Trouble With Paradise

It's Saturday night in Eden, and the gods are angry.

We're sitting inside the small converted ranch house watching a restaurant in the midst of a serious meltdown. The air conditioning unit malfunctions. Butter melts on the plate, and our waitress, already frazzled, wipes damp wilting hair from her glistening face. People at the next table beg for cold water, but the restaurant's only server has her hands full in a busy room, so we begin pouring for other guests.

We order a cool melon soup to start but after about 15 minutes learn the kitchen has run out. Meanwhile, three walk-ins crowd the small bench up front awaiting a table. Eventually one opens, and the waitress brings the new guests three bowls of the formerly extinct soup. We're informed our roast hen with plum sauce is ready, but the order of Southern-style shrimp will be a few minutes. Some time later the harried server tells us that particular seafood dish is no longer a possibility, although we can substitute shrimp Creole. Our roast hen presumably still sits under a lamp somewhere in the kitchen.

This is penance for being unprepared. Chef-owner Karen Kahn's quaint spot drew modest crowds for about six months before local food critics discovered the place. She pulled double duty, cooking meals and running the dishwasher while a single waitress worked the room. Then came the post-review onslaught.

With no one managing the front, Eden failed to balance reservations and walk-ins. We watched a number of customers abandon the place in frustration after waiting interminably for seating or food. Chaos in the dining rooms in turn caused setbacks in the kitchen, most notably during the busiest of our three visits. The plum sauce, for example, drowned any hint of roast hen in a characterless, runny, saccharine extract. White rice, which accompanies the entrée, seethed in the dentist-friendly pool of purple liquid sugar. Any sense of nuance in the Creole shrimp (when it finally arrived) was obliterated by the dry, leafy resonance of filé powder. Excessive filé powder.

As a result, some people in the room openly disputed the veracity of Dallas Morning News' food writers. The table next to us just chuckled at the experience. They brought along five or six bottles of wine--paradise is BYOB--and settled in for a long evening and a gentle alcoholic buzz.

These may be momentary setbacks, though. By our third visit, cool air flowed through the place, and new staff members plucked from the evacuee pool at Reunion Arena calmed things down.

When the place runs smoothly, it's almost like visiting grandma's for dinner. Walls are painted an unfashionable white. No curtains, just window blinds. Knickknacks scattered about. There are even antiques and cute hand-painted chairs. With casual staff and tight seating, it becomes a comfortable, chatty place. Several menu items fit the setting, such as tuna salad sandwiches and cobbler. From this genre we selected a bland meatloaf sandwich with sugary ketchup on perfectly toasted bread along with crudités (raw vegetables) accompanied by a simple mayonnaise dip. Not the most imaginative items.

Spicy pecan shrimp reveals Kahn's more inventive side. She trained at the Hyatt and Anatole back in the mid-'70s then worked opening hotel kitchens, catering and even teaching DISD students. Eden's eclectic menu reflects this background. Influences bounce all over the place: French, Italian and American diner food share space. There's prime rib and the lowly peanut butter sandwich spread with jelly, chocolate hazelnut or bananas and honey. The restaurant touts Texas bullets, not completely disappointing spears of jalapeño, scraped free of seeds and stuffed with cream cheese, wrapped in bacon. Just the sort of thing you might teach vo-tech kids.

But the shellfish appetizer is the best entry point: butterflied shrimp rolled in crushed pecans, sautéed and arrayed alongside a "Southwestern" rémoulade--meaning cilantro and chiles replace the traditional elements. Sampled without the accoutrement, the shrimp are light and nutty although somewhat greasy. The sauce adds an intricate tart, sweet and herbal zing that brightens the appetizer dramatically. Same when spooned onto simple boiled shrimp.

Other memorable twists include a sage burger stacked thickly with red and yellow tomatoes, purple onions and fresh leaves of romaine. It relies on a massive amount of peppery sage and a good slice of salty feta cheese for seasoning, with mellow notes of Swiss cheese noticeable in the background. Bold and savory, it's an extraordinary burger.