By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
Barclay's serves "modern Euro-British cuisine"--a term clearly devised to put some positive spin on the definitive oxymoron "British cuisine," to cushion a famously laughable phrase with a trendy idea and link English edibles safely to the closest continent. The restaurant's chef-owner, Nick Barclay, is best known in Dallas as the founding chef of dani, the mega-catering firm that now runs the food service, including Seventeen Seventeen, at DMA. But before that, the double-pierced, spiky haired, ex-Brit Barclay cooked in Plaza of the Americas' kitchen under Peter Schaffrath, and those who can remember that far back should remember Schaffrath as one of the few true top-notch European-trained chefs that have worked in Dallas. A master of nouvelle cuisine, he was under-appreciated while he was here, and Barclay remembers the German-born Schaffrath's kitchen as the epitome of organization and order (this is where the Brit-trained brain might be cued to remember the "Don't mention the war!" episode of Fawlty Towers, and Barclay does), at the same time lauding the experience.
Owning your own place is every chef's dream. And nightmare. It's come true for Barclay, but he's made a good deal with the devil. "After 20 years in the business," he says, "I just decided I'd take the things I liked about it and throw out the things I didn't." So Barclay's is only open for dinner five nights a week, Thursday through Monday, nights that Barclay feels are dead spots in Dallas for people in the restaurant's uptown neighborhood and for downtown hotel visitors. The limited hours mean that the restaurant has the same staff every night, so (theoretically, anyway) the teamwork should be polished. To put even more shine on it, Barclay pays his waitstaff more than the usual hourly wage and puts all the tips into the pot, to be divided among everyone, including the potwasher and the reservationist. That way, Barclay figures, it's in everyone's equal interest that the restaurant succeed.
He keeps things tight--there are only six or seven selections in each category on the menu--and it's prix fixe. Two courses cost $25, three cost $30, four cost $35. In Dallas, which has twisted Brillat-Savarin's maxim into "you are what you spend," the simple, unostentatious approach may be slow to catch on, but Barclay says most fine European restaurants do a fixed price menu, and that it's easier not only on the diner, but on the restaurant. He's got a keen idea about his costs, keeping an eye firmly and simultaneously on his restaurant's bottom line and his own quality time. His catering experience allows him to keep it tightly efficient, a necessity in this business of small margins. His goal is to serve about 80 dinners a night, which will not make Barclay's a gold mine, but will cover everything, put a little money in everyone's pocket, and keep everyone from getting fired. (He will also match your optional donation of two bits a table to donate to the charity of the month--currently the Neonatal Unit at Medical City Hospital--so you can see that he really does have a cooperative philosophy in the most capitalist of luxury businesses.)
Barclay's got a lot of creative ideas about running a restaurant, and fortunately, a lot of them are on the menu. All the first courses we tried were imaginatively mouth-watering. He does a Cinderella number on traditional British nonsense-named dishes like cod cakes with bubble and squeak (we asked, and were told that this is the noise the cabbage makes when it's cooking, though that sounds like a fairy tale to me). We expected earthy cottage food, but we were served a prissy, molded cake of tender cabbage leaves and potato surrounded by puffs of cod, fried in a frothy-light batter, with a sprightly sauce of tomato and basil that replaced American ketchup or traditional fish-and-chips vinegar.
We'd never heard pate labeled this way, but as soon as we'd taken a bite of the chicken liver parfait, its ice cream-parlor name made sense. The mousse of chicken livers, pale as pink velvet, was as delicate, creamy, and light as frozen custard, and its gamey smoothness was leavened by the mass of jammy dark grape chutney we smeared on the brioche toasts with the mousse. Potato ravioli, foldovers of round pasta around a soft potato filling, swam with bits of mushrooms in a port jus, a clear, brown, winey sauce which had a dark resonance of dried fruit and so was perfectly garnished with bits of Stilton cheese. The fanciful "cappuccino" of seafood was served in a cappuccino cup, the lumps of scallops, shrimp, and fish barely immersed in a tomato broth that desperately needed salt.