There's more than beef to this steakhouse (couscous, anyone?)
Type: American
Prices: Appetizers and salads, $8-$14; steaks, $25-$29; other entrees, $21-$34; sides, $5-$7; desserts, $8.
Good choices: Appetizers: porcini risotto; pan-fried crab cake; warm roasted duck salad. Entrees: wood grilled rack of lamb; cedar-planked salmon; New York sirloin. Desserts: the whole menu.
Hours: Dinner only, Mon.- Thurs. 5:30 p.m.-10:30 p.m., Fri.-Sat. 5:30 p.m.-11 p.m., Sunday 5:30 p.m.-10 p.m. Bar and lounge open during the week at 4:30 p.m.
Credit cards: All major credit cards.
Access: Handicapped access through a separate entrance.
GRILL 23 & BAR
161 Berkeley St., Boston
(617) 542-2255
Restaurant reviewed 01/08/98 by Brian McGory
Even the word - steak - evokes a straightforward simplicity, an unencumbered charm. Certainly nothing like the pronunciational minefield of, say, foie gras, or the unapologetic deceit of sweetbreads, which, best as anyone can tell, are neither sweet nor made of bread.
Even better, you dine on steak, at least good steak, not in some cutely named trattoria or bistro, but in a steakhouse - a place where the martinis are cold, the cigars are fat, and the nightly special, the prime rib of beef, hasn't varied since the Ford administration.
In fact, in an era when presentation seems to be the buzzword of the best restaurants, there may be nothing so beautiful in all of gastronomy as a simple dry-aged New York sirloin, sitting unadorned on a white plate, still sizzling in a pool of its own juices, waiting for a knife to pierce the charred edges and smoothly expose a center of reddish pink.
Which brings us to Grill 23 & Bar on the fringes of Boston's Back Bay, and not because it adheres to these time-tried mores, but precisely because it contradicts them, in ways that often succeed and sometimes fail.
Step inside Grill 23, off the lonely stretch of Berkeley Street on which it sits, and you are met with a celebration of the moment - happy barflies; serious waiters in starched, white coats; a cavernous, sunken dining room; stone columns that soar upwards of 30 feet to a frescoed ceiling. Oh, and noise.
The noise, actually, is everywhere, bouncing off the tall windows, rising up off the hardwood floors, echoing in the space above. This is a festive restaurant, not a particularly clubby one, and certainly not one conducive to business or romance, or the business of romance.
On Boston's growing roster of steakhouses, the Capital Grille may have the most traditional environs, with leather banquettes sprinkled among a series of hushed rooms. Morton's, far and away, has the best beef. The Palm has the most recognized name. And the rehabilitated, renamed Oak Room may have the grandest intentions. But it is Grill 23, a Boston original, that has the most personality.
Take, for example, its most un-steakhouse of menus. Yes, there are what the management describes as the ``grill classics,'' the New York sirloin, the steak au poivre, and the filet mignon. But a search for the traditional porterhouse, a staple of virtually any self-respecting steakhouse, was made in vain. Stunningly, they don't offer one, an egregious lapse.
Rather, their menu features a changing list of specials that would make a cattleman cry, offerings such as cedar-planked salmon, roast breast of duck with a peppered quince relish, and, of course, a sauteed farm-raised arctic char with Israeli couscous. Their signature meat: a rotisserie tenderloin of beef, sliced and fanned across the plate, drenched in a port wine sauce, served with mashed potatos heavy with roquefort cheese. A typical three-course dinner here, with a reasonable wine, can easily run upwards of $80 per person.
On our first visit, our group of men was left waiting for a table for close to half an hour without apology, as if our time was irrelevant. Actually, maybe it was, but that shouldn't be the issue. After mingling at the fashionable bar among the martini and cigar set, we were led down a few stairs into the dining room, a place that oozed activity and importance, a place that had the feeling of the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, if they served food there.
Service here is efficient and somewhat aloof, designed to be urbane, to make the food the focus. On that first night, however, its unintrusive nature bordered on indifference. An otherwise delightful New York sirloin was cooked medium rather than medium rare, a forgivable sin that a good waiter should have noticed on his own. This waiter, though, never gave the beef a look or inquired of our satisfaction. Later, when a fellow diner knocked over a glass of cabernet, our waiter never made a move to clean up the mess or even cover the stain in a starched napkin.
Service improved markedly on a subsequent visit, so much so that when one companion only picked at her perfectly fine sea bass, the waiter told her quietly, ``I'll get you anything else you want.'' Later, he indulged our desire for port and cigars long after other patrons had left.
Of the food, appetizers were universally hailed, particularly the porcini risotto and the pan-fried crab cake, along with the gingered pumpkin soup. The steak tartare was a bit peppery for one diner's liking; even the plate was sprinkled in pepper. We've had better calamari, but the lobster nicoise salad was an interesting and worthy option.
For the main event, the signature tenderloin was good, but not as good as we had remembered it in times gone by. The heavier-than-expected sauce seemed to overwhelm the beef, which was cooked more rare than we had requested. The wood-grilled rack of lamb was the hit of the night, a massive portion so soft it almost fell off the bone. As mentioned above, the New York sirloin, smoky on the outside, flavorful within, was overcooked the first night. The next time in, one diner said the taste seemed restrained, unable to overcome the charred exterior. Another said it was good, but fell short of great. The wonderful hash browns, served as a side, made even the best dishes seem better.
The pan-seared swordfish, billed as having a crispy quinoa-roasted olive crust, was a disappointment. It was dry and flavorless, tasting more of some amorphous whitefish than a swordfish. When we gave it a second try, the results did not change.
The wine list is limited but interesting, obnoxiously short on options for less than $40, but containing many unusual boutique wines in the middle, like the Etude pinot noir at $58, and the 1995 Robert Pecota cabernet at $60. The rich 1987 Silver Oak cabernet that seemed a deal at $78.
Dessert brought the final and most pleasant surprise. No mere wedge of cheesecake or bread pudding here. Rather, some confectionary mastermind had assembled a list that included a wondrous apple tart, served warm with a small bulb of ice cream, a rich toffee creme brulee, and a brownie sundae with homemade marshmallow so good that the driving desire was to lay on the plate beside it.
And in an unexpected benefit, at cigar time, the ceilings are so high, and a trio of air purifiers so strong, that the restaurant remains remarkably free of the typical steakhouse smoke - a blessing even for cigar aficionados.
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