer than ten minutes. When it edges past fifteen I get all tense and tight-lipped and if it's approaching thirty I'm approaching the manager.  Happily, our wait was no longer than say half a martini until we were shown through the minimalist, soothing room to a great table right in front of the display kitchen.  It was fun watching the cooks in their perfectly synchronized swimming routine minus the water and nose plugs. They leaped and bent and twirled and swirled, keeping the kitchen cleaner than mine will ever be as they worked as a team to get the food out.

Even Garlic Is Bigger In Texas

We were watered and breaded and buttered by an attentive, quiet-as-a-mouse bus person and greeted by our cheerful waitron unit who possessed that "I know your kind" style of mockery that makes you feel special and like an insider.  She steered us to the Texas Goat Cheese and Roasted Elephant Garlic appetizer which came with toasted slices of French bread and tasted like seven seconds in heaven. D had the soup of the day -- I can't remember what it was but the bowl it came in was licked clean.

So far, so good.  Great ambiance, fun server, a packed house full of well-groomed people enjoying their food, not a single blasted TV.  It was just like being in a room full of grown ups and I didn't have to stab anyone for being obnoxious.  But then it happened.  Our entrees came out and the most salacious example of food porn I'd ever laid eyes on was seductively slid onto the table in front of me. In shock I loudly gasped, and my heart started to race as I drank in its luscious, wanton aroma.  This Dijon and truffle-dusted rack of lamb cuddling with mushroom bread pudding while being lovingly kissed by lamb demi-glace was nothing short of sex on a plate.

Mary Had A Little Lamb.  I Ate It.

I admit it, I fell instantly in love. Without thinking, I slowly got on one knee and asked the lamb chops to marry me.  Since I hadn't known to bring a ring I wrapped the circular piece of paper that had been surrounding my rolled napkin and slid it onto the long, thin, expertly Frenched bone of the daintiest chop.  No response.  In a voice husky with desire I proposed again.  Nada.  Zip. Bupkiss. Crestfallen, there was nothing I could do but grab that chop and cram the entire thing into my mouth.  It was medium rare with a rosiness akin to the cheeks of a two year old frolicking outside on a crisp November afternoon. Succulent, tender, juicy and flavorful, the meat was perfectly complemented by the moist, savory bread pudding which I used as a bullet train conduit for the powerfully rich demi.  I tried to slow down and enjoy the experience but I finished the entire plate faster than an overwrought teenager on prom night.

Our server happened by and seemed a little astonished that my plate was entirely empty while D was just starting on an artichoke and ricotta ravioli with grilled shrimp. She didn't buy my story that the back waiter had just put an empty plate down in front of me, no doubt in part because I had sticky streaks of deep red demi sauce smeared around my mouth and down the front of my shirt. Sheesh, some people can be so skeptical.

Despite the unrequited love, that plate's going down as one my of my top five ever.