Manolin

A Tropical Beach on Stone Way

By Ronald Holden

Your first impression of Manolin, in Fremont at 3621 Stone Way N, is that you've stumbled into a perfectly conceived and executed place: you can't imagine any improvement. A U-shaped bar that seats 20 and curves around a central prep station, cold side on the right, bar on the left, while the serious firing is done at the back. Tables along the side walls provide seating for 30 more. The tile-work on the back wall is a bright, inviting shade of azure. There's a glowing, wood-fired Grillworks contraption alongside the more conventional burners. A dozen staff in beige caps and teal tees with Manolin logos do a seamless job of welcoming, explaining, order-taking, and delivery. You feel as if you're on a tropical beach; one reviewer even wrote that the décor made her feel like slipping into a bikini. Understandable, since Manolin is the name of a Hemingway character (the apprentice in "The Old Man and the Sea"), and all four of the principals in this venture have worked under a master: Renée Erickson.

Photo courtesy of Manolin

You can see the story pitch, can't you? "I know, let's open a restaurant!" "Great idea! But there's four of us..." "We'll open down by the docks in Fremont; the rent's cheap so we'll save money!" "Renée's place is right across the street!" "We can save even more money if we do the buildout ourselves!"

Off the charts opening. Within months, Bon Appétit names Manolin one of the ten best new restaurants in the country. No reservations, so line out the door. I showed up late one Sunday afternoon, just ahead of the rush. "I like Campari," I told the server. "I have just the thing," she said. And then came the first inkling of trouble. The Otto Bahn cocktail (gin, limoncello, Campari) had lost all its bitterness to the limoncello. What's the point of the Campari, folks? The rest of the cocktail list features distinctive French and Italian liqueurs like Byrrh, Chartreuse, Dolin, and Bonal, all normally used for their bitterness, but dulled with coconut, honey, or maple, and making me long for the simplicity of a G&T.

The first bite of an exquisitely presented smoked salmon appetizer (photo above by Ronald Holden) was far too salty, though the shock was quickly subdued by a puddle of house-made sour cream and shaved turnips. (But why add mustard seeds? Why? When I'd rather have a squirt of lemon!) Still, the needle is on the plus side at this point.

Meantime, at the back of the room, I see my branzino turning golden-brown on the steel plank of the Grillworks, getting a sprinkle of salt before the sous transfers it to a utility platter and passes it off to the chef for plating. When I see it next, it has been transformed. And not, alas, in a good way. The whole fish, adorned with microgreens, now sits atop several leaves of wilted cabbage and some bronze splooge identified as "green mole" that tastes vaguely herbal and even chocolatey.

Branzino photo by Ronald Holden

Many are those who enjoy the crispy skin of an oven-baked fish. I fall into the "sometimes" category. Either way, though, the skin needs to be separated from the flesh, and here is where Manolin fails. Because the skin does not separate properly. A steak knife is provided, which is no help; this is precisely where a fish knife is called for.

Now, this may be heretical to some of you, but it can also be life-changing. It's probably not possible for any restaurant in the USA to follow this suggestion, but it's something you can do at home. The next time you buy a whole fish, do not descale it. Tell the fishmonger to go ahead and gut the damn thing. Leave the head on so you get the sweet nuggets of meat right behind the gills. And by all means, wash it to remove whatever mucus may still be on the outside, but then... broil, bake, roast, or pan-sear your fish with the scales on. You don't have to season the outside skin, but do put some salt and herbs in the body cavity.

Why? The scales form a barrier that encases and protects the delicate flesh. After a few minutes, remove from heat and serve. The skin will peel away from the flesh like a carapace, leaving behind the sweet and delicious top layer of fish, unencumbered forkful after forkful, the sweet, sweet reason you ordered this in the first place. A squirt of lemon is all the seasoning you need. They do this routinely across Italy, a country surrounded by Mediterranean fish (like the branzino) that are regularly served whole.

But if you descale the fish, you will end up fighting with the skin, and the skin will win. You will end up with a mess on your plate, like I had.

Even if we disagree on the business of grilling fish, we have to consider Manolin's sadly ill-conceived concept and misbegotten execution. The kitchen starts with a delicate branzino (a sea bass prized for its subtle flavor) and opts to pair it with, of all things, cabbage leaves. Not in a Colonel Sanders with coleslaw match-up, either, but wilted cabbage, the stinky, gassy stuff of New England boiled dinners. And it doesn't end there. We have two more discordant notes to contend with. First is the notion that this dish needs a sauce, a mole specifically. Not a chocolate-flavored mole, thank goodness. And they didn't commit the heresy of slathering butter over everything. But even a light, herbal mole is too densely flavored for my palate. And then, what's with the half-lime (instead of lemon)? Just too heavy-handed, too bitter-sweet for me.

The chef to hold accountable is chef Alex Barkley, whose partners are Joe Sundberg, Rachel Johnson, and Patrick Thalasinos. If it's any consolation, it seems everyone else in Seattle loves this place. Line out the door even on a stormy Sunday evening. Happy hour daily from 4 to 6; no reservations.

Manolin
3621 Stone Way N
Seattle, WA 98103
206-294-3331

www.manolinseattle.com

April 2016

 Ronald Holden's new book, "Forking Seattle," with more tales about local food & drink, comes out this summer.