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Roasted skate chop with sweet potato curry and rice grits (Photo by Tyler Darden)
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The dining room at Alewife (Photo by Tyler Darden)
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Grilled wagyu flank steak with potatoes, kale, pearl onions and steak sauce (Photo by Tyler Darden)
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House martini (Photo by Tyler Darden)
Meg Ryan faking an orgasm for Billy Crystal in “When Harry Met Sally” might be the most famous deli sequence on film. But that kind of hair-thrashing pleasure isn’t what I’m thinking of when I tell you that you must eat at Alewife — though there’s plenty of that, too. It’s the onscreen duo’s delayed romantic relationship, a comfortable but expressive one, tempered by trial and error, that reminds me of Lee Gregory’s Church Hill seafood palace. For Gregory, a three-time James Beard Award semifinalist, passion runs deep in his aqueous couplings.
Alewife chef/owner Lee Gregory (Photo by Tyler Darden)
A seasoned restaurant, akin to a successful second marriage or a longtime friendship turned amorous, is what I desire when dropping coin on an indulgent meal. I seek creativity that nudges familiarity, rather than dominating it, serving up quality ingredients prepared by practiced hands. I yearn to mentally surf supper long after its consumption, riding the best bites again and again, knowing that when I go back, they’ll be better still in reality. To these wants, Alewife has committed.
The crew will be familiar if you’ve eaten at The Roosevelt, Gregory’s Southern-tinged restaurant founded with Kendra Feather. Katy Best, formerly of The Roosevelt, created Alewife’s beverage program. It, like Gregory’s current bill of fare, is based on sustainability. In the wine world, this means choosing responsibly farmed, lesser-known grapes such as the crisp Italian pecorino (nothing like the cheese!) over major varietals and industrial tipple. Fruit scraps are dehydrated and powdered, then used to flavor cocktails. Straws are metal.
Alewife’s open kitchen employs fish without catch limits, such as skate, smelt and sardines, as well as the fish heads and tails that are often tossed out. A fine way to sample several of those things is by ordering the Siren Song, an ever-changing pupu platter of five to seven appetizers. Rockfish collar, the spiky, triangular nugget sandwiched between the fish’s gills and its body, is roasted on a charcoal yakitori grill, then flashed under a broiler until its skin is crisped, the luxurious, fatty meat loosened into a sluice of sweet and sour that dribbled down my fingers and into my mouth like the bone marrow of the sea. Don’t dare try to eat it with a knife and fork: You need to manhandle collars and tails like wings, or you’ll miss all the best bits. I also dove into a shoal of roasted baby carrots that possessed the depth and flavor of a long braise, yet were still crunchy, topped with bonito flakes that waved like a stand of coral. These were the appetizers on the lazy Susan that captured my fancy — though I certainly wouldn’t kick the lightly breaded smelts, swordfish tartare or crab claws scented with the salty, celery bite of Old Bay off my plate.
Alewife Chef de Cuisine Bobo Catoe Jr. (Photo by Tyler Darden)
Under starters, orecchiette with rock shrimp and Alfredo sauce, a creation of Chef de Cuisine Bobo Catoe Jr., took the heavy dressing and brightened it with miso made from stracchino, an Italian cow’s milk cheese. This funky, tangy version of the usual cream sauce, sweetened by the sea, produced a dish that could have been a metaphor for the New York Dolls tunes played that night — edgy but familiar, comfortable but creative, known without seeming dated — or a metaphor for the bones of the pale-hued dining room itself, which is feminine without flounce, its porthole mirrors reflecting a serious cooking ethos.
There was only one flaw in the nearly perfect service, and it came at the end of the meal. After devouring plates of seafood, including feathery, flavorful skate left on the bone, I’d left a mess that was unappetizing to look at under the pineapple pavlova, which itself could use a step up in presentation. (The pavlova was stunningly delicious, but the large chunks of shattered meringue placed over fruit curd resembled a broken Styrofoam container spilling its contents.) A quick wipe-down before dessert would’ve refreshed the table, though this criticism feels almost unkind, like pointing out parsley in your partner’s teeth after they’ve performed with finesse.
But the real reason to go deep into Church Hill, other than the neighborhood’s magnificent architecture, is Alewife’s wagyu flank steak, an iteration of which is almost always on menu. Mine was barely seared, just enough to perfume the room with the scent of caramelized fat and the hiss of smoke, its inside scarlet and tender, accompanied by potato gratin and topped with onion rings. As I brought my fork to my mouth, I heard the woman at the next table look to her husband and say, “I’ll have what she’s having.”
4 1/2 out of 5 stars
3120 E. Marshall St.
804-325-3426
Hours: Tuesday to Thursday, 5 to 11 p.m.; Friday and Saturday, 5 p.m. to midnight; kitchen closes at 10 p.m.
Prices: $8 to $28
