American

spago.

Perennial workhorse and flagship of Wolfgang’s empire, Spago continues to deliver blazing tastes, lively atmosphere and at least one B list actor or aging star. Tonight it was aging actor James Caan, which none of us would have recognized had we not watched Bottle Rocket the night before. There he is, adjoined to the right side of Mike’s neck.

Wolfgang seems to be engaged in a personal race to water down a remarkable 20 year career in as little as seven years. From developing the midrange Puck Cafes that delivered pseudo Hollywood crap to Strip Malls and Airports across America, to an ill-conceived line of high calorie/low flavor soups, he has almost achieved this goal. Puck will have made millions by transforming himself from the energetic and talented artist, to the New Millennium’s Chef Boyardee. More power to him.

He at least left one legacy, which is actually a reincarnation of his original legacy.

Spago is as good as it ever has been, the one remaining monument to this man’s great achievements. As Don Lafontaine would bellow “In a world where restaurants are sustained by the fickle whims of vapid socialites with less taste than a mafia informant with a Columbian Necktie, Spago has has maintained a staggering popularity in a world where reputations can dry up faster than an aging hooker’s…career.”

While Lee Hefter has pared down the bread selection, the Parmesan crisps have been improved, baking in a grand intensity to the wafer. The olive bread is moist and infused with olive flavor, without being overly sharp, something that can mar even the best olive breads.

They’ve actually improved the foie gras three ways, something I never thought could be done. Now they offer foie gras three ways cold, foie gras two ways cooked, and a pentad of both. Pastrami foie gras? They’re on their game. There must have been a sale on Quince, because the plate had two hearty slabs of terrine accompanied by a Quince-golden raisin compote, a quinelle of mousse atop a quince tartlet, and dots of apple puree encircling the entire circus.

Nayan had the autumn pumpkin and mascarpone agnolotti. The flavor was bright and rich , with a hint of sweetness and a punch of pumpkin flavor.

If you want to talk about a joint that is willing to take chances, I had the slow roasted loin of young California rabbit. It was prepared four ways: stuffed and roasted loin, skewered kidney and liver kabob, dusted rack of ribs and ricotta gnocci with a ragout of shoulder. All this came atop brasied savoy cabbage, black trumpet mushrooms, and quince-sage puree.

The tiny little ribs were cute as hell, tender and just enough of three bites. The loin was seasoned heavily and perhaps the stuffing overpowered the delicate flavor a bit, and the organ meats were actually pretty good when accompanied by the braised cabbage. The ragout was tender and flavorful, rich and filling.

Mike ordered the sauteed Maine Skate, accompanied by caramelized cauliflower, capers, golden raisin, toasted almonds and a puree of cauliflower and preserved lemon meuniere. It must have been good because fool ate it so quickly I didn’t get a chance to try it. He said the flavor was balanced and the fish wasn’t as tough as it seemed. He was baffled by the golden raisins as described by the menu, but found them to integrate well with the dish. We’ll have to take his word on that.

Finally, to my relief and surprise, they had no tenderloin so Nayan couldn’t ask them to ruin it by cooking it well done like she always does. With her, fear of the unknown is the overriding force that motivates her decisions, so she stuck with the roasted chicken with wild chanterelle mushrooms. This was served atop goat cheese, sage and yellow Finnish potato puree. The chicken was bold and crisped perfectly, juicy and tender. The potatoes were a bit too delicate as an accompaniment, but didn’t compete with the flavor of the chicken.

We were too full to get any desserts, so I’ll conclude that the coffee was rich and uplifting. The meal was accompanied with a bottle of 2001 Merryvale reserve cab sav.

Spago marches on. My only criticism was the smoking policy. They allow smoking in the crowded outdoor patio, and three Europeans who obviously were copping a serious binge wouldn’t stop relentlessly blowing smoke in our direction. The staff was extremely accommodating in relocating us to a cancer-free zone.

Wolfgang himself may be a whore who slaps his name on everything from burritos to laxatives, but Spago is in good hands under the command of Lee Hefter. Puck may have checked out, but he knows how to choose an executive chef. I’ll continue to give him my money!

Spago
176 N. Canon
Beverly Hills, Of Course

By Zteve (see more of his posts). You can find more of Zteve's writing at his own website Gastrologica

© 2006 la.foodblogging.