By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
If you do one thing at Mel's on Main, go to the restroom. Not that you may have a choice in the matter, especially after plunging headfirst into the horrid menu of "continental cuisine with an American flair." Even if you don't need to "go," visit the john anyway, just to see the signs on the door.
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"I saw these two photos, and one was of David's nuts blown up," says Mel's co-owner Bruno Mella, who adds that his partner and girlfriend, caterer Judy Chorbajian, objected to his idea for restroom signs. "And I said 'Listen, it'll be cool for the men's. We're in Deep Ellum.' But I said make it small."
So on the front of the Mel's men's restroom door, instead of a sign that says chaps, guys, bucks, or swains, there's a tiny, tightly cropped shot of the barrel and jewel packs from Michelangelo's "David." A tiny shot of Venus hangs on the ladies room door.
But these aren't the only photos in this cavernous Deep Ellum space that was Avner Samuel's Da Spot before it was the Rehab Lounge before it was Snake River nightclub. There are photos of Mella with Luciano Pavarotti and other glitterati. Along the yellow walls are shots of Tuscany in moody black and white. On a soffit above the open kitchen, an area that was once the stage for Mel's former nightclub incarnations, hangs a butcher knife in a framed glass case and colorful plates autographed by celebrity chefs Julia Child and Emeril Lagasse.
One wonders what they would have thought of Mella's food. At lunch, baked squares of a substance that's purportedly somewhere between focaccia and pizza dough, but more closely resembles fiberboard, is delivered with a puddle of marinara. Mella claims the sauce is house-made, even though it bears a striking resemblance to the stuff disgorged from a jar.
The same fluid is pooled around a pile of mussels ($6.50). Only this time it's spiked with white wine and hopped up on garlic -- lots of it. Served cool-to-warm instead of hot, the mussels were mostly flaccid and squishy with more than a few sporting that rich, aged-in-a-wastewater-pond kind of essence.
The seared peppered salmon in caper-infested gazpacho sauce ($9.50) thankfully steered clear of such essence. Oddly, the fish was served skin up, and it was a rubbery sheath instead of a crisp coat. The meat was bland, but a side salad with wads of mushy couscous had its good points. The dressing, which tasted like scented soap from Laura Ashley, provoked an urge to scrub those mussels with the lettuce.
Barbecued quail with merqueze (Moroccan) sausage ($9), sweet potato hash, and sautéed green beans was another oddity. One piece of quail was flavorful and chewy, if a little dry. But the other was sharply sour, as if it had been bathing in the same pond in which those mussels had been loitering. The house-made barbecue sauce, more honeyed than brisk, cloyed the food relentlessly, while the dollop of whipped sweet potatoes upon which the bird perched was pocked with pieces of zucchini, eggplant, bell pepper, and chunks of nearly raw potato.
In what was perhaps a fit of thematic consistency, the crème brûlée ($6.50) was topped not with a lid of warm, caramelized crust, but with a layer of slightly stiff, gritty scum that tasted like ash from an oven-roasted marshmallow.
It's hard to fathom that all of this comes from the mind of Mella, a chef with 30 years of international experience and opening chef for The Firehouse Restaurant on Greenville Avenue and Daddy Jack's Wood Grill in Deep Ellum. Needless to say, this fare isn't attracting hungry hordes. So Mella is poised to launch all-you-can-eat pasta specials on Tuesdays and Wednesday evenings, a ploy to pump up the weekday business for the fledgling restaurant. For $5.95, diners can eat as much seafood penne pasta, spaghetti, or fettuccine Alfredo as their plumbing will bear. Not only that, but there's a wine special to go along with it. For $12 per bottle or $2 per glass, you can sip wines from Italy with your carbo load. "It's very drinkable," Mella says. "It's not like rotgut Wyecliff cooking wine."
Maybe. But somehow, despite his education at London Westminster Culinary Institute, his stint at the Metropolitan Club and the Algonquin Hotel New York, the hard time he did working for Leona Helmsley at The Helmsley Palace, or his work feeding the flashy guests at Mariah Carey and Tommy Mottola's wedding (he jokes that maybe his food contributed to their split), Mella's craft at Mel's comes awful close to rotgut.
When I made a reservation for a group of six on a Thursday night (one of the restaurant's busiest evenings), the restaurant was slow. No, that's not right. It was desolate. There wasn't a soul in sight, save for the server who doubled as a hostess who tripled as a bartender. Not only that, we didn't notice a single additional paying customer throughout dinner.
We wondered why, until the reasons began to strike successively. The first was the wine. The red we ordered (Powers Cabernet Sauvignon from Washington state) was warm, stale, and otherwise swillish. It most likely had been opened days ago, plugged, and left to sit in the bar. And judging by the wooden wine racks, barely half full, Mel's hasn't been maintaining wine stocks regularly, most likely indicating slow movement.
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