Wine for Regularians

Now, here’s a food review with a twist: with a look into the belly of the whale (the kitchen) during the assemblage of my food. And this is not Mongolian or Japanese, so don’t get on the stool of authority. This is French. This is Mirepoix.

The circumstances that brought me here this night didn’t warn me that it would turn into work. That it’d become a review I would syndicate elsewhere. But what is one to do when faced with the chance to redeem one’s Cub Scout training points and do a good turn? Well, one does justice to a splendid restaurant keen on getting onto a bigger map than up to this point. Restaurant Mirepoix is a study in process, and it is indeed a haven for Regularians in the sense that the experience is all about flavors and impressions rather than posture and post-dated checks. It’s affordable, adventurous and accessible. I’d wager that 99% of its clientele need to have menu items identified and explained at least once, yet the staff do so in a warm and inviting manner that precludes the need for embarrassment. With savvy at the helm and style at the rudder, the overall roster of talent here present themselves as articulate yet humble.

This is the spot for romance of a casual sort. Denim’s fine – just like at home, when one has cooked for hours to woo one’s lover, boo or soulmate. The space is like a den yet done up in white linens, and it’s situated in a simple, early-1900′s house bedecked with a porch that hits you like a hug.

I sat at the bar, snug as a bug, with direct views of the dining room and the kitchen – a bastion of process. Three chefs whipped up tiny bits of beautiful (not toy) food, in many cases rendered as reductions of a greater whole. Many entrees here remind me of collections of parts, like when I admire a layout of tools and hardware I’m about to build into something. Every component has its merit and it’s nice to have a look before that singularity is gone, to reflect with gratitude what that component is going to become. Gorgeous, not unlike the pupa-butterfly meditation if you look at it right.

Colors, consistencies, temperatures…everything dances around like synchronized swimmers or wildflowers propagating in time-lapse (only without the manipulative music and the pharmaceutical messaging). And the kitchen and logistical staff operated like perfect traffic, or ballroom dancers, or all aspects of the human circulatory system. Walk, pause, wait, proceed, drizzle, reach – with nary the rattle of or clack of ramekin or plate. The whole choreography from my viewpoint was operationally stupendous, taking me back to assembly line layouts and queueing theories from business school.

The foods and wines were like a Socratic sequence. Oboes & tympani, intrigue & resolution, cool blue lights & wispy scrims…kabuki…2-hour sets of Sasha Digweed…even Jerry Garcia sans sloppiness. A superlative head trip. mmm….garlic, poppy seeds, lavendar, goat cheese, New York steak, apple shreds, Moscato d’Asti, black pepper, Death & Taxes stout beer, rosemary flowers, foie gras (yep. I ate it but didn’t brag – read theRegularian bylaws before flaming me), cab franc, fava beans, lemon foam (they like to foam things here), black trumpets, Sancerre, tempura-battered egg yolks, sorrel, truffles, creamed potatoes, bacon, parsley…..Just picture all of the brainiest combinations of excellent, thoughtfully procured flavors. Make these the tools of a half-dozen artists that pour their souls into every moment. This was it. And again, I saw it all happen in the kitchen, like a round of auditions. You’d have thought I was a food critic with a name. These chefs were parallel to therapists, massaging and asking for feedback or administering essential oils and intuitively reading what should be the next scent sequence for full energy movement. Mirepoix remains my favorite Sonoma County restaurant because it’s such a sensuous trip.

With all of this going for it, Mirepoix’s pricing defies logic. You cannot get this kind of dining anywhere with such a light impact on the pocketbook. Make it a quiet party for the soul. Make a reservation (at 30 seats, it fills up, and the wise call two weeks ahead). Have a sensational night out, and if your 4th can’t make it, ping me because I’m just down the street and am always down to pinch hit for absent dinner guests – unless you expect me to tell funny stories.