Restaurant Review - Continental congress
The crowds still gather at Pano’s & Paul’s for solid food and high glamour
“I thought they renovated this place,” my friend remarks when I greet her in the bar at Pano’s & Paul’s. It’s been more than 15 years since she and her husband, both Atlanta natives, have eaten here, and she’s struggling to discern the differences in decor. Less velvet and gilt?
Don’t ask me. I’ve somehow managed to make it seven years in this city without ever eating at Pano’s & Paul’s. And though I know this restaurant did go through a remodeling in November 1999, I’m still taken aback by the blatantly anachronistic look of the place — and how amazingly well it works.
The same, happily, can be said for much of the food. The service? We’ll get to that later.
Owner Pano Karatassos and the Bill Johnson Studio strived to evoke bygone Hollywood in the refashioning of the Buckhead Life Restaurant Group’s flagship restaurant. They nailed it. I feel like an extra in a scene from Chinatown or L.A. Confidential as I soak in the delicious details: bronze silk curtains; the art deco paneling around the top of the bar; the circular theme that runs through the main dining room, from the light fixtures over the candy red booths to the sunburst pattern of wooden panels emanating from the center of the room.
The bar even smells like vintage Los Angeles restaurants before the California smoking bans took effect: a whiff of grit amid the shadowy glamour.
And the crowd melds right into the look. Ever play that game where you make up stories about the lives of the people sitting nearby you? The clientele is a wonderland for your imagination: Why do those two men sitting together look so uneasy? Who’s the tough, Scotch-swilling broad eyeing malevolently across the room? Does that woman with the zoned-out husband know her wig is askew?
Perhaps she doesn’t care because she’s enjoying her lobster bisque so much. Founding chef Paul Albrecht left the restaurant in 1998 (he’s cooking at Spice in Midtown these days), but the spirit of the kitchen, currently under the direction of Gary Donlick, remains unchanged. Pano’s & Paul’s opened in 1979, when Continental cuisine ruled the kitchens of America’s finer dining establishments. And even though the C-word is a no-no these days, it can be a pleasure to chow down memory lane when the food is prepared with the level of integrity it is here. Besides, Pano’s has always weaved modern ideas among the classics on the menu. It’s a savvy philosophy that has kept this restaurant consistently relevant.
I spy dishes I haven’t tried in years. Steak in peppercorn sauce? Bring it on. A supple cut of filet mignon is glazed with brandy-pepper sauce and crowned with mushroom ragout studded with braised shallots. It tastes of masculine luxury, harkening back to the time when France still dictated our meats be gussied up with long-reduced sauces. Translucent slices of smoked salmon are carved tableside, adorned with minced onions and capers and paired with a fluffy blini. My father always ordered this staple at Peerce’s Plantation, our special-occasion restaurant in Baltimore when I was growing up. He’d love this version.
My brother and I always went for the lobster bisque at Peerce’s. Maybe it’s me, but lobster bisque seems to disappoint in today’s restaurants, as though nobody takes it seriously anymore. But they still do at Pano’s. The first thing that hits you is the texture — not too thin, not too thick, but as voluptuously silken as Anita Baker’s voice. Then you sense the toasty note in the soup, a subtle aftereffect of nutmeg. Go ahead and splurge on the generous addition of Maine lobster meat piled into the center of the bowl.
I wish I enjoyed the restaurant’s signature dish, deep-fried lobster tail, as much as the bisque. Perhaps I chose it on an off night, but the whopper of a tail requires serious chewing. For an instant, between the breading and the lobster’s honey-mustard dipping sauce, I thought I was at Houlihan’s. I’ll stick with the drawn butter. But still. Forty bucks for this critter and a pusillanimous hillock of vegetables? I don’t get the appeal.
If I want opulence from the sea, I’ll go for the Dover sole instead. Filleted tableside (a contrivance, really, since it’s often done across the room), its mild nature, accented with brown butter and fried capers, reminds you why this fish survived the Continental crash to become an enduring classic.
Donlick also flashes some impressive modern fillips in the seafood department. A gorgeous piece of halibut is topped with shrimp (thank you for not leaving the “decorative” tails on) and served with fava beans and corn. Lovely. And what’s this with the grouper? Garlic froth? How ... now. It brings out the sweetness in the fish, as does a clever sliver of smoked eggplant.
The accompaniments are not consistently sharp, however. A jammy rhubarb compote is way too sweet to benefit a nicely seared portion of foie gras. And a collage of wonderfully ripe heirloom tomatoes is nearly undone by bizarre cheese balls that taste like frozen mozzarella sticks. A couple dollops of goat cheese would serve the tomatoes much more effectively.
Dessert erases any slip-up in the food you might have encountered. Donlick and his pastry chef, Christa Grolemund, know how to leave customers cooing. An almond clafouti — its warm, nutty texture somewhere between a pancake and a souffle — reduces me to ecstatic mumbling, especially since it is graced with ripe slices of peach. A simple fig tart, a mascarpone mousse with chocolate-orange cake and espresso sauce, and a special “ice box” cheesecake with blueberries embedded in the creaminess are each also stellar.
I wish dessert could also erase my grouses about the service. It can’t. Service is tricky in old-timers like Pano’s & Paul’s. Diners today expect more warmth and familiarity from a server, even in fine dining. I don’t want someone to flounce up to the table and announce their name and tell me they’ll be taking care of me. But I want to feel taken care of nonetheless. And I hope my server acts like a human, not like a pretentious robot.
Consider the following exchange with a waiter whilst searching for an interesting bottle of French white:
“Have you tried this Pouilly Fuisse?” I ask.
“I have,” responds our server with the Madonna-like British accent and the arched eyebrow. We look at each other for a moment.
“Um, how is it?”
“I’ve had better.”
Silence. Will he make another suggestion? Guess not.
“OK, well ... how’s this Chablis instead?”
He rolls his eyes. “Not a great deal of body.”
I scan the wine list frantically. “What about this Meursault?”
“It’s one of my favorites,” he deadpans.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Great, fine, we’ll take it.”
Yeah, it was indeed an excellent, complex wine — but c’mon! Could you step up to the plate and help a brother out? (By the way, the wine list could use some new life in it: You need to spend a pretty penny to get something unusual that you can’t pick up at the grocery store for one-third of the price.)
Perhaps most customers are impervious or amused by the service. The place is packed even on weekdays. It is hard to hold a grudge in this finely tuned room. As I drift out into the evening and into the parking lot of the jarring strip mall in which this elegant, 25-year-old institution is located, I find my thoughts linger contentedly on lobster bisque and almond clafouti. Not arrogant servers.