By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
Notice these rolls have almost nothing to do with the cities for which they are named (at least Philadelphia rolls have cream cheese). For instance, the Chicago roll should be made of nothing but onions and pocket change, the former symbolizing the name, which means stinking onion in the language of the Pottawatomie Indians, and the former representing its rise to greatness via machine politics (loose change being its primary lubricant).
But what could you possibly do with a Plano roll, an Addison roll or a Dallas roll? This is the dilemma at Café Miso & Sushi. There's only so much asphalt and cucumber to go around, after all, which is why they've deployed spicy scallop (Plano), tomato (Addison) and salmon and asparagus (Dallas). To add to this conundrum, Café Miso offers a Dallas Stars roll, a Mavericks roll, a Cowboys roll and a Dallas "Burms" roll, which is a typo, I think. What can be done with these short of securing a fish that smells like a locker room?
Perhaps it's best to skirt these roll riddles and contemplate the other parts of the menu that don't invite nomenclature confusion--the restaurant's namesake, for instance. Miso comes in a brown pot with a matching brown spoon. This is important. Miso should always arrive in special hardware and be slurped through special implements that you would never use for chunky minestrone or Velveeta porridge. Miso has mystery. Churn it up, and in the stirred whorls, twisted into milky, fermented soy mist, you'll notice wide scraps of deep green wakame seaweed and creamy beige cubes of tofu. The broth is soft and untrammeled by salt. It gently releases the appetite.
Sushi is fine: cool and smooth--from albacore tuna, to hamachi (yellowtail), to mackerel, to halibut with a tiny sliced grape tomato and a sprig of daikon sprout resting on the surface like a loafer tassel. The toro aroused suspicions, though, even before teeth were driven into its ruddy fibers. Toro can be tricky. It is a delicacy, yes--rare, pricey and often a no-show on menus, popping up mostly as a chalkboard special. Miso's version had the typical purplish pink sown with a few white fat veins that were anemic in their reach. Biting into it was wrought with treachery--the heinous kind, where tough sinew threads show no give, leaving you incapable of completing the bite without coming off like a beastly rube. Those threads snag between the teeth, tangle the tongue and stubbornly refuse to snap.
Café Miso is curvaceous and brooding with dark red woods, earthen, orange-textured walls and plastic place mats and posters chronicling the sushi selections. Televisions are posted throughout, and one of the sushi chefs has spiky hair. Plus there's live jazz on Saturday nights.
But this is the thing: The restaurant seems thinly spread and blurred, despite the tight spatial relationships between bar, hibachi quarters and sushi bar. The details don't fray precipitously, though. Tataki beef (a kind of sashimi where the meat surface is seared and sliced while the inside is still raw) arrived on a plate layered with greens overlaid with parchment-thin lemon slices. The rosy beef ovals, freckled with sesame seeds, are tiled over the lemon in perfect symmetry. The meat is savory, rich and juicy. But as the slices are peeled away in a flurry of chopstick pinches, the miserable condition of those lemon slices comes into view: They're riddled with seeds and mottled with tiny brown moles.
Riskier forays prove better. Now, it makes little sense to subject uni to the hell's bowels of frying in hot oil. The exercise is like trying to deep-fry a scoop of pudding. But if you do it quick...The uni tempura resembles little purses, with deep green mint leaves scaled with crisp tempura crust. Inside, the roe is supple and firm instead of fluid and runny. The pouches rest on a bed of spindly seaweed threads; deep green and a weak purplish rose, looking like a tangle of centipedes. Magnificent.
So is the salmon skin salad: Thin fish slivers, the charcoal gray folds of skin loosely clinging to the pink flesh, are stacked like bonfire kindling against a core of seaweed and slices of octopus charged with a splash of racy dressing.
You would expect hibachi to ring with the same tasty timber. There is, after all, a small hibachi theater tucked aft in the restaurant dedicated to the process. But you'd be wrong.
It's a raw setting with the thick blue gas line, shuttlecocks and joints visible, snaking in front of the flattop grill in full view of the dining voyeurs, who are arranged in a semi-circle in front of it. Without spectacle, hibachi has no purpose; no reason to bring the mundane and pragmatic rituals of tossing food onto a flattop. How scintillating is it, after all, to watch steam licks curl and liquids from a squeeze bottle splatter, sizzle and hiss?