Expectations can be a crippling thing. No matter how hard one
tries to keep an open mind, it is only human for glimmers of hope
to creep into our hearts and fuel unpronounceable desires.
In the case of restaurants, hype can hardly be described as an
innocent bystander in fanning such flames. It's often the case that
the more a place is hyped the less chance it has of delivering.
Such silly creatures of flesh are we, that we long for
perfection. Such fragile hearts have we that break so easily when
even the slightest bitter taste of disappointment flickers across
the tongue. How fickle is the crowd that calls for the spectacular,
the bells and whistles, but bawls when the fireworks fail to
ignite.
With the razzmatazz that popped up with the opening of Hamilton
House, how can one not be led down the dangerous path to
anticipation? How can one not expect to find the culinary
equivalent of the Holy Grail within its hallowed walls?
This year can already be labeled the Year of the Mid-Market
Restaurant, and it was only natural that ears were cocked when the
murmurs of simple, reasonably priced French fare near the Bund
began.
There is no further need to introduce the dramatis personae -
femme fatale owner Qian Qian; sharp-suited former New Heights
manager Richard Xavia; bubbly and celebrated chef Philippe
Leban.
There is also hardly much more to be added about the design -
the impossibly high ceiling that lends itself to the dramatic
windows for the passing hoi polloi to wish they were eating here;
the cool touches that has brought art-deco back into conversations
again; the quirky, unisex bathrooms with that most civilized touch
of the offered toilet seat covers, the last sanctuary for delicate
buttocks averse to making contact with the previous patron's
residual aura.
What needs to be addressed, as so few people are prone to do, is
the fare on offer. Conversations with regular diners linger around
the food being "not bad," with little desire to describe this state
of "not bad"-ness. What was it about the food that did so little to
inspire vocabulary in otherwise vocal people, yet was sufficient to
keep them coming back?
I was recommended (by a chef, no less) to sample the presse of
pork (45 yuan, US$6.20). The trotter was sublime. The delightful
combination of crackling, braised fat and sinew in sweet onion
puree was an answer to Grail-hunters' prayers; hurrah, the hype had
been justified all along.
Alas the magnificence of the appetizer was but a cruel lure
dangled by the ever-ironic fate. The pan-fried salmon (the confit
option listed on the menu was unavailable on that visit/150 yuan)
was distinctly average, as was the duck done two ways (120 yuan).
Both dishes were indeed "not bad." Proper food for grown-ups tired
of tucking into the latest fad this city conjures every few
seconds.
Someone commented that the portions were too big - the sizes
were indeed generous but the main issue was that the body was
content to halt intake when sustenance was achieved in lieu of
frills.
Dessert was similar - the tarte tatin (55 yuan) impossible to
devour alone. The caramelized apple pie was ruggedly delicious,
with no wastage on unnecessary delicateness.
Service was impeccable throughout the evening which simply
enhanced the dining experience on the whole. There was no
perfection to be found at Hamilton House, yet there was no sense of
hearts shattering upon leaving. The quest continues, and time and
again explorers will return to this outpost to recharge and
remember why they were searching in the first place.
Address: 137 Fuzhou Rd
Tel: 021-6321-0586
(Shanghai Daily January 25, 2008)