Riverside

Porter and Frye ... and Brown

Hotel Ivy
201 S. 11th St., Minneapolis
612-746-4600

By Carla Waldemar

If you have excessive time on your hands, you may have spent some of it wondering, “Whatever happened to Steven Brown?” Granted, following the peripatetic career path of this talented chef has not been easy, but for gastronomes who persevere, it’s been rewarding.

The good news is that he’s currently putting in an appearance in the kitchen of the swish new downtown Minneapolis hotel, The Ivy, and I’m guessing that this is a marriage that will last. Lucky us.

httThe Ivy’s restaurant is called Porter and Frye (don’t ask; I did, and there’s no good reason). It’s located below-stairs (or what we’d call the “garden level” if there were one) in the historically-preserved, gracefully rehabbed 1930 Ivy Tower. Thus, guests descend a curvy, open stairway (á la the Chambers Hotel’s catwalk-as-entrance) to a high-ceilinged room of spare, contempo demeanor.

Rather than float adrift in the sea of open, central tables—a Spartan situation—snuggle against the peripheral wall to take in the scene, or—best yet—command the Red Booth.

It deserves those capital letters, this semiprivate, pulsing-red cocoon boasting a single table (could seat six, I’m guessing) lit, theatrically, by a bevy of glass chandeliers. Talk about drama. Or romance. Or power dining.

Under the guise of one or another of the above—or pure, dumb luck—we landed there. Glancing at the wine list was the next clue that I was going to love this place. Dozens of interesting, non-traditional labels are available in 3 or 6 oz. portions as well as by the bottle (from $5 per 3 oz. and $8 per 6 oz. up), providing lots of great opportunities to mix and klatch. Not only that, but the kitchen sends out a complimentary flute of sparkling rose as a welcome gift.
The food list is more strong than long (and that’s fine). We started with a pair of sea scallops, sweet and trembling beneath their fine skein of brown from the sauté pan, presented with a sliver of crisp and tasty bacon and accented by a dense dribble of butterscotch sauce (right, no misprint, and far from the cloying dessert topping one might have feared) and sweet fillip of passion fruit ($12). Ingenious. (In fact, it takes a genius chef to pull off a trick like this without diners calling for the emperor to put on some clothes).

Next, we shared a dish called a hot potato salad. ($8)—another creation begging you to go “Yeah, right”—until you taste it. It’s actually a rendition of the classic French bistro salad of frisee greens topped with a gently-poached egg, but Steven has added warm fingerlings doused in a sweet-hot mustard vinaigrette, and it works. It really works. ( Makes you wonder why the French never thought of that …)

Following our server’s wise advice, among the appealing list of fish (Arctic char, walleye, swordfish and prawns, $16-22), we chose the walleye.

The ultra-flaky fillet comes coiffed with a light, light crust of Parmesan, savory and nutty, as a foil for its sweet flesh, served on a bed of risotto mined with chunks of lobster.

Bits of green apple lend an unexpected and welcome zinger to the dish, also fused with a touch of anise seed. Unlikely bedfellows all, and most compatible.

Usually I don’t order beef at a restaurant with more interesting protein on the menu, and I didn’t this time. And usually I don’t order chicken, either, because most folks can come up with a fine chicken dish in their own kitchen. Again, I didn’t, but I admit to being tempted; it’s served with an orange-and-onion jam and Parmesan polenta (OK, they call it cornmeal porridge here), $20. Instead, we split the lamb porterhouse, $28, a lovely plate bearing two meaty, full-flavored medallions, tender as you please, accompanied by a potato robed in sour cream; swiss chard, robust and husky; a pungent black olive sauce and sweet tomato marmalade. I’ll over-use the word again: ingenious.

Next arrived another welcome kitchen gift, a palate-cleansing composition of almond, melon sorbet, fennel and pollen. And again the quirky composition worked. So did our dessert choice (and choosing admittedly was hard, with such options as goat-cheese cheesecake with bitter honey, pears and thyme; quince with almond cake, sherry and browned butter ice cream, $8 range). We settled on the chocolate tart, mostly because our server noted that it came with a roasted carrot. Gotta wonder about that, don’t you? Well, the petite tart bore a wondrous, murky, non-sweet and most compelling chocolate filling, abetted by a cloud of maple-flavored lightly whipped cream and aside it, that sweet roasted carrot, all of two inches long and slender as a toothpick. As they say in medicine, no harm done. But nothing special, either. We also begged a taste of the Cheddar ice cream that accompanies a caramelized apple. Definitely an acquired taste (and texture).

Just as we called for our bill, a final table gift arrived—a veritable platter of mignardises—tiny pastries, candied jellied fruit and such, each more winsome than the next.

If the kitchen can keep up the pace (and no reason to expect otherwise), Porter and Frye represents the most exciting addition to the local food scene in many a long month.