By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
Now there are no headbands. "They're all depleted," says Hibiscus chef Nick Badovinus, who is part of the Tristan Simon hospitality combine (Sense, Cuba Libre, Candle Room, Fireside Pies and the upcoming Porch) that is crushing all competitors on Henderson Avenue and seems bent on building a dining trust. "They became the fashion accessory du jour for '05." Sure. In Dallas dining, the trends distill and diffuse with such rapidity the head no longer has time to spin. It simply forms sweat beads.
And Hibiscus is a trend. It's stuffed with 175 seats, and that butt real estate is often in short supply. Though it may seem like just another Dallas prance parlor, there are facets that crack the mold. Sure, local celebs such as Troy Aikman and Stephan Pyles slide into the leather banquettes every now and again. But there are also modestly dressed older couples huddling over small tables. Extended families cram around larger ones. On one visit, a thirty-something guy in specs, khaki shorts and a polo shirt stood near his place setting, bouncing an infant who was delivering a potent screed. On diaper technology. Do these scenes arouse the fickle, trendy flock?
Another question: After the food fetishists and trend-sweaters tire of suckling this chic teat, will there be anything left? Much, perhaps. One of my dining companions said that Badovinus looks like Han Solo. Star Wars pre-dates her by some 18 years. So maybe like the best movies, restaurant durability emerges not from dazzling special effects and buzz, but from good dialogue, like discourse on tomatoes, for instance. "We're always talking about tomatoes," Badovinus says. "They're an issue with us...At least 50 percent of my bitches are tomato-related." Does Badovinus actually pay attention to what comes out of his mouth, or is he this funny on purpose?
If Badovinus is oblivious to what exits his mouth, he most certainly isn't clueless as to what goes in, though sometimes it is overwrought. Take the deep-dish macaroni casserole--comfort food gone speed metal. The all-American elbows are robust and perfectly cooked. The yellow tar locking these elbows is compelling: sharp cheddar, Reggiano Parmigiano, fontina, port-salut, cream cheese and Sonoma dry jack cheeses. Panko bread crumbs and flecks of Reggiano form the crust. Sharpness, sweetness and a rotten fruitiness pound each other for advantage in this exquisite dumb drama.
But here is where American hubris can take a lesson from French pomposity. For example, the sublimity of crème brûlée (the Hibiscus version sings) hinges on the hot, bitter and brittle aggressiveness of singed sugar married to a smooth cool underworld of custard. When the flavors are tight, the textural contrast propels to transcendence. But this mac thing never reaches the next level. The crust isn't chewy enough. The cheesy underworld is more stiff and glutinous than silky and smoothly relenting. Plus it needs a swift kick of cayenne or something to stir it.
The mac highlights a Hibiscus eccentricity: It's named after a showy blossom, but the restaurant is shamelessly masculine--nearly unheard of for a restaurant that doesn't have some combination of "steak" and "house" on the shingle. Hibiscus is dim, but not dark. Crossbeams are blackened steel. The surfaces are stone, wood and copper. The bar top is a trunk slice from a 1,600-year-old California redwood (downed by natural causes), heavily polyurethaned into an impossible sheen. Banquettes are brown leather. Candles the size of brake drums flicker in the fireplace. Threaded pipe fittings serve as napkin rings. You almost expect the place to have lobster bibs stitched together from discarded boxing gloves (lobsters lounge on crushed ice in the open kitchen). Badovinus says the place has broad shoulders, though chest hair is evident, too. Hibiscus squeezes metrosexuality like a ripe pimple, and for this alone it should be revered (you think Han Solo uses cuticle cream?).
Hibiscus has steak, too. Big steak. Even the name hits with a dizzying thud: prime strip "brick." It's an 18-ounce bone-in sirloin hemorrhaging roasted garlic butter. Badovinus contends that steak is easy because cows do all the work. Yet the hard part is finding cows without a French work ethic. Badovinus has found them. He's hired them. He's paying them overtime. This steak is stunning: brilliantly red with a huge flavor bandwidth wrapped in shimmering silk. Bob, Del, Rick, Kirby, Pappas and Smith should be quaking in their boots.
So should the good ship Oceanaire. Badovinus wrestles with the sea as well as any toothless mariner. Sample: barbecue-spiced lobster scampi. Description: "It's really obnoxious. I feel the authorities are going to shut us down at any point in time just for this kind of wanton disregard. It's extremely reckless." That it is. Halved lobster tails are surrounded by a perfect sprawl of orzo fragged in Reggiano Parmigiano grains. They all struggle in thick butter ooze. But this is no ordinary ooze. Badovinus roasts lobster bodies, hacks away the meat (including the green tamale) and purees it into a paste. He whips this paste into compound butter with chamayo chile, garlic, Dijon and white wine. Then he liberally smears the tails with this goop, creating a flavor profile that is vigorously rich, yet lithe.