Click: East Side Cafe of Austin

It is a common enough poetic conceit that the dog dreaming on the hearth sees himself a wolf, that the prowling housecat dreams tiger dreams, that even we common mortals of clay dream ourselves soaring as angels.  If restaurants are able to dream, and if they ever closed to catch a nap, then, all the little Kerby Lanes surely dream of being the East Side Cafe.

Despite being located in the same funereal neighborhood as Hoover’s  — directly across the street from it, in fact — the East Side Cafe succeeds in drawing the visitor into its own milieu right from the parking lot, where one steps out between the restaurant itself and the associated cute little garden shop, with a view across at the celebrated garden itself and a yard full of chickens.

The interior of the restaurant is entirely residential in appearance, a collection of small cozy dining rooms lined with bookshelves and, in the room where we sat, a brick fireplace supporting the daily special chalkboards.  The menus display photographs on the front covers of the latest new additions or recent produce in the actual garden outside, proud as parents showing off pictures of their progeny.

And as with new parents, it is impossible for a sentient being to stay in the presence of East Side Cafe without being reminded, several times through various media, that their menu revolves around the fresh output of their actual garden outside, and it may be tempting for a minute or two to find this pride of produce a bit pretentious — but then the food arrives and justifies it entirely, even perhaps makes it seem humble.

It is, in short, damn good food.

But ‘in short’ is hardly our stock in trade here at the Bisque, so to elaborate: we began with an appetizer of Baked Brie with Apple Chutney, a generous wedge of gooey cheese more than adequate for two, the chutney an ideal complement, and violating the laws of physics that usually seem to govern this sort of dish, it arrived with exactly the right number of toasted bagel chips to actually match the amount of cheese.

James’ Dad had the Plat d’Crudities, a large platter of rabbit food, while I opted for a couple of dishes featuring combinations I would never have thought of:  Smoked Salmon Ravioli with a side of Chipotle Pecan Soup.  The soup, unlike many chipotle-based food items to be found in Texas, focused more on the smoky flavor of the peppers than on searing the tongue with capsacin, with a thick pureed texture suitable to a pasta sauce as much as a dish in itself.

The ravioli were roughly the size of hubcaps, and the sauce so finely tuned to complement the smoked salmon as to avoid entirely the moment of deep unease I usually hit midway through any cream-sauced seafood dish, when the stomach suddenly realizes that it is loading up on both milk and fish at the same time, even as the tongue is insisting that the rest of the serving will be joining it soon.

And afterwards, there was that which my cohort would weep should I omit to mention, to wit pie.  Lime Pie in my case, and oh me, oh my.  It tasted exactly like I always hope a Key-lime pie will but they so rarely do, a miraculous contradiction, simultaneously cheesecake-rich and sherbet-light.  The charm of the dish was only enhanced by the use of actual cream, whipped, rather than the fluffy white emulsion sprayed from a can, and the garnish of two small pink flowers which I hope were intended as edible, since I ate one.

Charm, authenticity, amazing food and — indeed — prompt refills on the hibiscus-mint iced tea: we need to start visiting some more notably mediocre or even bad eateries, or my ratings of five humorously chosen items out of five will stop having any meaning.

But there it is anyway: five garden-fresh radishes out of five, and only a passing warning that the prices certainly reflect the establishment’s awareness of its own value.