Check out Line & Lariat's gorgeous, sunny dining room for yourself in this week's slideshow.
Troy Fields
Nothing like a wild boar chop paired with a Manhattan.
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Sometimes you visit a restaurant so good and so criminally unappreciated that you want to plant your flag and set up camp, waving down people in the streets as they walk by and encouraging them inside with a wild gleam in your eye. Line & Lariat is that restaurant for me, and I'm bivouacking there as long as it takes for people to come and try chef David Luna's fun, progressive Texan fare in one of the most beautiful dining rooms Houston has to offer.
Luna does everything right at Line & Lariat, mixing German and Mexican influences with cowboy and Cajun to run the gamut of Texas's culinary history in one smartly composed menu, but the patrons have yet to show up. And they're missing out.
They're missing out on his springy wild boar meatballs on a bed of skin-on mashed potatoes, a sour cream sauce providing a tangy punch against the buttery mash and the sweetly gamy meat. They're missing out on the tart zing of his homemade red cabbage — better, by far, than anything I've tried from King's Biergarten to Underbelly — that buffets the Königsberger Klopse (a reference to the Prussian meatballs that serve as Luna's inspiration for the dish) in a plush pile.
They're missing out on Gulf-caught red snapper whose white flesh parts with a tender touch, the barely crispy skin covered with a sweet tomato confit that's all the more striking against the snapper's bed of smoky field peas and bright, peppery snaps of pea shoots. They're missing shrimp and grits flecked with cheddar and bacon, the panko-breaded Gulf shrimp so fat and fresh that they remind me of uni in their ocean-bound sweetness.
They're even missing out on a bowl of gumbo so filled with okra, tender chicken, plump shrimp and smoky sausage in its mahogany roux that it rocketed to the top of my gumbo list in Houston (which is, admittedly, fairly short).
I'd be happy to keep these things to myself — these, and the impressive cocktails served at Line & Lariat's bar that's ringed with seats upholstered in cheeky cowhide — but it hardly seems fair, either to people seeking out the best food in the city or to Luna. A chef this talented deserves a larger audience, no matter how appreciative his small audience may be.
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I can't quite put my finger on why Line & Lariat is so quiet, but I have a few guesses. One is the fairly slow service, which could be why I don't often see theater-goers or business folks huddled into the oversized chairs and booths. But chief among the reasons is the stink of failure: The space has already hosted two big-name restaurants that flamed out in quick succession.
Bank, which anchored the newly refurbished Hotel Icon when it opened in 2004, had the pedigree to match the stunning, gold-hued, two-story dining room that seemed even taller thanks to elegant Doric columns and yards of heavy silk draperies that flowed down from the ceilings. Its executive chef was superstar Jean-Georges Vongerichten, who left most of the day-to-day work to chef de cuisine Bryan Caswell. Vongerichten and Caswell departed Bank in 2007 — Caswell to open Reef, now his flagship restaurant — and the restaurant underwent a makeover, emerging as Voice.
As with Bank, Voice had a noteworthy chef — the talented Michael Kramer — and a menu that pushed boundaries in the best of ways. Bank had dishes such as chile tapioca pudding; Voice had a play on fish and chips that were actually "sushi nachos," as former Houston Press food critic Robb Walsh memorably noted in his review of Voice in 2008. But both Bank and Voice failed to draw large enough crowds to last. Walsh indicated that the prices at both restaurants were a problem, while others have consistently balked at downtown parking issues. I always believed that more straightforward food would play better to both downtown office workers and visitors occupying the hotel — travelers seeking more Texan food during their visit to the Lone Star State, as it were.
With Line & Lariat — which made its debut last summer following a brief redecorating of the stately dining room (the draperies are gone, but the columns and warm, rich gold tones remain throughout) — neither the pricing nor the excellent, highly accessible food is an issue anymore. Entrées and appetizers are all very reasonable, from a $15 Akaushi burger at dinner that's topped with sautéed poblano peppers and Green's Creek Gruyère to that $11 plate of Königsberger Klopse meatballs that's meant as an appetizer but is large enough for an entrée.
I like to think that parking wouldn't factor into things, either: There are at least 100 parking spaces within a one-block radius of Line & Lariat, all of which are free after 6 p.m. and all day on Sundays. Yet day after day, the dining room is quiet. The friendly waitstaff often seem so startled to see patrons that they're like wild hares, skittish and shy. They sidle up to your table with curious eyes and tentative smiles, and while the service can be shaky at times, it's much more refined and personable than the "What's up, guys, my name is Kevin; mind if I squat down here while I tell you about our jalapeño popper special?" model that's so frustratingly prevalent these days. I want to tame the waitstaff, to acclimate them to the presence of people. And so I keep coming.
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