By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
Luqa is a restaurant over a contemporary art gallery under the Petrus Lounge, which is beneath the Roof Top Gardens—a layer cake of urban culture. Luqa the restaurant is crisply handsome with institutional-like floor-to-ceiling windows, burgundy walls and carpets, and an enclosed glass kitchen framed in metal and so clean it looks like a surgical gallery. Tables are assembled around huge rectangular support posts rising from the floor and breaching the ceiling. Sight lines are obliterated.
The food is not.
Organic spinach salad $9
Spring market salad $9
Rack of lamb $42
Elk chops $46
Squash ravioli $24
Deconstructed crème brûlée $6
I'm recognized here. Luqa's sommelier Phil Natale and I have run into each other at wine conferences and tastings and other pours while he was more bar business than restaurant business. He has a well-calibrated palate and a shrewd sense of proper wine collections.
But Luqa's wine list is a shambles. It is top heavy with pricey bottles and has a thin-to-nonexistent number of wines less than $60. Under the heading "French Reds" there are only a handful of Rhones, most of them well north of $75. Same with the Italians.
This is the same wine program that director of operations Kyle Kepner once boasted would redefine wine service in Dallas by gradually building a bold international list from 500 to 1,500 selections by next fall, pricing the wines just short of usury, marking them up two times instead of the three or four times typical in Dallas. Yet this list is marked by nothing but perplexing austerity.
"It is," Natale admits. They once had twice as many wines, he says, but they've been paring it down. Alternative whites have been whittled down by three quarters, and cabs have been cut by half. Natale doesn't say it, but this smells suspiciously like the pincer of restricted cash flow and mispriced inventory. What's left is a heftily priced klatch in need of clearing, no doubt to free up cash to refresh the more reasonable pours that have sold out.
A dark omen, that, especially since Kepner, who has guided the restaurant through years of construction delays, has bailed to take up a post at Kenichi, the contemporary Asian cuisine ensemble in Victory Park.
But sweep away the Grace Jones and the leadership changes and the wine list and what you get is mostly food that sings—hisses even.
Five slices per order, raw, Kobe short rib strips are served in what looks like the bottom of a bamboo steamer. The rosy strips are neatly arranged on a white plate, the creamy fat capillaries meandering through the visceral red. The strips are covered with chopped chives. There's a white bowl filled with jalapeño ponzu and a dark void beyond that where river stones smolder. Lay the meat strips on the stone and those capillaries hiss and sputter. Cut it and chew it and right off the bat you're struck by how its coarse resiliency surrenders and melts into lusty savor. Skipping the ponzu isn't outlandish. Skipping the river stones isn't either.
Luqa can be a culinary force of such elegant simplicity that the aftermath is stunning. The kitchen skillfully mingles elements to reflect both its New American pedigree and seasonal rhythms. A spring market salad is an effective distillation of this: hearty green and yellow wax beans slumped together with crispy fried shallots and grilled ribbons of hearts of palm. Brisk sherry vinaigrette serves as framing. It's a little green, a little hearth, a little hearty heart, a little sass. Each bite stimulates thinking.
This same dynamic is found in the butternut squash ravioli in unctuous lavender honey sauce. Poke through the stew—settled in a large square bowl with heavily rippled edges—and you tease out a wintry mix of sweet whirling with barely perceptible floral notes. A piece of honeycomb, waxy and sweet, completes the tension. Still, the orchestration isn't pulled off as effectively as the market salad. It has nothing to do with the elements, though the ravioli seemed slightly overcooked. It is a function of volume. There are far too many caramelized apple bits and pearl onions to plow through in order to reach those squash pillows, of which there are far too few.
There are just two Alaskan elk chops. The plate is big and square with coils of pomegranate jus traced across its surface. Off to one edge near the chops is a large cumin quince tart. Not sure how this complements the composition. The palate needs to be cleared after every bite to wash away the dense, dry pastry dust.
The elk is even more of a conundrum. Though ordered medium rare, the meat on one chop is dark gray. It separates into thick, desiccated chunks and has the flavor of chicken liver. Yet the chop lazily settled next to it is red and racy, loose and flowing with juices. It's like a before-and-after pitch for some elk chop remedy.