Restaurant Review - Modern maturity
Restaurant Eugene creates a swinging scene for the senior set
“So, spill. How was it?”
I’m dining with a close friend at Restaurant Eugene, swapping dirt on our love lives. Most of our conversation would be bleeped off prime time networks. The hostess has sequestered us to a corner table in a cramped little area off the bar, away from the main dining room. Normally, I’d want to be seated in the center of the action. But the restaurant is quieter than most in Buckhead, and we’re alone in this section, so we’re glad for the privacy.
“OK,” asks my friend, as he leans in. “I know this is a little graphic, but have you ever ... ?”
We both suddenly look up. The perky hostess is seating an older man and his octogenarian mother, who has impeccable posture, right beside us. They both smile and nod to us politely. We respectfully nod back.
Conversation over. Drat.
My chum sits up in his chair and cranes his neck to peer around the room. “Wait a minute,” he whispers. “Are we the only people in this restaurant under 60?”
That is perhaps an exaggeration, though the seasoned age of Restaurant Eugene’s core clientele does stand out prominently. It makes a pronounced statement, more than anything, about youth-oriented Atlanta. In cities like Boston, Chicago and New York, there are numerous respected restaurants that cater to a mature set. Here? You’re hard-put to find a swanky new spot that values low decibels and proper dinner attire.
But that’s exactly what Restaurant Eugene is all about. Chef/owner Linton Hopkins grew up not far from his new venture, in the familial, well-to-do Brookwood Hills neighborhood. Hopkins and his wife, Gina (who helps run the restaurant), moved back home from Washington, D.C., with their two children, and opened Eugene in April.
The Hopkinses have tuned their restaurant to the higher caliber of professionalism preferred by the genteel crowd that has made their venture an almost instant hit. A flattering, Gotham glow emanates from the modestly sized dining room. Dark, moody walls are offset by comfortable, rust-colored chairs and subtle white drapes. Bruce Wayne would approve of this space.
Maybe I’m an impatient whippersnapper, but each meal I’ve had here started with an off-kilter ritual. You are seated without being given a menu. The idea, I think, is that a server will quickly come to take your drink order, and you will decide on dinner after you’ve sipped on your well-made cocktail and settled in a bit.
Unfortunately, most servers are quite busy and we end up feeling ignored instead of unrushed. Just hand over the menus first thing, please.
Once you are finally incorporated into the restaurant’s rhythm, you feel pampered and esteemed. These folks can immediately pick up on which diners want reverence and which want camaraderie, navigating either preference with agility. And they’re admirably knowledgeable about the food they serve, which isn’t easy: The brief selection of New American offerings is constantly in flux.
I’ve always trusted chefs who proffer concise menus. It means they’re focused on what they do best. What Hopkins does best is gently coax the flavors out of carefully sourced ingredients, and surround them with supportive, seasonal accompaniments.
Slices of pan-roasted duck, for instance, are laid over a loose succotash of lady peas and corn. Rustic chunks of smoky applewood bacon temper the summery sweetness of a cloudy peach puree drizzled around the plate. Each bite evokes flourishing gardens and days of lingering light.
“Tower of crab” has become a signature dish, though one whose seasonal expiration date rapidly approaches. A meaty crabmeat is stacked on top of a crispy fried soft-shell crab, which in turn is placed over a pile of coleslaw, iconic in its vinegary creaminess. It’s an honest, rich dish that speaks eloquently of Hopkins’ time in the Delmarva region.
He gives a sly nod to the deeper South in his crispy squash blossoms, stuffed with grits and cheese — sometimes goat cheese, sometimes cheddar. Often they are offered as an appetizer, but the night I try them, they adorn a sultry grilled rib eye in a shallow moat of sauteed mushrooms. At $36, it’s a pricey splurge, though I don’t see anyone counting pennies or calories in this crowd.
If Hopkins has a weakness, it’s that he takes few risks in his compositions. Is he playing it safe for his audience? Maybe. A salad of Maine lobster topped with almonds and haricot vert courts old-fashioned blandness. Its ’70s ladies luncheon fare, saved by a bright timbre of lemon that binds the dish together. A gorgeous filet of striped bass is served in a mild gremolata broth that needs more oomph to its primary flavors of garlic, lemon and parsley.
Still, the man knows how to pull off luxury. A duo of seared duck foie gras and foie gras au torchon, plated with dabs of cherry jelly and dark chocolate sauce, makes liver lovers purr. One gargantuan bay prawn, the size of a small lobster tail, is fried in tempura and playfully paired with white peaches and proscuitto. “My goodness, what is that?” inquires the kindly mother at the next table, blinking in disbelief.
Hopkins has an astute comrade in pastry chef Michael Rudiger. Like Hopkins, he keeps his creations in season and accessible. His buttermilk-lemon tart has a crust that crumbles into buttery shards on contact, and warmed daubs of blueberry compote taste like August at the beach. His chocolate Bavarian is impeccably correct and too staid for me, but I crave his dinosaur plum soup. The spicy, intense pool of magenta has a healthy dollop of pale basil ice cream slowly melting in the center of the bowl. Basil ice cream? Absolutely: Its earthy licorice zing heightens the plum’s sweet-tartness and gives the dessert an adventurous edge. More gambles like this would be most welcome.
Then again, I don’t see many dissenting faces in the crowd. I see meticulously coiffed women with hefty rocks on their fingers cooing over heirloom tomato salads. I watch tanned men in sports coats slap each other on the back and rib one another over the afternoon’s golf game.
But don’t dismiss Restaurant Eugene simply as a country club lounge for the elder, moneyed set. It’s a refreshing departure to talk without a tonsil workout in a lovely room, savoring the work of a confident chef.
Put another way: When I wrangled a fiftysomething couple to join me for a visit, they glanced around the room and exclaimed, “Hey! You brought us here because you think we’re old and would blend in.”
“No,” I countered. “I brought you here because I know you’ll genuinely appreciate the food.”