Relationships: They run their wayward yet predictable course, intoxication to routine to disillusion. In only an exceptional few does the initial romance never die but smolder piquantly, dangerously on.
Ponti Seafood Grill 3014 Third N, 284-3000 lunch Mon-Fri 11:30am-2:30pm, dinner 5-11pm; Sat 5-11pm; Sun brunch 10am-2:30pm, dinner 5-10pm AE, DC, MC, V; full bar
The Lady Friend and I have this kind of attachment to Ponti. The very approach, with a whitewashed funeral home looming above, is part of the appeal, murmuring, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow. . . .” Then there’s the snug bar; the terrace in summer; the big dining room for all seasons, brimming with soft northern daylight, peach-toned and intimate by evening. . . .
Such passionate commitment has a downside. One tends to forget that Ponti is not a state of mind but a restaurant, and as such can’t be expected to appreciate how personally its admirers take any lapse from perfection.
One glum winter night not so long ago was particularly testing. The romantic ship canal view was lost in the murk; a party of 12 near our table for two and an even more boisterous assembly in an offstage banquet facility competed to fill the room with discord. There was confusion over the wine and misunderstanding over our order.
In consequence, our dinner, as it fitfully appeared, seemed somehow wanting. The appetizers of smoked black cod ($9.95) and pan-roasted scallops with vegetable garnish ($12.95), though as always impeccable in composition and presentation, failed to lift the meal from the launching pad. Our main dishes, centered on mahi mahi ($21.95) and Chilean sea bass ($25.99), felt listless and heavy. We left, replete yet unsatisfied, $160 poorer, and wondering if Ponti, after all our emotional investment, was after all just another little gold digger like all the rest.
Readers deep in the dining-out bag will long ago have spotted what’s wrong with this picture. “Come, come, my friend,” they might say, throwing a comforting, if metaphorical, arm round my shoulder: “You have fallen victim to a common foodie fallacy. You have begun to think of a beloved eatery as a fair mistress, sitting pensively by the phone awaiting your call, rapturous with delight when you condescend to spend a few hours with her. But she is not your mistress; she is a courtesan, professionally compelled to lavish her charms on all who can afford them.
“You are suffering from jealousy, my friend. You saw those noisy parties having such an uncritical good time as rivals for your favorite’s attentions, and resented the kitchen and staff’s attending to them instead of concentrating entirely on pleasing you. Your pique colored the whole experience, turning the very food bland on the palate.”
“You think?” I might reply. “You may be right.”
“Trust me, I am. Try another visit when things are not so harried, and love will blaze anew—or the delightful illusion thereof.”
And so it proved to be. The Lady Friend and I took advantage of a wan late Wednesday morning to return to Ponti. Only one other couple was seated when we arrived, and only a few more took their seats while we lingered—from the look of them serious eaters all.
Our server was personable and attentive, deftly turning our rejection of alcohol into an order for lemonade-laced iced tea ($2). An appetizer platter of spicy “barbecued” gulf prawns ($10.95) got the meal started with a bang. A cup of thick, fragrant tomato-basil soup ($5.50) and a classically simple salad dressed with blue cheese and nutmeats ($4.50) raised expectations for the main dishes to come without threatening to take the edge off their appreciation.
They did not disappoint; indeed, they exceeded all expectation. I cannot imagine where Ponti’s seafood buyer finds halibut as fresh and aromatic as that I tasted that day. It would have been superb served naked with a dash of salt and pepper. Baked to moist perfection on a bed of spicy black beans and a crunchy cornmeal cake, it was an absurd steal at $14.50.
Even more so was my companion’s filet of king salmon ($13.95), its mellow succulence only enhanced by its mole-like robe of lime-zested sweet red chilies. We departed, as one should depart from a weekday luncheon, ready to face the rigors of the afternoon but with secret stars in our eyes.
Although once more besotted with the place, I must confess that Ponti is not perfect. The management’s insistence on having no printed list of wines by the glass, relying instead on the waitstaff’s imperfect memories and diction, is excessively irritating, as is that waitstaff’s compulsive (and apparently compulsory) queries of “how is everything?” Everything is just fine, thank you, and when it isn’t, you may be sure you’ll hear from me soon enough.
