The Jockey Club
L&N Station
523-9990
by Les DuLunch
Ellen Goodman? Dave Barry? No, my favorite national columnist has long been the formidable and highly amusing Miss Manners. Her humorous pokes at the decline of Western civilization set amidst handy advice to the culturally retarded for appropriate behavior in any situation are a gentle reminder of what life used to be like before everything became so fast, dirty, and blunt.
She would love the Jockey Club.
Like manners themselves, the restaurant is a great throwback to those more genteel times—so much so that it actually winds up seeming somewhat foreign. Traditional meals served by course are a bit strange in this age of entree-sized appetizers and entrees of family-sized proportions that truly bring your mother's dinner table mantra of "children are starving in Ethiopia" guiltily home to roost. The idea of dressing for dinner in a time when professionals barely manage to dress for work anymore adds to the oddity. And since we've all become so accustomed to that ugly bit of unpleasantness uttered by so many restaurant servers—"Save your fork"—having three clean ones from which to choose comes off as truly bizarre.
Invited to a pre-open sampling last year, I thoroughly enjoyed the prix fixe meal but found the four-hour experience a little ponderous. An arrestingly simple appetizer—flaked country ham over cantaloupe—started the meal off at about 7 p.m. But by the time we'd made our way through the chilled soup, salad, relatively simple but remarkably well-prepared choice of one of four main courses, fromage containing the most eye-wateringly pungent Roquefort I've ever consumed, dessert, and petit fours with 15- to 20-minute interludes, the experience seemed more like the epic-length director's cut version of a movie than a meal—good, rewarding, but a tad bit self-indulgent. At a few minutes after 11 p.m., the last plate was cleared, and having run completely out of conversation three hours in, I gladly escaped to the welcome solitude of my car. In all honesty, I didn't think the market would support such an extravagant eatery and worried that the restaurant might soon be a thing of the past.
Fortunately, I was wrong.
A year later, the Jockey Club is obviously going strong, having retained the fine fair and refined the timing.
Owner David Duncan (the friendly gentleman in the bow tie who will stop by your table to greet you or politely inquire about your meal) certainly knows his way around a well-laid table; he's operated a catering business for over 20 years and used to broadcast a cooking show on one of the local television stations. And he's done a beautiful job refurbishing the restaurant's L&N Station home. It's a graceful setting that matches both his tastes in food and antiques.
Each week brings a new menu of carefully crafted seasonal offerings. Portions are small, but not in that annoyingly precious nouvelle cuisine manner. This is simply seven courses of classic dining in every sense of the word—tasteful (yes, that's real silver) and tasty too. Evenly spaced, the large meal never leaves you feeling overwhelmed or unpleasantly full. And don't be intimidated by the $48 per diner price tag; the food and the overall experience of well-mannered service in an airy, glamorous setting are well worth every penny.
A light snack of sweet toasted almonds and sliced vegetables (including what appeared to be a pickled bamboo shoot) accompanied cocktails and paved the way for the courses to come.
The herbed brie turnover appetizer was perfectly proportioned to accomplish its goal of merely whetting the appetite. Small and appetizing indeed, its phyllo flakes and light drizzle of olive oil sparked by tangy tomato confit set the stage for the next act, a cucumber gazpacho. The chilled summertime soup was finely textured and refreshingly offset by a dollop of slightly tangy creme fraiche and a sprig of soapy cilantro.
The salad followed—mixed greens with just a touch of the house dressing, a sweet, coffee-like hazelnut balsamic vinaigrette. A tiny scoop of wonderfully refreshing and smooth lemon rosemary sorbet provided the intermezzo and cleansed the palate in preparation for wonderful entrees.
The two medium-rare grilled lamb chops were delicate and delicious in the way that baby animals so often are. Remarkably tender and bathed in a mint yogurt sauce, they coyly crossed their bones above a bed of equally tender curried potatoes. The cool mint melded beautifully with the sharper curry flavor, while a fall of firm peas added texture overall. A hearty beef filet a la forestiere (a rich brown sauce with button mushrooms) with puree de pommes de terre (that's basically mashed potatoes) offered a simpler, more homespun but no less expert charm.
After a pause for cheese—a light, dry Basque made of sheep's milk, surprisingly sharp white Vermont cheddar, and creamy smooth Brie—dessert was served.
The choices were fascinating. I chose a timbale (tower) of sweet, sticky, nutty-flavored sushi rice with points of sour-cream pound cake, a small scoop of vanilla ice cream, and remarkably fresh berries. A little bit fussy perhaps, but engaging, inventive, and perfect for a muggy summer evening. The ginger creme brulée looked and tasted curiously like flan—served out of its crock and minus the brittle shellac—but not to any detriment. Like the rice dish, its light tones made it ideally suited to ending a summertime meal.
Clocking in at just under two and half hours—slow enough to truly savor and enjoy but paced quickly enough not to occupy the entire evening—the meal was that most rare of modern experiences—an island of delicious calm.
June 15, 2000 * Vol. 10, No. 24
© 2000 Metro Pulse
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