Such attention to detail stretches through the kitchen, some of it shining through this teaser of an Amuse Bouche. A crunchy, earthy buckwheat cigar houses a velvety black bean puree in creme fraiche, sprinkled with a subtle matcha sandstorm.
The menu actually looked too good to do the tasting...Wow, that has never happened before.
A silvery Foie Gras melts atop a perfect slip of grainy cornbread, confirming the correctness of my choice, and the corn-pudding-blackberry-compote literally takes my breath away.
Oysters rest on a shivering bed of ice, only to spring to life under a dash of red wine mignonette.
The Steak Tartare is wagyu, a foolproof, fail-proof cut, symbol of a chef who won't risk his career on anything inferior. This wagyu is like no wagyu I've ever had. Beefy savor swells when surrounded by stone ground mustard, and there is a fresh, raw egg yolk that glues it all together.
From raw to cooked, the Filet Mignon is a logical, seamless transition. The medium-medium-rare is cooked to order, and the meat has aged better than an Asian grandma. The sideshow of juicy morel and chanterelle mushrooms in spinach puree could be a dish of its own.
The Dry-Aged Duck is aged like a steak, and those 28 days enhance the flavor 28 thousand times over. The dark breast weighs heavy and gamey, with a bold bang of cellar smoke. It sinks like a rock, a meteoric flavor-feast. The skin is the best part, crispy and chewy with the texture of a dried pork-skin leather. The duck could easily be a standalone dish, but holy moly, what a mole! The sweet beet mole spreads luxuriously and briefly across the tongue, until unexpectedly, a hot flash of spice dances staccato, a cha-cha that frames the flavors from a slightly different angle.
The pleasure was too much, but alas, there was one more course. In a day and age when restaurant owners eschew the tradition of dessert for flashier apps and mains, the Grand Marnier Soufflé stands fluffy as a cumulus cloud; an eggy, melty delight, sweetened by the drizzle of creme anglaise.
To my dismay, my evening ends. But there is parting gift to soften my sadness. A Smoked S'more Macaron smolders with campfire coals, and an Earl Grey Macaron is a light sip of something sweet.
My car is already waiting when I push back my chair for a reluctant departure. As I drive away, I reflect on my experience at Canlis. I think about how this restaurant so perfectly captures the spirit of Seattle and bottles it into one exquisite meal. Seattle is all about vision, and Canlis is the Chihuly of cuisine. The beauty of one man's vision brought to life, the power of a dream on a plate.
Seattle, you are one fantastic city. Until next time, Canlis... because I will make sure I see you again.
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