 photo by KELLEY HAMBY |
RESTAURANT REVIEW Moore is Less Moorefield's combines ingredients with a theatrical sensibility, but the result is often overwrought. BY ROGER J. PORTER |
|
Moorefield's Restaurant 6401 SW Macadam Ave., 246-6900. Dinner Monday-Saturday. Children welcome but uncommon. Expensive. Picks: Carpaccio of baby lamb, seared ahi tuna salad, mango duck, herb seared blue marlin, Ligurian fish and shellfish stew, berry crêpe Unusual touch: A tuxedoed waitress who sings operatic arias if requested Moorefield's, a new restaurant transplanted from Florida by owner, chef, decorator and impresario Margaret Moorefield, is one of the most self-conscious establishments to open here in many years. The food is part-Floridian--there's an emphasis on tropical flavors and fruits, and such Southern ingredients as marlin and coconut--and part Mediterranean, with Ligurian seafood stew and vegetable "paella." But it is more accurate to say that the cuisine, and the restaurant generally, comes from that region called Metaphor. At Moorefield's nothing is as it seems; to dine here is to witness acts of theatrical transformation, culinary illusionism. The visually dazzling results are highly conceptual; exquisite sculptural attention and complex assemblage take precedence over anything so humble as a decision to base the menu on market availability. A story related to me recently captures what, for all its personal touches and high ambitions, Moorefield's is not. Robert Reynolds, a chef who spends half the year in Portland, half in Provence, took a colleague to a market, purchased an eggplant and cut it open on the spot. How the vegetable fell open, and what precisely was revealed inside, would determine exactly how he would prepare it. Moorefield's, by contrast, is the projection of a priori ideas that its chef brings to each cluster of her ingredients. Nothing is left to chance. Moorefield's eschews simplicity as if it were vulgarity incarnate. Ingredients are occasionally metamorphosed beyond their nature, sometimes with inventive and seldom-imagined combinations, but sometimes with an overwrought imagination that masks the integrity of the raw materials in the name of art. There are combinations (such as lamb and chocolate mint sauce) that spring from culinary Oz. But make no mistake, a meal at Moorefield's is an experience. One metaphor is opera. The space is like a production of the La Traviata ball scene staged by Zeffirelli: deep emerald walls, tables awash in crystal, tapestry runners, each napkin at the table folded in a different pattern and the servers attired in tuxedos and standing at attention. An enormous painting of Icarus about to launch himself into the sky graces one wall. During dinner I noticed his loincloth begin to flutter. Curious, I investigated. The modest covering is made of paper, recently applied over Icarus au naturel to satisfy an offended patron. The real metaphor is complexity as disguise, even at the verbal level. Each item on the menu receives two or three lines of prose description, dominated by obscure terms, adjectives changed to nouns, puzzling quotation marks and sheer accretion: "Pan-seared tenderloin of beef 'sandwich' stacked with filo, with dried cherry & fig bigaride [a classic French Seville orange sauce], caramelized Fuji apples & sweet potato, hazelnut dumplings, finished with a tawny port reduction 'swirl'" is one entry. With over 25 such listings, a request for simple elucidation might occupy a good part of an evening's amusement--Moorefield's as rococo poetry. A number of the dishes are wonderful. An appetizer of seared tuna rests on a cradle of lightly fried soba noodles, accompanied by an aioli made with wasabi paste rather than garlic. The rare tuna is beautifully cooked, and its smoothness plays against the noodles; the whole dish is set off with mesclun and a raspberry vinaigrette. An immense plate of gnocchi comes with sun-dried tomato pesto, tapenade and a green sauce for a deeply flavorful pasta dish. The outstanding starter is carpaccio of lamb, paper thin and layered over warm arugula and an olive-studded potato salad, the potatoes midway between mashed and boiled. This is a daring combination that comes together beautifully. An almost signature offering of barbecued coconut shrimp with bananas, mango and salsa--with the rim of the plate painted with a line of orange and scotch bonnet, one of the hottest of peppers--is a seductive pileup that tastes and looks positively aphrodisiacal. But a spinach salad was marred with ordinary Roma tomatoes at a time when glorious heirlooms were available--and by an incongruous and superfluous mushroom ragoût. Several of the fish and seafood dishes are worth trying. A Ligurian fish stew comes laden with fine choices, including monkfish and octopus, and such interesting touches as lemon basil leaves. Blue marlin (really a type of swordfish, but listed on the menu as it is no doubt to evoke Hemingway and Key West) is accompanied by apples, bacon and a memorable ragoût of leeks and wild mushrooms. But a problem with this, and several other dishes, is that the plate is so self-consciously picturesque and eager to impress that the food, which can be very good, often yields to precious image-making. The tenderloin is a first-rate cut of meat, but why serve it between layers of filo? Cherries, figs, Fuji apples, sweet potato and strawberry-and-port glaze around the periphery render it cloying, the sticky sweetness simply overwhelming the beef. There's a penchant here for doctoring perfectly fine ingredients. Mango duck is delicious in its own right; it does not benefit from a coffee glaze. One yearns for restraint, a concern not to call attention to chefly indulgence, regardless of the virtuoso execution. The diner at Moorefield's is clearly in the hands of a woman of baroque
tastes who has orchestrated a highly structured and intricately designed
performance. Everything is exquisitely thought out, for better or for
worse. Whether you consider the experience sensual, surreal or merely
painterly, Moorefield's is nothing less than an attempt at culinary
high art. The finishing touch? After one of my dinners, our waitress--who
happened to be a trained opera singer--serenaded an anniversary-celebrating
couple at the next table with an aria from The Marriage of Figaro.
How perfect--Moorefield's as the Met.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
|
