By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
Clusters of baby cichlids weave between aquarium rubble. "I'm surprised so many survived," a server says of the numerous offspring. I agree and point out how aggressive cichlids can be. "Yeah, we've pulled more than a few bodies from there," he says with a chuckle.
Pangaea has a sushi bar. It's a handsome thing backed with clean wood paneling and a black granite counter surface. Some of the fish is extraordinary. Generous sheets of hamachi (yellow tail) were as silky and compellingly buttery as an evening of luck. An eel roll topped with bright green flying fish roe tinged with wasabi (Japanese horseradish) was hearty with a jolt of sharpness. Taco (octopus), sliced thin, struck with a splash of bright rust suction-cup fringe that framed the shimmering, moist, white flesh. The meat was firm and resilient yet tender.
But when it came to sushi that fell short, I was grateful the server made his comments about the aquarium as I was leaving. My mind would have inevitably wandered to those extracted tank floaters as I sampled the bar's more mediocre offerings. California rolls were plagued with hard rice and a fishy taste, while the salmon-skin roll was swamped with the sourness of aging. On one visit, virtually every strip of raw fish was warm.
A Greek word meaning "one world," Pangaea is a Chinese-Japanese hybrid diner infused with other Asian touches and French influences. Shannon and Hui Chuan Logan opened it on Sundance Square in Fort Worth earlier this year. Hui Chuan, who had culinary training in Nice, France, is Pangaea's chef.
The space is simple and airy. Standard-issue cafeteria tables and chairs populate the concrete floor. Walls are washed in mustard yellows and periwinkles. Hand-painted muslin curtains garnish the windows, and the posts are brushed with Chinese characters. It's an interesting fusion of the pedestrian and the sophisticated; the stark, staccato of American economic functionality with the mysterious, disciplined elegance of Asia.
But while the decor successfully integrates, the menu struggles. Miso soup was wash-bucket bland--striking for a broth so often ripe with salt. The bento box lunch, a black lacquer box with compartments for a California roll (forgettable); teriyaki salmon (good, if a little hard and dry); fresh cantaloupe, honey dew, oranges, and grapes (delicious); and green beans (tepid and waxy) was a box of modest bumbles.
A salad of roasted marinated quail resting on a bed of field greens with olives and pearl onions featured succulent, chewy quail, but the meat had an off sourness--not the tang you might expect from a vinegary marinade, but tartness hinting at a turn for the worse.
That off flavor haunted the duck-stuffed greens. The menu describes it as shredded duck, green onions, and pine nuts stuffed in lettuce and served with fried rice noodles. Instead, the pine nuts were substituted with chopped almonds, and the shredded duck was scattered over a barbed-wire tangle of rice noodles atop a lettuce leaf rather than stuffed into it.
Pangaea prepares one thing that is absolutely astounding, however. Squid salad, strips of tender meat seasoned with chili powder and rice vinegar in seaweed, had all of the flavor and feel-good texture any mouth could want.
Pangaea is a spot ripe with potential. Hell, it boasts the only sushi spot in downtown Fort Worth, a place where they have to restrain themselves from chicken-frying everything. Even cichlids.
Extreme friendliness can be dangerous, especially in a fish restaurant. I mean, you never know where one's hands have been.
During an evening visit to Mainstream Fish House in Fort Worth, a garrulous manager stopped by our table to greet, introduce, and clasp and shake fists. This was unfortunate for him, as his vigorous affability came just after my companion clutched and bit Mainstream's marginally tasty fish tacos. Filled with chopped fish and standard fresh vegetable and cheese matter, the things were contained within a hard fried tortilla. Plus, they leaked so much grease that our fingers had the luster of a home-equity-loan huckster.
But we shook the manager's hand anyway with energetic firmness. And being the seasoned professional he obviously was, he gave no notice to the sludge we pressed into his flesh. He wished us a good evening, moved to another table, and clasped and brushed the shoulder of the gentleman seated there, no doubt making a spot-cleaner target for the laundry.
That Mainstream's staff is very friendly, as well as skillful, was vigorously punctuated at the conclusion of our meal. As our server was loading his arms with fish-soiled dinner plates, beverage glasses, and gooey ramekins of viscous sauce, we pummeled the poor monger with dessert requests. Three of them. And five cups of coffee. Two decaf. He nervously spit these requests back to us, nodding to each diner who piped an order as he went through his paperless confirmation ritual.