Louisville Magazine

FEB 2012

Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.

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Dinner With the Shah O dds are that if you are lucky enough to travel for work or play, many of your most romantic experiences will happen in exotic foreign locations: dining on spring lamb on the sidewalk in the old Roman town of Orange in southern France as a vast moon rises over the ancient amphitheater; taking lunch of marinated vegetables followed by fresh fish from the Bosporus in a former prison yard in Istanbul, now the Four Seasons; dining on osso buco amid the cavernous arches underpinning the Teatre of Pompey in Rome, the site of the murder of Julius Caesar. For my wife and me, an exotic location, a sense of unhurried calm and a welcoming staff are as important — almost — as the food. Our search for that sense of exoticness and tranquillity at home sends us to Saffron's Persian Restaurant for warmth of hospitality, oddly kitschy decor and what I, and happily my wife, consider the best dish in Louisville: its rack of lamb. Decor first: Te wall hangings range from Islamic geometric through what I can only call Persian Impressionism to photo-realistic scenes from Persian life, including a striking double-portrait of a princely couple. Sometimes a visit marks the beginning of a night out at Actors Teatre. More often, the leisurely pace of a meal at Saffron's encourages us to make a night of it. We begin with wonderfully scented herbal and veggie starters, including cashke bademjon, a spiced and puréed eggplant dish and flavored hummus with warm pita bread and bitter herbs, followed by chef Hamid's baby lamb chops (a half-rack for mere mortals, a full rack for heroes), suffused with exotic spices and served on a bed of saffron rice, as lovely to look at as it is to sample — almost. Te lamb chops are small but numerous, dusted with a mix of spices my waiter could not name, then grilled to order — and "rare" means rare, brown on the outside, fleshy pink, tender and succulent within. As a special footnote, I must relate that I am no pundit on exotic spices. I once stayed at the Pera Palace Hotel in Istanbul, following in the footsteps of former residents Agatha Christie (who wrote Murder on the Orient Express there), Kemal Atatürk and glamorous spy Mata Hari, and selected my breakfast from a vegetarian buffet. I saw what looked like small hazelnuts rolled in some exotic spice from far Samarkand or another caravansary of the old spice route, helped myself to a generous portion and discovered on sampling that they were . . . Kellogg's Coco Pops. — Tomson Smillie G conversation piece etting the Homer Simpson of my house out for a romantic date is a bit like trying to persuade the dog to fork over a bit of his bone marrow to the cat. Here is how the dialogue went when I first told my sweetheart that 211 Clover Lane is and always will be my favorite restaurant: "I'm not going there. It's a ladies' lunch place." "You asked where I wanted to go. It's the only place for me." "Isn't it a little on the geriatric side?" "You mean quiet elegance? Not being tortured by heinous music blasting over the speakers?" "Well, everything you make is better. And cheaper." See what I mean? Romantic to the core! Part of me wants to reinforce the inaccuracy of the perception that 211 Clover Lane is old-fashioned. Part of me wants to keep the charming French-country rooms my own private respite from the mind- and palate- numbing trendiness that comes and goes elsewhere across the city. But, as Elizabeth Bennett said to Mr. Darcy, "I cannot." Te St. Matthews restaurant, for starters, is where "fresh local ingredients" came into their own in this town. No matter how many other talented chefs might compete in the salad showdown, none will outdo what Troy Schuster accomplishes with crisp baby vegetables. My love affair with his handling of beets is so intense, it's a thing best kept private. Ten there's the duck, the trout, the gnocchi, the oysters, the perfect pastries. At 211, no waiter will ever ask, "You still workin' on that?" Tey won't ask strictly because such rudeness has no place there, but also because chances are slim to none that a single morsel will be left on your plate. During a recent visit, even the man of my house was silenced by the seared foie gras with mango and blood orange reduction. But the clincher for me is that 211 is the place to go for conversation. Romantic? Maybe not in the clichéd sense of the term. (In fact, the majority of established couples might prefer noisier spots, where they don't have to talk to each other.) For a real conversation, though, one in which you can hear both yourself and the other person, it's like landing after a bumpy, noisy, scary plane ride when you thought maybe you weren't going to make it. You want to kneel down and kiss the floor. Which is more than you can say for some husbands. — Mary Welp 2.12 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE [53]

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