Canlis: A Masterpiece in Three Acts

Last Tuesday got real fancy real fast. Since you weren't there, I invite you to grab your opera glasses for flavor, sit back in your seat, and allow me to regale you with my decadent tale. 


I spent all day prepping for an audition, and as soon as I finished I raced across town to grab Bill, only to race home, pull on some evening wear and dash out to dinner. I made a conscious choice to let my frantic momentum run itself into a $20 cocktail as the hostess took my coat and we were led into the beyond.

The best $1 dining
bible around

Tuesday, February 21st, we left this earthly plane, all its noises, plastic clutter and crude banalities to ascend the gently sloping path to a dinner I'll not soon forget. In William Speidel's You Can't Eat Mount Rainier!, Canlis is described as having reached the "pinnacle in decor, service, and taste." This book is adorable. Published in '55, it called to me from a clearance rack after Christmas, and upon flipping through it I found an entry for the mysterious restaurant we'd just received a gift certificate for. I brought the book with us, handed it to the hostess and invited her to pass it around so the staff could enjoy a glimpse into their mighty empire's past.

Oh, help me, John Mason.

We gave our name to the valet, let our car drive off with all our cares and woes, and headed in. We were early, and so took a seat in the lounge where a piano played gilded versions of today's hits. Brittany, Whitney, Celine, Radiohead - a likely overture to foreshadow the evening ahead; modern in places, but smacking of your favorite traditions. We perused the cocktail list, but I knew right away what to order. My 'Prince In Disguise' and Bill's Old Fashioned arrived just as our table was ready, so we followed our drinks to a table facing the dining room. It was pulled out so we might sit easily beside each other in the booth, and I was lucky enough to find my orientation offered a view of the kitchen window, fully done in copper paneling, casting off soft visions of kitchen business without clearly reflecting any distractions. We took in the other diners as we sipped our drinks. Mine a bourbon fantasy with a slice of apple dusted in cinnamon and Bill's a cold, refreshing toddy. If nothing else, please, take yourself and $50 to Canlis and get a couple cocktails. Really fine work.

That star anise came home with me. What were they going
to use it for? These things don't just grow on trees.
(Do they?)

Act One began shortly after Bill learned he would be feasting on his very own plate of oysters, our amuse bouche arrived; a warm, creamy leek soup in sweet little cups that were perfect with nibbles of their house milk & honey rolls. For those of you with private shame about gorging on King's Hawaiian Sweet Rolls in a dark pantry, the soft and supple crumb of Canlis rolls will upgrade your addiction. And you can have as many as you want. And they're always warm, because they bring them to you one by one out of a hot, covered basket. Ok. The bread was good. What about the food?

Let's coddle an egg together.

Voted one of the 100 best dishes in America, the Canlis salad has barely evolved since 1950, but continues to dazzle diners, $18 at a time. A crisp foundation of romaine, green onion, grape tomatoes, mint, oregano, bacon, romano cheese and croutons, what really sells this salad is its fresh simplicity, but it might be the coddled egg--which is exactly what it sounds like. I think you pay for that one careful moment where the sous chef pauses, ignoring whatever chaos is going on around them, (does Canlis know chaos?), and delicately places the whole egg into water that was ever-so-recently boiling. Kind of a high-risk job for anybody. Or maybe they have an egg coddler on staff for just this sort of thing.

Humming along with Gangster's Paradise on the piano, we sighed as our plates left, empty, but lit up as our main course arrived. Act Two opened with Muscovy duck, sliced parsnip and pear in a creamy reduction, a dollop of sticky golden raisins and a duck croquette. The duck was delicious, aged 14 days and prepared admirably, but the croquette, which maybe took minutes to form and fry, sang the song I still can't get out of my mind. As a fan of fried treasures, this one goes straight to the top of my list, and that's all I'm prepared to say.

In between bites of duck, I moved in on Bill's king salmon. On a bed of shitake mushrooms and pearl onions dripping with something fabulous I'll never know the secret to, the salmon was fresh, thick, and gently grilled. A substantial meal in itself, I ate about half the fillet and left thinking I'd never need another bite of protein. That's value.






Not pictured are the twice-baked potato - a sixty year tradition that keeps on giving - and a mound of herbed truffle fries, which we were advised to take home and broil the next morning with eggs for breakfast, (encore!) An unexpected intermezzo arrived as I was agonizing over ever standing up again: two dips of goat's milk sorbet. Bravo.

Happy Birthday Forever!!!!

Just as I'd lost hope that we'd receive a visit from the distinguished owner, Act Three began: a Grand Marnier soufflé, cracked and drizzled with creme anglaise by Mr. Canlis himself.  Personable and younger than you'd guess, he returned my book and we chatted about more refined dining techniques. The Morenos were climbing the social ladder a little too fast, so we ordered two boozy coffees and slowly prepared for our humble return home. The bill came and went, our serenity unbroken as we handed over our gift card.

I bow to you, sweet somethings.

For all there was to love, the one thing that didn't succeed was Bill's Spanish coffee - a mix of armagnac, cointreau, rum, you see where I'm going with this? Not really a "perk up before you drive home" kind of beverage, which we were duly warned about, but it was so sweet and alcoholic I couldn't really enjoy it. Maybe set it on fire? My Irish coffee was just what I wanted, and effectively brought me back to life for the curtain call:


Rosewater macarons and dark chocolate nibbles filled with peanut butter ganache.



Clap louder, you swine, they can't hear you in the back.





Dine of My Life

Still struggling to pull myself together

But wait, where was the climax? Who died?

It was me, I died, and as Vanessa Williams once cooed, I've gone and saved the best for last. The gun shot happened early, in the first act, making expert use of the charcoal broiler Canlis is famous for, and adding star power to huckleberry jus, coriander, and a smashing pickled rutabaga coin. The star in question is pork belly, the softest, fattiest, most breath-taking cut of meat ever to be dusted in pastrami shavings and disappear, between sobs, off my plate. And the rutabaga - (I promised myself I wouldn't cry again, but) - so crisp and commanding, I tried to pace myself but... Before I knew it the feathers were drifting to the floor and my mascara had betrayed me. This dish was so, so good, I'm having trouble getting out of bed in the morning, knowing there's nothing in my kitchen worth getting up for.

As a diner, I'm not quick to award an establishment simply based on its reputation for excellence, and having read a few reviews slandering Canlis as an over-priced, over-staffed exercise in stuffy tradition, I kept an eye out for missteps. I am easily disturbed by overly-attentive servers, and while the staff was indeed extensive, and we never wanted for anything, the calm at our table never felt threatened. As this particular outing was a gift, I wanted to see the good, but was ultimately and unexpectedly charmed, thrilled, to find that even a diner as disgruntled as I could be healed by a truly fine dine out.

Special thanks to our investors, Bill & Cecilia, for believing in us and sending us to the moon for one beautiful evening.