Exploring the Borderlands at Mistral Kitchen

​The room itself--all hard angles, brushed steel, chrome, and polished black lacquer--ought to be as cold and intimidating as a horror-show surgical theatre. But it's not, due to the perfectly placed touches of natural wood and soft, brown leather; because of an artful curve in an unexpected place, a delicate play of light across wineglasses on an unclothed table. The food should be precise and constrained in a room like this, twisted and tortured to fit the severe whims of a man who would serve dinner across welded steel. But it's not, and modernist gadgetry and border-hopping fusions aside, comes off all the more rustic and plain for the juxtaposition of eating cauliflower soup or simple bowls of Manilla clams and chorizo in a white wine beurre blanc on the bridge of Captain Nemo's Nautilus. Service in a place like this ought to be formal and stiff. But instead it's rather casual and amusing.

Like later in the evening, when my waitress, rather than asking me how I liked my dinner, simply shot me a look from the other end of the bar, raised a questioning eyebrow and, when I smiled, barked out, "I know, right!" and clapped her hands delightedly--a conversation had with the air.

This was Mistral Kitchen--part restaurant, part living work of art; all high-tech gadgetry and steampunk design, warm and cold at the same time, hard and soft, precise but casual. It was strange that one discreet space could be so many different things at once but, somehow, it worked.

I had brilliantly modern food there. I had unusually sourced rustic food. I had the first indisputably great meal I've had since coming to Seattle and, somewhat surprisingly, I had fun every time I stepped through the doors.

And you, dear readers, will get to read all about it tomorrow when the new issue hits the stands. It was a great week, full of science fiction short ribs, freaked-out cokeheads and charcuterie. I can't wait to tell you all about it.