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Storyville is more club than restaurant, but food shines

Dining Out

THIS STORY APPEARED IN

January 25, 2012|By Devra First

Fried Moon Shoal oysters in spiced cornmeal batter. (ARAM BOGHOSIAN FOR THE BOSTON…)

Having gotten the nod from Storyville’s bouncers, we are lounging on low, black leather couches. They line walls covered in flocked red paper. A server comes to take our drink order. “We are actually serving food tonight,’’ she informs us. Is this unusual? Maybe it’s unusual. No one else is eating. Then, there aren’t many people here. It’s a Thursday night, the music is bumping, but Storyville is half-empty. An employee emerges from the kitchen, chucks an empty black bin on the floor, and walks away. A bartender raises his eyebrows, laughs, and shrugs. “He’s crazy.’’

Then the food comes, and it’s dynamite, which is good because the clubby beats are drowning out our conversation. If we can’t talk, at least we can eat. Storyville is a nightclub with a serious chef - Louis DiBiccari, formerly of Sel de la Terre. He’s put together a succinct menu of small plates that riff on retro fare like duck a l’orange and green bean casserole.

Moon Shoal oysters are fried in a spiced cornmeal batter, crisp and greaseless, served in a basket. Surprises await within: There’s a bite of saffron-yellow potato, a sliver of sweet-hot pickled red jalapeno, a crisp piece of radish. The variety keeps you eating, as does a dipping sauce of thin, airy aioli flavored with kimchi. Are there better fried oysters in town? I can’t think of where.

DiBiccari schools your grandmother with his green bean casserole. It’s vegetables in name if not in function, rich with Landaff cheese. Creamy and tangy, it coats green beans, cauliflower florets, and meaty mushrooms that have been roasted in a pizza oven. Crisped shallots and fresh herbs lighten the flavors just a bit. I’m eating with a Midwestern friend reared on some semblance of this fare. I think he might cry with joy.

Duck a l’orange previously featured breast meat wrapped around duck confit; the kitchen recently began preparing it with duck leg instead. (DiBiccari also says he is shifting the menu toward dishes that are easier to share.) The meat is cured in bittersweet chocolate, sugar, and salt, deepening the flavor; orange-scented jus pools on the plate, and around the duck nestle almonds, macerated figs, and citrus segments. Stalks of broccoli rabe offset the fruit with just enough bitterness.

Steak Wellington takes perfectly medium-rare meat cut from the tender part of the shoulder, then encases it in a bland sleeve of pastry. The dough keeps sliding off anyway, and the steak is wonderful with a buttery pillow of potatoes Robuchon and deeply savory soy-roasted mushrooms.