Funny how (at least I) don't think of Indy as a seafood destination, YET(what with the Fed Ex hub, I bet) there're a plethora of pristine piscine palaces(as far as restaurants go)...my chef friend had difficulty sourcing fresh fish when she first moved to the city a few years back.
S/o n I got into town a day early to relax before family festivities held sway(one niece was performing with the Indianapolis Children's Choir at a service auf "Methodist Cathedral" Thanksgiving morning...beautiful church...amusing, convivial pastor)...and thank JHVH1, we did...traffic was horrific getting outta the city this year...blecch...
I like Indy(never thought I would, but, then...it's taken me nearly a decade to start to appreciate Chicago...I'm slow on the uptake). Broadripple's an idiosyncratic, old school, suburban bohemian enclave...quite lovely in Spring and in Winter when snow softens all those orientalist green terracotta roofs. Despite the odd throwback stick-in-the-mud Hoosier...the populace is welcoming; comme-ci, comme ca. What at first registers as a severe lack of diversity reveals itself as a strong ethical authority: there's relatively no spectacle..."fences make good neighbors." Perhaps I'm being opaque.
I do recall first picking up a copy of the free Indy men's magazine under the mistaken assumption that it was the local gay rag...nope...it's The Swingin' Bachelor Times...or some such...I continue to giggle-inwardly over that one.
So...s/o n I roll into downtown(bedraggled, hours-in-traffic-muddled)...all my years traveling through Indianapolis I'd never visited the city center. We had reservations at The Canterbury. But where to nosh? There's a Steak n Shake directly across the street, but dear god no. We changed, downed drinks at the bar downstairs, decided the hotel restaurant was too rich for our blood that evening, picked the bartender's brain for food ideas, and decided to wander. Checked out St. Elmo's steakhouse nextdoor...home of a famous shrimp cocktail...we intend to dine there next visit. So no go on St. Elmo. Fish? Maybe?
And everything open was dead.
Except for Oceanaire and the clapboard specials looked decent.
long story short: fucking great meal
Welcoming, not overdesigned shipboard art deco space. Crowded, but never noisy. Effusive waiter. A relish tray! So surprising pickled herring, peppers, assrtd. veg. Unexpectedly superbly-flavored sourdough...housemade? I forgot to ask.
I wanted oysters, but oysters weren't desired. We finally decided upon a calamari dish which came crispy and(I knew we'd made the right dining decision cuz the squid was perfectly fucking cooked...tensile...just a slight resistance to the predatory teeth)...slathered in an enthralling General Tso's-ish sauce...I was getting a bit excited...just a li'l.
S/o ordered a rather strange-flavored syrah(some gaelic name) which complimented our entrees nevertheless.
His was some thick-fleshed white fish, foie gras nuggets, squash mash, and shag bark syrup. He preferred mine all things considered. And instead of nuggets they really oughta just spring for a medallion. Not a bad dish, by any means, just not bang! pow! zoom!
I hit the jackpot: roast loin of monkfish, pomegranate gremolata, roast pork cheek, and wild mushrooms---okay it was beef not pork and the gremolata was more a traditional hunter's stew brunoise tossed with pomegranate seeds...but the whole was whalloping...a quintessential hearthside dish. I can still taste the smoky, earthiness of the fish and meat, the savory mushrooms sparked by tiny flares of sweet, crunchy pomegranate seed. Even when I tried my partner's dish(and he tried mine) mixing a bit of his leftover squash mash with bites of monkfish and beef cheek...even that "new" dish excelled...lovely room, lovely service, good(maybe great) food. No desserts. Espresso worked.
and the men's room put it over the top
as you enter you stroll past that perfect James Joyce quote in silver paint on the curving wall:
"the snotgreen sea...the scrotum-tightening sea..."
whatever designer got the go ahead for that bit of crude whimsy; I wanna buy him or her a drink
Oceanaire's a chain...and I would dine at any of their other locations in a heartbeat
afterwards we walked our food off circling the downtown roundabout...it's massive holiday lights dark before the following evening's festivities
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we did have breakfast at The Canterbury the next morning: such a tiny Laura Ashley exploded in this room(maybe 12 tables)
it might've been on the expensive side(for a plebian frustuck), but our orders were perfectly cooked, presented, and served
and try getting a large fresh-squeezed orange juice in Chicago for 3.50
Last edited by
Christopher Gordon on November 28th, 2006, 9:28 am, edited 2 times in total.
Being gauche rocks, stun the bourgeoisie