Spark, Pickle, Toss. Repeat.
Wallingford’s Joule dares diners to travel the world without a map.
The bar was a great vantage point to spy on Yang and Chirchi in action. “God, I love this food!” sang the effusive Chirchi as he spooned butter over a hot pan of pinkening prawns, the quieter Yang smiling affectionately. They relish the immediate feedback the open kitchen affords, she told me later, which may be why one or the other will pop out occasionally to deliver an amuse-bouche or gratis finale. And it’s why I’m not too nervous about the occasional flavor gaffe—inexplicably bland shiitake–blue cheese lasagna; cornbread that gave us nothing but texture; an otherwise sensational apple-squash galette whose ginger ice cream held no discernable hint of ginger—because these pros are young, skilled, and eager to improve their model. They will listen to their customers.
Certain bigger-picture aspects of their operation trouble me more. Joule is technically an à la carte operation, its menu divided into categories marked “Tossed,” “Simmered,” “Crisped,” “Sparked,” and “Pickled.” Get it? Neither does anyone else. The terms translate to salads, soups, oven-fired appetizers, grilled mains, and pickled sides—though I’m still puzzling out what on earth about the creamy lasagna was crisp. Menu explanations do little to clarify—would “Black beans, pulled pork, soy bean paste, pickled ginger” be a black bean dish with pulled pork in it, or a pulled pork dish with some beans? Servers, though adroit with wine list flambé, are either too harried or not forthcoming enough to offer much in the way of direction. As is common in chef-owned restaurants, these foodie owners place too low a priority on the front of the house.
Pickling is Joule’s calling card. A thrilling distinction that sets it apart from Seattle’s happy surfeit of innovative chef-driven restaurants.
The problem is that food this arcane screams for direction. Without it, diners are likely to walk away unsatisfied. I did, after ordering the mackerel, a bold-flavored fish all crisped in a lovely, sweet soy glaze that grew monotonous for want of a counterpoint. A waiter should have clued me in. Better yet, these crack chefs might have considered designing a whole meal around this robust fish. Say what you will about the joys of small-plate dining; a good chef can compose more intelligent and satisfying pairings than a diner left to her own devices. That’s why we pay ’em the big bucks.
Or, in the case of Joule, the little ones. Yang and Chirchi nailed that part of their operation spot-on: Joule is one of the great bargains in the city for food of this quality, with a refreshingly affordable wine list.
As for their other goal—to purvey food that is fun—that depends entirely on whose definition of fun you’re talking about. Bubba Gump it ain’t. But for a couple of epicurean best friends—who were still bending close over their plates as I left, blissfully trading morsels of octopus with Chinese celery pistou and lamb sirloin with sesame-leaf emulsion—there are few more exciting places in this city than Joule.
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Published: March 2008
