Where to Eat Now
The Dow may be in the tank, but you still have to eat, right? Whether you're hungry for a scene or a sauce Véronique, here are places that will comfort you with Chianti-braised short ribs, truffle-oil-spiked grits, and—a sign of the times?—a dessert called Evil Chocolate Overlord.
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Quite the place for Fort Worth socialites bearing birthday gifts, Angeluna seems a bit of a misfit out where the West begins. The tall white walls and heavenly artwork (one picture a mere pair of angel's wings) match the high ambitions of chef Clark McDaniel's kitchen, which produces dishes of the Mediterranean and Middle Eastern persuasion, like meaty Moroccan lamb shanks with apricots and pine nuts on preserved-lemon couscous. But when it comes to Fort Worth's patented cowboy chic, few do it better than Lonesome Dove Western Bistro. This spot in the Stockyards historic district doesn't look prefab (the saddles on display are worn, the pressed-tin ceiling is original), and Tim Love's menu explores Southwestern motifs without beating them to death. I'll order the near-perfect lobster cakes with black beancorn salsa and cilantro-orange beurre blanc anytime they're offered.
I'm in the mood for love and escargots à la bourguignonne. Send me to your favorite romantic French bistro.
In Dallas, that would be Lavendou, a far north outpost tricked out in yellow-and-blue Provençal print fabrics and pine armoires. Chef Jean-Marie Cadot's rotisserie duck with cassis sauce and his crème brûlée are as classic as they come. In Houston, francophiles can head to Café Rabelais (a nook that could have been lifted from Paris' Latin Quarter, its walls the color of old parchment). Best bets: Mack Rogers' monster mussels in a creamy white-wine sauce or a salad with country ham and oodles of blue cheese. In San Antonio, Bistro Vatel has a lock on the genre, with a scattering of copper pans and art posters gracing simple concrete-block walls painted buttercup yellow. An unevenly cooked filet of Atlantic salmon was more than made up for by chef Damien Watel's fabulous creamy veal sweetbreads with truffled crème fraîche sauce. Like salmon swimming upstream, lovers of French food brave the boozy college rabble on Austin's East Sixth Street to make their way to Chez Nous for chef Eric Pelegrin's rosy duck breast and crisp sautéed shrimp in vanilla beurre blanc. The bistro's lace curtains and the tattered shade on the bar lamp haven't changed in ages—thank goodness.
I need to be surrounded by famous (or at least cool) people. Where's the scene?
Any restaurant with a famous chef has built-in buzz. But there are plenty more. In Dallas, if you're looking for players in both meanings of the word, try no-frills Bob's Steak and Chop House, the original on Lemmon Avenue, where jocks hold up the bar and suits claim the tables. For wattage, go to Steel, a self-styled Indochine and Japanese dining venue where stylish women hug each other, men in black leather Armani jackets hug each other, and members of the sports-oisie exchange high fives in the sultry sake lounge. Oh, you want to eat? Have some sushi or one of chef Duwy Vouang's excellent Asian-fusion dishes. Elsewhere on the scene circuit, the whole West Village is hot—the club crawlers outside Nikita could be mistaken for a mob of American Idol hopefuls.
La Griglia, in Houston, has long been a home away from home for politicians of all stripes, especially at lunch; ritzy River Oaks types convene at dinner to feast on smart Italian fare. Most restaurants in the hopping Midtown area have a following, especially the sushi bar Fish, where the parking valets practically demand that you make an appointment. New-kid-on-the-block Fleming's Prime Steakhouse has, for now, taken the lead in the steakhouse sweepstakes; you need a crowbar to pry open a space in the bronze-toned, paneled bar and dining room. And whatever you might think about P. F. Chang's American-oriented Chinese food, there's electricity in the air at its well-polished, spacious Highland Village location, where young wheeler-dealers, rap music producers, and those in search of, shall we say, a date for the night all put in an appearance.
When the young and the restless of San Antonio aren't rushing the bar or spilling out onto the patio at Reggiano's, they're in the airy, blond-wood dining room eating Mediterranean-accented food like Errol Graham's bravura combo of shrimp and sausage on polenta. Throngs of artier types have made it impossible for me to squeeze into Rosario's flashy, throbbing Latin digs at night, so I join the lunch bunch if I want to have Lisa Wong's pozole, thick with hominy and chunks of pork. In Zinc's chummy side room, surrounded by sofas and bookshelves, pretty people size one another up and dine well on pizzas and panini (like yummy roasted-lamb sandwiches with peach chutney) made by Nelson Gonzales, who is also the chef at Boudro's.
When Michael Caine and Robert Duvall were in Austin, they ate at the downtown location of Eddie V's. So do thundering herds of lobbyists, legislators, and UT coaches. I can see why they like the slick, wood-paneled space and Steve Warner's sprawling, imaginative menu of seafood and chops. Many of the same folks turn out to mill around the bar at chic Vespaio, swilling Pinot Grigio while waiting up to two hours for a table—and once you've tasted Alan Lazarus' Chianti-braised short ribs, little hunks of burning love, you'll understand why. The total opposite of chic, Las Manitas Mexican cafe also gets the boldface types: Ann Richards, Karl Rove, Sandra Cisneros, Dan Rather, and Edward James Olmos, especially on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, vegetarian tamal days.
If you had to pick just one place for sushi in each of the big cities, what would it be?
Dallasites who are maniacal about the raw stuff head north to Sushi Sake, a simple but attractive little spot in a Richardson shopping center (come on, it's not that far), for reverently cut, impeccably fresh yellowtail, sea bass, and toro (the prized "fatty tuna"). Houston's woodsy, lodgelike Azuma purveys pristine sushi, but as much as I love fish, I'm also taken with its vastly entertaining specialty: Hot Rock Beef, a sear-it-yourself exercise involving a heated portobello-size stone and strips of either Angus or Kobe steak. Cooking them is more fun than roasting marshmallows on a coat hanger. In San Antonio, some lunatic is sure to invent sushi fajitas any day now, but until that happens I'll have my raw seafood at Sushi Zushi, a silly name for a serious joint. I like the zippy new downtown location, with its beautiful photographs of old Japanese cooking implements. In Austin, I follow the city's sushi addicts to rustic, convivial Musashino, where if you're lucky you can get a seat at the knickknack-cluttered bar and watch the chefs. When I'm being especially good to myself, I order the sashimi deluxe bowl, a glistening still life of ruby, pink, and pearl.
Mediterranean dishes are everywhere, but I long for pure Italian. Where should I go?
At Dallas' Mi Piaci, I was won over by the world's most conscientious waiter, who nearly died when he noticed a few microscopic specks of red sauce on my menu. "Totally unacceptable," he could be heard muttering as he scurried off to fetch a clean one. When he delivered chef Tim Penn's arugula salad (with huge shavings of Parmesan and a beautiful lemon dressing) and exemplary house-made fusilli (with mushrooms and fresh herbs), he was prouder than a doting daddy with a new baby. Houston has brilliant Da Marco , but it also has the vast Mandola, Butera, and Carrabba clan, which made cannelloni a household word there while the rest of Texas was still eating spaghetti out of a can. Of the dynasty's many trattorias and ristorantes (including Vincent's and the two original Carrabba's), Damian's is the acknowledged padrino, bustling with waiters groaning under vast trays of fat, veal-stuffed tortellini in rich Alfredo sauce or crisp, marinated chicken breasts bombed with fresh rosemary and garlic. In Napoleon Palacios' kitchen, nuovo is a no-no. In San Antonio, despite the occasional cementlike cannoli, Massimo rules. Massimo Pallotelli's orgy-worthy antipasti spread, homemade pastas, and insanely rich mushroom risotto are all on my perennial wish list. In Austin, I can't possibly narrow the selection to just one, so besides Vespaio , with its muscular, vibrant flavors, I choose Emmett and Lisa Fox's spare, clean-lined Asti for white pizza kissed with truffle oil and La Traviata's gregarious, limestone-walled downtown digs for Marion Gillcrist's irresistible spaghetti in eight-hour-simmered ragù bolognese.
I crave adventure but can't afford a plane ticket to Timbuktu. What's unexpected and a little exotic?
Homesick Venezuelans and Colombians in Dallas are hanging out at Zaguán World Bakery and Café, sniffing the fragrant baked goods and ordering the lunch-type foods that emerge from Miguel Cristancho's blue-tiled kitchen. I'm in a cozy corner having a cachapa (a sweet, sticky Venezuelan corn turnover) washed down with coffee so strong it could take the porcelain off a bathtub. Along with the rest of Houston's chowhound cognoscenti, I have recently discovered A Taste of Portugal, chef-owner Jorge Fife's sociable, informal little enclave where a Portuguese customer taught me how to eat a six-inch grilled sardine: Hold the critter in your hands like an ear of corn, grasp the flesh in your teeth and pull, flip, and repeat, and—ta-da!—a whistle-clean skeleton. Of several interesting dishes I tried, the best were the homey, grilled piri-piri-chile chicken, from the former Portuguese colony of Mozambique, and aromatic saffron-scented rice. Ensconced in shiny, pin-neat new quarters, San Antonio's Go Hyang Jib Korean B-B-Q House so far exceeds the typical Asian noodlery and grill that on weekends you need a reservation to get your share of goodies like Frisbee-size vegetable-studded "pancakes" with sesame-soy sprinkling sauce. In Austin, tiny, unpretentious Ararat—aglow in candlelight and covered from floor to ceiling with well-worn Turkish rugs—exudes Middle Eastern mystery. Dendu Lama's hummus is lemony, the dolmas are fat, and even grilled vegetables seem sultry when splashed with rosemary tahini.
I want to take my friends from Rhode Island out for Texas barbecue without driving fifty miles. Which city joints stand out?
Attention, fellow Neanderthals: Even after more than forty years, no place in Dallas quite measures up to ancient, no-frills, smoke-varnished Sonny Bryan's, for both its legendary brisket and its inch-thick onion rings. When in Houston, I usually hit one of Goode Company's two vastly popular locations, even though I feel like mooing while shuffling through the head-'em-up, move-'em-out cafeteria lines. But the real Houston adventure is Thelma's, a humble little red house tucked into a seriously dilapidated neighborhood near downtown; a smokier, juicier, messier pile of brisket is not to be found anywhere. In San Antonio, I like to gnaw my way along a lamb rib or two (beef and pork ribs also available) at the freshened-up Southtown outpost of Bob's Smokehouse. After a year in business in Austin, John Mueller's is starting to get that smoky, lived-in barbecue feel. I love it that when you order brisket, they toss in a gratis smidgen of naughty burnt ends and crackly fat. By now, most folks in Fort Worth have voted with their feet and made the Railhead a regular stop. I question the purity of a barbecue joint that has television sets tuned to ball games and sells its own T-shirts, but I can't argue with the Railhead's meat. The ribs rule.
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