The No-Go Cafe
If there is something new and improved about the new and improved Bintliff’s American Café on Portland Street, then I failed to find it the night I was there.
The interior is somewhat changed since my last visit about 6 years ago when I was a fledgling visitor to this city whose wondrous culinary highlights were only Back Bay Grill and Fore Street.
As to the décor it seemed more subdued, or perhaps my eye is more used to the kickshaws of decor found in too many restaurants around town.
The downstairs, with its several bar tables tucked into a corner, is almost cosmopolitan, like a Midtown lounge in a larger city.
But the action occurs upstairs. The wait staff should, however, be admired for having to gclimb those stairs from the first floor kitchen to the upper floor dining room.
When we arrived last night, rain soaked and grateful to be inside, those two tables were empty, and there was no one to greet us at the sign that says, “Please Wait to be Seated.” After a few minutes a waitress or hostess or employee, carrying several plates of bread for tables upstairs, said, “Follow me,” after inquiring if we had a reservation.
I liked the looks—well, sort of—of the upstairs dining room, though I suffer a bit from night blindness and it seemed too dark.
We were shown to one of many booths along the side, a nice large table fit for four which the two of us had to ourselves. The seating part of the booth is stationary—back to back to the booth behind us, like a train seat; the table itself is at least 18 inches away from one’s seating position so that there’s enough room between seating and table to accommodate a 25 pound turkey to fall through to the floor, which might have been amusing. I firmly held onto my napkin.
Still, I was open to giving this place every opportunity of benefit in lieu of doubt.
The menu is short and does change frequently. That night the entrée list failed to excite. For instance, there were two very similar items, crab cakes and squash and risotto cakes. One cake too many perhaps? There was paella, steak, chicken, scallops and the omnipresent macaroni and cheese.
What is it with macaroni and cheese being on so many otherwise formidable entrée menus around town? Are we all just a bunch of nostalgic ninnies who chefs feel crave this dish?
Perhaps it’s my childhood memories of dinner at home when I was growing up that make me look warily at this American volition. My family frequently ate out, which was always an adventure for one who grew up in Manhattan. But when my mother--who was not an accomplished cook or entrenched in housewifery—prepared dinner, she often served macaroni and cheese. It was one of her best efforts. She baked it in a Pyrex baking dish which resulted in a luscious crust forming on the sides, deliciously crunchy and rich. But it was served as a side, not a main meal, often with a main course favorite that she called Meatball Porcupine, a dreaded concoction that we all loathed. My mother loved it so we endured. Perhaps that’s why mac ‘n cheese (a hateful nickname) is so troublesome for me.
Bintliff’s could be one of those homey neighborhood places that one could like very much if the food was better. It doesn’t matter that it’s next door to one of the scariest looking bars in the city or that this little strip of Portland resembles the Bowery more than a friendly boulevard.
In any case, the wait staff is very affable and able, though our waiter also doubled as the bartender just as the hostess doubled up her duties.
OK. I’ll cut to the chase. Here’s what we ordered. My starter was spicy fried oysters and my main course was a Statler cut chicken breast. My companion had a mixed salad and, of all choices, the macaroni cheese, which was a mélange of various cheeses in a Guinness Stout base.
The dark whole wheat bread, several thick slices unceremoniously displayed on a plate, was served slightly warm. It was good, though the crusts had been burnt black, and the butter dish contained just enough butter in which to fry a small egg.
We ordered cocktails, very well made. And soon enough our first courses arrived. My oysters suffered from being tepid. I searched in vain for one that was even room temperature. They were heavily breaded and didn’t offer much punk from spice and were accompanied by three little dishes of dipping sauces, whose derivation, except for the mustard, I couldn’t quite grasp.
My friend’s salad looked very appealing, a long thin slice of cucumber formed into a round mold in which the varied ingredients were held high-- in a sort of homage to Alfred Portale of NY’s Gotham Bar and Grill fame who built his reputation on the height of his presentations.
The more oysters I ate produced a fine veil of grease in my mouth. Since the chef hails from the former Scales whose fried oysters were excellent, these were at best apocryphal.
We ordered another round of cocktails if only as palate cleansers. When presented, my main course chicken immediately seemed to say, “Don’t eat me.”
I suppose there was no offending taste but it was just plain boring, a whopping, boring, dreary looking breast plopped on a bed of mashed potatoes with some green leafy thing splayed across the plate.
My friend’s macaroni, not a large portion, but that was OK, was pronounced good. I unceremoniously took a whiff and a forkful and didn’t like the overwhelming taste of the Guinness.
We ordered dessert. Quite frankly I don’t remember what my dinner companion had, but my pumpkin cheesecake was memorable for all the wrong reasons.
We paid our bill, an easy $85 before tip. The entrees are not expensive, all under $20. We thanked our waiter who was very able, walked downstairs to our car, which was still there, and drove off into the pouring rain, wherein my mildly annoying night blindness made driving somewhat difficult though not as trying as dinner.
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