food. according to me.

Passionfish Tasting Notes (with frowny face)

I can't leave that Passionfish meal alone.

I wanted to let Dad's glowing review cover the evening. I wanted to never write anything shy of a rave for my favorite Pacific Grove eatery. Goshdarnit.

This is why a body can't review a restaurant based on one night, one meal. This is why real critics go over and over - different nights, different service, different cooks. This is why you can't really trust me.

My bouillabaisse in "Spicy Caribbean Broth" made me kind of sad. There, I said it. I've had the dish before - it's a red bell pepper and coconut milk based kind of thing, sometimes heavy with cilantro. And when they do it right, geepers, it's great. It's this perfect balance of spicy and sweet, creamy but light on the tongue. It's perky and fun but quiets down enough so that you can stil taste the fishiness of the items swimming in it. When it's good, I soak up the last drops with their warm cibatta. Whipped butter's for suckers.

It was not good this last December 23. It was flat. It was boring. It just lay there. The bouillabaisse - a dish with such possibility, so many promises and potential thrills - was having a profoundly bad night. The chunks of fish were just that: chunks, waiting to be goosed by this flop of a sauce. But the sauce was asleep on the job. Perhaps knowing this, someone put cubes of carrot and potato in the bowl (the underlip smeared with sauce), maybe to serve as a distraction. In abrupt contrast to the soft fish, they were barely cooked and had to be chewed somewhat aggressively. The icing, so to speak, was four sprigs of an unidentified green mass drowning in the sauce. I assume this was meant to be garnish but it got waterlogged somehow. I would have used cilantro, but maybe the kitchen ran out at the late, late hour of six p.m. em>Maybe the cook doesn't know cilantro from watercress or peashoot or whatever tasteless, stringy gob of greenery I tried - and failed, utterly - to get into my mouth without dribbling that sad "spicy" broth on my chin.

Such a crime; such a needless, senseless, shameful crime to let this potential exit the kitchen unrealized. For the majority of my meal, I sat nine feet away from the Executive Chef who stood at the Host's station, glad-handing outgoing patrons. Chef Walter, you should have been lording over your empire in the back of the house, teaching your line cooks or your point guy about picking leaves off of stems for garnish. They should know that if the menu reads "spicy," the thing ought to taste, well, warm. There´s not a lot of wiggle room in that adjective, you know. And I know that you have the formula for a kick-ass "spicy Caribbean broth" rattling around in your head somewhere. The execution failed. Failed.

I can't even say that the kitchen was having a bad night. It wasn't. The salmon served across the table from me seemed fine and when I left Cali, Dad was still talking about those scallops. Our appetizers, the crab cake and BBQ'ed prawns were their usual exquisite selves. There was no panic in the air; no expletives emanating from the kitchen or the dishpit.

What does one do when an old friend, which is indeed how I have come to think of Passionfish, disappoints one so? Since I first "discovered" it in 2001, I've had many more amazing and wonderful meals there than I have had letdowns. The very first thing I ate there - a simple grilled halibut with sugar snap peas over scallion rice - actually made me cry. Everything about it was perfect. It was stunning, and I hadn't seen it coming, hadn't expected a literally flawless plate.

I will forgive Ted and his gang this (regrettable, embarrassing) oversight. I will surely drop in for a meal the very next time I am in the neighborhood. I'll just make sure to have the duck confit.