By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
Which, given the number of steak places in town, would make for a lot of work, but Nick & Sam's may be up to the task. That first dinner maintained an admirable level of swellness right through to the check. It started with seared diver scallops with osetra caviar. They arrived meticulously crafted, a pair of scallops delivered on shimmering triangular black plates, the center carpeted with greens settled in a puddle of lemon-butter sauce. Precious few grains of caviar were evident, but that was fine. The singed, creamy white scallops needed no accentuation. Firm and delicate with a whisper-thin sear crust, the tender disks were flush with a rich, sea-washed sweetness.
Iceberg salad was structured with a cleanly symmetrical cross-section of bright green head lettuce and deep red tomato drenched in a lusty blue cheese dressing given heft by a speckling of lean, crisp bacon bits.
A guy in a tux played a grand piano atop a platform near the open kitchen. The restaurant's curvaceous counter, cloaked in glittering stainless and black and white tiles, was a showcase of breads and desserts. Before this backdrop, the pianist punched out lots of pop songs, something from The Lion King, I think, and a schmaltzy Beethoven sonata. But even if the piano was a little syrupy, it was light years better than that fake soprano sax jazz that floods most restaurants of the Nick & Sam's ilk.
Nick & Sam's service staff proved as tasteful as the appetizers: efficient and sincerely gracious. We witnessed several servers pluck wineglasses from a shelf near the piano and inspect the bowls in the spotlights before delivering them to tables.
Still, the service didn't uniformly keep a precise beat. After our appetizer and salad were delivered, three servers popped out of nowhere and in rapid succession shoved pepper mills under our noses asking whether we would like our food dusted. By the third intrusion, I wanted to grab that mill and pepper the server's noggin for getting between my scallops and me.
Yet this seemed a mighty tiny service nit to pick, especially after our entrees arrived. It's been a long time since I've passed tuna between my lips that didn't instantly make me wish I'd ordered something else. Either the meat is fishy tasting, or it's dry, fibrous, and dense. I was set for disappointment here as well when the grilled tuna fillet au poivre arrived gray with a center that was pale pink rather than the requested deep red rare. But the texture, consistency, and taste of the flesh were superb: firm, flaky, and moist. The peppercorn coating gave it backbone while dribbled threads of lively, gently sweet bell-pepper-mango sauce provided a subtle counterpoint.
Colorado rack of lamb was equally stunning. The flesh was luxuriously silky and chewy with lush flavors that never meandered into harsh gaminess. It came with a bowl mint pesto with a touch of honey and an optional dish of lively mint apple jelly. But the flavor of the meat was so fine and so well seasoned that these little dishes seemed unnecessary.
Sides never dipped from this dapper tone. Garlic mashed potatoes were creamy and hearty. Steamed asparagus, a bundle of long, thick stalks, was tender with a sweet, slightly pungent flavor. Dribbles of creamy, graceful hollandaise added rich savor without gumming up the fresh green.
But all hopes that Nick & Sam's opening would be resoundingly spectacular went down the grease trap on the second visit. Remember those intensively inspected wineglasses on the first foray? Someone must have gone nose-blind in the interim. My companion and I split a tasting flight of red Burgundies before dinner. The third glass in my trio, the one holding the delicately robust 1996 Louis Latour Aloxe Corton, smelled like mackerel run through a carpet shampooer. I had to abduct the glass in my companion's flight to get any sense of the wine.
I was suspicious. When the wine steward was preparing to serve the Saintsbury Pinot Noir we ordered with dinner, I snatched my wineglass just as he was about to splash a taste into it. I took a whiff of the bowl. Same wet-rug fish smell. The steward had to yank our glasses and bring replacements. Seems some of Nick & Sam's glassware is infected with killer bouquet.
That's unfortunate, because this place makes a big stink, so to speak, about its wine program. The foyer is essentially a glitzy showroom to the stuff. A glassed-in wine cellar is packed with all manner of oversize bottles and wooden wine coffins stacked in that stylish, slightly rumpled wine-cellar sort of way. Just before the entrance to the bar and restaurant is a wine salon furnished with tasting tables. Thick candles smolder atop those tables, spewing thick gobs of wax all over the surface and creating a touch of rusticity among the handsome glitz. There's also a lounge area with all kinds of slick wine magazines flashing cult labels on the cover: the equivalent of Cosmo cleavage for the cork set. Walls are covered with filled wooden wine racks.