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Each menu item at Pomelo is named for a city or region
and designated as either a "side trip" (appetizer) or
"destination" (entrée). To scan the menu is to
take a virtual world tour, touching down lightly in one tasty locale
after another. It takes a moment or two to grasp this globe-trotting
concept, and then a moment more to ascertain exactly what you will
be ingesting when you order the "Padua" (papardelle with
mushrooms and leeks), "Havana" (beans and fried rice with
steak) or the exotic "Gilroy" (baby bok choy with garlic).
Ernest and I selected the best destination: the nearly
unpronounceable "Laguiole" (lah-gwee-ohl), which
according to a quick Google search is both a brand of knives, and
a village in the Aubrac region of France (whence come the knives).
Judging by the images on the village
Web site, they also have lots of cows, as well as statues (!)
of cows. Since L'Aubrac (and Laguiole within it) appear to be landlocked,
it's a bit puzzling how a dish of pan-seared scallops came to bear
that name, but it was so yummy, I let it slide. Besides, to judge
Pomelo by strict standards of authenticity is to thoroughly miss
the point.
For Pomelo eschews allegiance to a single culinary
tradition in favor of an exercise in whimsical dissonance. Culled
from a panoply of both revered and little-known cuisines –
French, Filipino, Mexican, Sri Lankan, Italian, Cuban, etc. –
the dishes are for the most part "greatest hits": quesadillas,
French onion soup, pancit, beans and rice. "Fusion" happens
on the menu, if not on the plate, as the ingredients and preparation
of individual dishes remain more or less inside their cultural silos.
You might start with sake and Vietnamese summer rolls, proceed to
Sri Lankan chicken curry with bananas and a glass of Cotes du Rhone,
and finish with a slice of cherry pie: comfort food for the casual
internationalist.
We started our journey on fairly good footing. The
"Suwa" a barley miso soup swimming with chunks of tofu
and whole cross-sections of silky shitake mushrooms, appeared not
in the usual small lacquer bowls, but in large, wide ceramic ones:
super-size miso. Some diners rankled at the trespass -- it was awkward
to drink out of the large bowl in the traditional way -- but I found
it comforting, a simple and humbling presentation of a delicate
and refined soup. We also shared the "Cebu," a plate of
crunchy lumpia/spring rolls filled with shrimp and pork and something
fermented (tofu, I think), which gave the filling a nice depth.
But they were burnt -- blackened in places -- which was a visual
deterrent, albeit not a very persuasive one. I ate the last, and
darkest roll (Koge Pan need not fear rejection on my plate),
and was pleasantly surprised to find that it did not taste at all
burnt.
The aforementioned "Laguiole" was excellent:
scallops seared crispy brown on the outside, were pure white, buttery
and tender on the inside. Fat, green lentils mixed with not-too-wilted
spinach and squares of crisped pancetta (always a good thing) were
mild, yet gratifyingly rich, and provided a nice textural complement
to the smooth and meaty scallops. Jorge's pancit ("Manila"),
on the other hand, was bland and a bit too citrus-y,, and the "Havana"
looked amazing, but the steak turned out to be too well done for
my taste. The accompanying beans and rice (according to Oliver of
the newly-discriminating palette) tasted "funky." I found
them rather light and unremarkable, but then again, Pomelo isn't
a Cuban restaurant. Sheila fared better with the "Koh Samui"
(chicken curry with long beans over jasmine rice), in which sweet
coconut smoothly gave way to a piquant undertone that was a pleasant
surprise, given that coconut curries are usually much too sweet.
It's all very cute, the mixing and matching, the clever
place names: a glib globalism that could easily come across as pretentious
or gimmicky. Taken out of context, individual ingredients and flavors
become token stand-ins for long, rich culinary histories. It's like
world cuisine for dummies, or (horrors!) the menu at TGIFriday's,
where buffalo wings mix indiscriminately with pot stickers, and
the "Italiano" rubs shoulders with the "Tuna Wasabi
Salad" sandwich. As if cultural, military and economic domination
were not enough, we want to eat the world, too, but only if it comes
in palatable, deep-fried chunks.
But before I get too haughty, I remember that what
I consider my culinary "tradition" -- a mélange
of American classics and faux multicultural dishes composed mostly
of canned, frozen and airmailed ingredients -- really amounts to
the same thing. What do I really know about authenticity and tradition?
All of my gustatory experiences are founded in crass commercialism
and lately, a kind of snooty, imported gourmandise. I ogle organic
heirloom vegetables at the farmer's market (although I don't know
how to cook them) and read descriptions of classic French dishes
as though they were romance novels (although I seldom have the patience
or dedication to re-create them at home). Lacking a concrete culinary
heritage, I hijack other people's traditions, which is really not
so different from Pomelo's global eclecticism.
To be sure, Pomelo suffers from a surfeit of ambition.
It dares to offer the world, but fails to make it all taste good.
But despite its cutesy concept and uneven cuisine, it's a restaurant
I want to like. The service is friendly, casual and accommodating
-- they seated two of us at a table for six, even though the rest
of our party had yet to arrive -- and the dining room, while modest,
is airy and comfortable. Plus, it's an amazing value. Entrées,
I mean, "destinations" range from $7 -$13, which seems
like a steal for such carefully composed dishes.
In another, stuffier setting, its casual internationalism
might have seemed affected and pompous, but Pomelo's earnest attitude
and relaxed atmosphere are disarming, and for once, cynicism fails
me. Perhaps Pomelo, with its fresh ingredients, appealing presentation,
and classic menu of world favorites can do its modest part to satisfy
our global appetite, and save us from the TGIFridayfication of American
cuisine, where everything eventually finds its way into a sandwich.
I for one, am hopeful enough to return. Next time
I'll go for brunch, where I believe there's a plate of banana-stuffed
French toast (with roasted macadamias and warm coconut syrup) with
my name on it.
www.pomelosf.com
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