Frank's, My Dear
Sarah and Felix Penn pay homage to dear old granddad in Ravenna’s retro steakhouse.
The cocktails are destination makers (one, the pear and cardamom sidecar, explored the subtlest interplays of bursting fruit and dark spices) with appropriately crowd-pleasing supporting munchies. But make no mistake: There is substance coming out of the kitchen. Frank’s was named for Sarah Penn’s maternal grandfather, an old-school newspaperman at The Boston Globe in the ’40s who relished his steaks and double Manhattans. The Penns honor him with a trio of cuts, served à la carte and with a sauce of choice. Our New York was a righteous tribute, especially with a Frank’s Manhattan and a spectacularly unhealthy side of cheddar potato gratin. There is also a burger—naturally raised Niman ranch beef, natch, to match the sustainably correct walls—and it’s a stunner, all decked with Beecher’s cheddar and pickled onions, and served with what may be Seattle’s most perfect French fries. The kitchen takes them directly from freezer to fryer, which accounts for their resounding crunch and nonmealy interior.
And Frank’s more intriguing forays bested even the meat and potatoes. I appreciated the nongloppiness of the milky smoked-fish chowder, brisk with brine and loaded with finely diced fresh vegetables. My companion demolished her thick pork chop, succulent clean through and intelligently offset with a little pear-and-golden-raisin number and a peppery celery root puree. The sole clunker was a hunk of poached salmon on a quinoa-farro brick—uncharacteristically virtuous, deadly dull—and served with a carrot sauce that lent nothing but color. “Frank wouldn’t have touched this,” cracked the cheeky mademoiselle.
But Frank’s Oyster House and Champagne Parlor—that he’d have eaten right up. We were at that moment failing to find words to describe our desserts: a lemon tart, where lemon curd and a cloud of meringue brûlée were making passionate love; and a banana split, an extravagance of housemade ice creams and lush sauces and caramelly bananas that’s bound for status as a Seattle classic.
“Isn’t it perfect that the desserts are this good in a Champagne parlor?” sighed Ms. Lombard with a winning smile. “This is the best place ever for a date.”
I think I know a very nice city that would love to take her there.
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Published: April 2009
