Seattle and Vancouver...

[Gareth]

Back from my first ever visit to both Vancouver and Seattle.

Initally, I posted a meta-review of the whole trip to both the Canadian and US fora, hoping that this would represent another milestone in the comity of nations. However, it transpires such cross posting isn't allowed, so the first part of the trip (Vancouver) can be found on a forum north of the border and our Seattle readers now pick up our story half-way through.

EPISODE IV: A NEW HOPE

...And so south to Seattle, which greeted my arrival with the constant downpour that I understand constitutes the traditional welcome in these parts.

I did have some idea to eat somewhere right after a quick Sazerac at Zig Zag (now there’s a phrase that wins points at Scrabble…) to revive my dampened spirits. And very good it was too, and the guys there – Murray the barman, and also the chef – were so sociable and accommodating that it just seemed rude not to have another: a Toronto (don’t be put off: the drink has personality). Then there was that new bottle of Willets bourbon that they insisted I try (firewater with a finish, similar character to Talisker) and…and …dunno. Vague memories of a perfectly well-presented wagyu burger at the Steelhead Diner (tasting notes ‘not as absorbent as I might have hoped…’) before trying the ‘Seattle Sober-up’: viz a long uphill walk back to the B&B in the rain.

The following day the constant rain of the night before was but a distant memory since the weather had taken a distinct turn for the worst, adding gale-force winds to the metrological brew. It’s on days like this you really want something hearty, warm and redolent of winter firesides. Sushi perhaps. So I ended up at Shiki where it turned out that casoulet was off the menu but o-toro was on. Quality was fantastic and drew me into a orgy of ichthypophagy, running my way through swathes of the menu with each one hitting the spot. The chef confirmed that he also served fugo but that I was a week too early for the fugo season. Perfect. We could that way establish that, of course, had it been in season, I would absolutely have ordered it and no loss of face to either party was involved. Absent fugo, I consoled myself with an extra order of the spankingly good King Mackerel before waddling, replete and penguin-like back onto the streets.

However, that night I’d learnt my lesson: no pre-dinner cocktail binging for me, not least because dinner was at Mistral about which I read much on one of those ‘do I go to Mistral, Herb Garden, or Rovers’ type threads. You know, “Sophie’s Choice”. Anyway, I’d picked Mistral and very happy with my choice I am too. I was quite the freshest, most innovative and well-executed meal I’ve had in the last six months (which means trumping lunch at Le Meurice in Paris among other contenders).

Readers will probably know the score: no menu, you get asked how many courses you want and then you’re in the hands of the chef. So the evening duly kicked of with the waitress asking me the spectacularly pointless question “Do you want 7 courses, or 8 ?”. I mean, who seriously says anything other than 8 to that ? “Oh no, sorry, I’d better stick to seven, I’m trying to cut back…” ?

That little charade out of the way, what followed was and engaging exploration of yellowfin sashimi in citrus; lightly caramalised Halibut with baby peas in a spinach puree; Parsnip and butternut squash soup with vanilla oil; a crisp John Dory fillet on a retake of nicoise; foie gras de canard with pear puree; best end of lamb with (can’t remember what - the lamb was so flavoursome it just stole the show); a cheese plate; and dessert, the nature of which, this being done from memory, eludes me. I think it might have involved sorbets. (My sorbet little secret, perhaps ? Sorry.)

Anyway, there’s little to be gained from a precise list since of the 5 tables in that Thursday night (shockingly under-patronised if quality and talent were any measure; in London I’d have to beg a month in advance to get a seat…) no two tables got precisely the same repertoire.

To voice one niggle about the food (other than a strangely discordant note of sea-salt in the citrus sashimi dressing…) it was an overdose of the flavoured oils that seemed to feature in just about every course. Sometimes these worked to good effect – the vanilla oil on the hot soup provided an aromatic in much the same way as shaving on a truffle does – at other times it just seemed a bit unnecessarily additional. But enough of this cavilling: this meal was better than good. The star for me was the John Dory, a beautiful piece of fish, the skin crisp, the flesh steamed just past translucence resting on what appeared to be a Nicoise but the structure of which was provided by micro-florets of cauliflower and the blackness turned out not to be olives but aubergine. Bright, flavoursome, sensational.

A further bonus was that this was also a restaurant in which you can feel relaxed dining alone (how often is it that, the better the food, the worse the ‘single diner’ vibe gets..?) and the pattern of the meal, with its eight little courses and no certainty about what was coming also engaged in this respect.

I left Mistral a happy man and comfortable after selecting the ‘Wine Flight’ to go with the meal, the quality of which (a mixture of Old World and new) didn’t disappoint. However, there was still work to be done: I was bearing a letter of introduction from Murray at Zig Zag to Jamie at Vessel: “go to Vessel, ask for Jamie, put yourself in his hands…”. This I duly did, enjoying a couple of great drinks (concocted on the spot by the awesome Jamie, who is the recent proud owner of his own still…) and encountering on the way a New York investment banker type who bucked the stereotype by being smartly tailored and spectacularly charmless. He had evidence of a nasty a cut on his cheekbone that I think might have be given him by his etiquette coach. (The alternative explanation, which I won’t dwell on, was that he was a perfectly nice guy who simply had the misfortune to have a half-cut Brit try and engage him in conversation. Ho hum…).

The next day was home. I won’t dwell on the food at SeaTac airport; though it continued to linger most of the way across the Atlantic.

Gareth

Edited November 7, 2007 by Gareth (log)

[Ling]

You hit a number of great spots. I'm glad you enjoyed the Peking duck at Master Hung's, and your evening at Mistral!