By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
Tucker is forged from motorcar inspiration too. The building where it is installed was once a Tucker dealership. Yet one wonders how long it could have served this purpose since only 51 of this 1948 "car of the future" were built before the company choked to death on fraud allegations. The car was revolutionary in many ways. It had its engine in the rear and incorporated futuristic touches such as four-wheel independent suspension and safety features like a center headlight that turned with the steering wheel, a pop-out windshield, padded dashboard and a cubby where the front-seat passenger could crouch in the event of a collision. (Who needs airbags when you can ball up and hide?) The car was to sell for $2,450.
Tucker the restaurant has nothing harking back to its automotive namesake. There are no model Tuckers, no photos of the car, no framed Tucker stock certificate replicas. But this doesn't mean the name is just a meaningless label. According to owner Andrew Ormsby, who also operates Andrew Ormsby Catering nearby, Tucker is slang for food in Australia. Cars and food; food and cars. Is there any doubt this linkage is the natural order of things?
The menu isn't particularly daring, at least not as daring as the Tucker's pop-up taillights. It's an ordinary roster of lamb chops, steaks, chicken breasts and seafood. Entrees are served with French fries and steamed vegetables (snow peas, broccoli, green beans and slivers of zucchini).
This doesn't mean the food won't veer off the middle of the pavement now and then, though it doesn't always successfully dodge the ditch. It even teases tradition a little. Wild mushroom jalapeño strudel is just such a jab. Five slices of delicate pastry swaddling a core of mushrooms chopped into paste are dribbled with pesto cream. The pastry flaked and peeled like old paint. The jalapeño was the drop kick, the spark that kept you riveted as the mushroom musk soothed and the pesto cream cooled. Dishes like this are beautiful because they respect culinary authority while simultaneously tossing up a racy question mark, this one in the form of a jalapeño-pesto smudge, which strikes a perfect note of agitated balance.
This kind of subtle twisting makes weird work of chicken. At first glance, the chicken breast looks like a baseball. Squint a little and view it from another angle, with its surface of swirling purplish blotches, and it looks like a brain. It rests in a pool of dill hollandaise, a sauce that wasn't as unctuously rich as the nomenclature suggests. The dish escaped chicken's formless flavor by embracing a core of smoked salmon, chives and cream cheese, which flooded the meat with focused savor, gently coaxed along by the hollandaise.
Yet this is where the Tucker-like boldness started and stalled. After that, everything hugged that yellow stripe in the middle of the asphalt in a solid, gummy-tire sort of way. Sure, the couscous saddled to the grilled lamb chops was cold. But this grain is a challenge to keep at serving temperature (high fives to those toque tops who do). Three chops, bone tips nuzzling one another in the center of the plate, were soaked in a gentle lamb-bone reduction that embraced the chops while keeping its distance, allowing meat flavors to peek through.
Maybe this is why the ancho rib eye proved so stumping. Steak served in historic digs like this, with smoke licks filling the room from a fireplace that snarls under the weight of real timber, should have been a socks-knocker. But it didn't elicit the least bit of beef lust. It just lay there, a barren expanse of pink with no grill-bar stripes, no crust to add a layer of bittersweet weathering to a rich interior, which was in fact impoverished. On the plate it resembled a slab of prime rib: rosy and dense with thick fat nuzzling the edges. It was roasted and mopped with a delicious tag team of port jus blotched with hollandaise. But there was no rich juiciness; no beefy joy.
Strange for a room that has the dark masculine woodcraft of an imperial steak house, one steeped in pilfered history ladled onto history. Tucker's banquettes are actually benches from an old train station; its wainscotting and heavy shutters come from a historic Dallas mansion; the bar is a castoff from the old Baker Hotel. There's an old metal pay phone stapled to one wall. The front end of the restaurant is planked with floor-to-ceiling shelves, also confiscated from a historic mansion. One side is loaded with volumes while the other is plugged with wine bottles. The wood is dark and reddish, with gold hues slipping through.