Leftovers
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Restaurant: Olives
Peak of It-ness: 15 years ago
I checked in first at Olives, which for a long time was one of the most
critically-acclaimed and popular restaurants in town, but now meets
with indifference from many once-ardent fans. (Olives failed to even
crack the top 50 of Boston magazine’s recent local-restaurants ranking,
a composite of reviews from Boston’s food critics.) How did the first
smash hit from chef/owner Todd English, one of this city’s most
successful and telegenic chefs, fall so far from the top of the heap?
When
Olives debuted as a 50-seat, Charlestown storefront in 1989, English
was the smokingest young chef on the scene. His take on rustic Italian
cooking was creative, fresh, and full of bold, concentrated flavors.
(Some critics carped about “too many tastes on the plate,” but I
disagreed, adoring his dense, fiercely flavored compositions.) With its
no-reservations policy, Olives had folks lining the sidewalk before the
doors opened each night; two-hour waits for tables were common. It was
a brilliant, deserved success.
English rapidly expanded, moving
Olives to a larger location and opening Figs, Kingfish Hall, and
Bonfire. He opened more Olives and Figs restaurants outside Boston —
eventually adding another dozen restaurants around the world — and
became a nationally-recognized celebrity chef. Despite the fact that he
rarely has time to cook at the original Olives anymore, it still draws
crowds, and now takes reservations. Out-of-towners often ask me to
bring them there. They’ve seen Todd on Iron Chef America, or Cooking
with Todd English on PBS, or read about the LA restaurant he opened
with Eva Longoria. His celebrity is a powerful draw. I try to lower
their expectations a bit, warning it’s unlikely that The Man Himself
will be there, but we end up going just the same. Most of my guests are
happy with it, but all of them are happy to be able to say they’ve been
there.
But without English in the kitchen every night, the old
can’t miss consistency is gone; the swoony perfection on every plate is
no longer a certainty. On a recent visit, one appetizer was a
delightful echo of Olives’ halcyon days: a luxurious, truffle-flecked,
savory flan ($15) topped with fine wild mushrooms, foie gras, and a
wondrously intense reduction of veal stock. Entrées were pretty good
too, such as the slow-smoked, slow-braised lamb shank ($25) atop a rich
root-vegetable mash, or the Flintstones-esque wood-grilled pork chop
($30), so moist it must have been brined. But the chop arrived
overdone, and a tagliatelli bolognese appetizer ($11) was a real
disappointment, oversauced with a ragù that tasted too strongly of
cinnamon. You just never saw misfires like that in the old days, when
the boss was always on-site.
Another change is that the menu has
become much more accessible. One of my joys in the early days was
English’s ability to integrate culinary exotica into tantalizing new
dishes: it was a rare occasion when we weren’t trying some unusual
ingredient for the first time. It’s now possible to order a
football-sized mound of deep-fried onion strings ($8). While it shocks
me to see that in the restaurant that won English two James Beard
awards, it’s a simple, comforting dish that makes people happy. He
hasn’t been afraid to broaden the restaurant’s appeal — this and his
celebrity-chef status are probably what keep locals and tourists coming
back in spite of the hit-or-miss food and service.
