A great deal of food is simply meant to be eaten in quantity. No one ever wants to stop after a couple of chocolate truffles. And I have yet to see someone put down a bag of chips after just taking a single one. Actually, I lie. I did that once, when I found out that the chips were not potato at all, but some sinister science experiment called Terra Chips, where multi-colored strips of cardboard are flash-fried, salted and served as “vegetable chips.” But, in general, you get the picture.
There are, however, some exceptions. Which is why shelling out $42 for anything less than a week’s supply of sole meunière may seem a little steep. A week of Pinocchio’s pizza, sure. A gigantic box of Nestlé Crunch ice cream bars, you bet. But I don’t want sole meunière for a week. It is a dish of peerless simplicity and extravagance—delicate Dover sole pan-fried and served in a puddle of butter, lemon juice and parsley—that is clearly meant to be enjoyed only as an occasional treat. I didn’t regret my decision to splurge for a second. Mistral’s sole was superb: served on a bed of spinach, each mouthful was delicate and flavorful. It was as close as any dish could come to perfection.
The rest of the meal wasn’t half-bad, either. I must be honest: in a clear violation of the rules of objective reviewing, I went to Mistral predisposed to loathe it. On the way there, I licked my lips—but only in anticipation of the spiteful review I would write. So much to mock, so little time. It’s trendy, I thought, so bring on the inflated prices, a noisy atmosphere and the snotty staff. Well, Mistral seems to have found a way around those standard criticisms: serve wonderful food—because, let’s be honest, it damn well has to be wonderful at those prices—in a laid-back environment staffed by friendly employees. If only other supposedly hip restaurants would adopt Mistral’s formula.
Mistral is located in Boston’s South End, a very short walk from the more familiar confines of Back Bay. The atmosphere is pared-down and relaxed, with a large, uncluttered rectangular dining room that has nothing to distract diners from their plates. This isn’t a bad thing, as the food is simply superb. To begin, small, round loaves of crusty bread are served with salty butter as well as a scoop of Mistral’s signature hummus, made with coarsely ground chickpeas, plenty of lemon and just a hint of garlic. The only challenge is not consuming your fill before perusing the menu or ordering from the extensive and expensive wine list.
Those who can restrain themselves up front, however, will be well-rewarded. For appetizers, escargots are prepared in the traditional way—drenched in garlic butter and accompanied with bread for dipping in the addictive sauce. “Sushi grade” tuna tartare is better than any tuna I have yet found in Boston’s Japanese restaurants. Each mouthful is silky smooth, rich but subtle. The ubiquitous Caesar Salad makes an appearance (of course), but the man who ordered it—a self-proclaimed Caesar maven—declared Mistral’s among the all time best for its crunchy croutons, not-too-tangy dressing and crisp lettuce.
A similar attention to raw ingredients is shown in the main courses. Salmon and two different cuts of steak— sirloin and tenderloin—were both simply grilled to showcase the quality of fish and meat. Needless to say, all were excellent, set off with unobtrusive side dishes and sauces that allowed the excellent entree to speak for itself. Unlike in some restaurants, Mistral’s courses were unencumbered by the excessive prodding of some star chef, wowed by his own (dubious) brilliance. And that, after all, is what truly fine dining is all about.
I can’t wait to return to Mistral. And when I make good on my Harvard education—and marry a Beacon Hill-based heiress—I’ll consider doing just that. In the meantime, though, I’ll be dining off the memory of that sole for quite some time. Well, it beats Terra Chips.
