Red Snapper and Fried Oysters
10/04/11 09:04
Who goes out to dinner on a Saturday night in Portsmouth? I can tell you who. Someone with reservations, that's who. Don't know what we were thinking. We were hoping to cash in on a couple of our gift certificates that we've had forever but it was not to be. Flatbread was jammin'. Cafe Mediterranio turned us away after asking whether or not we had reservations. Raddiccio's was hopping and there wasn't a spare seat in the house. Even Popovers was crazy busy although we lingered longer than was necessary at the counter admiring the desserts and occasional entree that passed beneath our eyes. I think we weren't the only ones waiting in line. I was getting more and more hungry by the moment and the hungrier I get the less discriminating I become when considering the options. After being turned away at Cafe Kava, the place down the alleyway with vertical gardens boasting every conceivable herb you can imagine, we ended up at Restaurant 106. There was a small table waiting for us just inside the door. Seems as though it had our name on it. The service was supreme; the food spicy and decidedly southern in origin; the starter dish of hot golden brown fried southern oysters delightful as served in a sweet sauce spread in perpendicular swaths across the small but colorful plate; our basket of italian bread was hot and slightly crusty and was served with a small dish of freshly churned butter; my entree of Blackened Red Snapper was a good sized portion and sat atop a healthy serving of dirty rice - a staple of southern cooking.
Nancy had a salad and a nice portabello mushroom sandwich. I might have preferred less balsamic vinegar had I ordered her sandwich but kept my comments to myself. I might have ordered the special of Beef Stroganoff as well had our waitress mentioned it but she did not. Why is it that they always seem to forget the specials when Nancy and I sit down to order? Before we knew we had been sitting too long between courses, our waitress offered us a consolation dish which Nancy declined but I did not. As promised, she delivered a steaming bowl of fish chowder - southern style of course. It was de-lish. It was full of baby shrimp, scallops, potatoes and scallions. Nan popped the oyster crackers like Cracker Jacks and I was able to salvage a mere one or one or two to crumble over my dish before they disappeared all together. While our table may have seemed too small to some, too close to the servers area to others, too close to the semi-exposed kitchen to others, and too close to the door and flow of traffic to others, I rather enjoyed the hustle bustle of night and was not otherwise dismayed to be sitting where we were. I was oblivious to the two women celebrating a birthday to our left; oblivious to the table directly behind us of 5-6 women celebrating something altogether different and in various stages of intoxication; and oblivious to the constant motion of the kitchen and server staff although I much appreciated the salaciousness of the latter and the wonderful aromas emanating from the former. The party waiting outside on the sidewalk with hoods up and hands in their pockets just to stay warm made our predicament seem like less of a predicament than it really was.
Nancy thought the table was sticky to the touch and avoided it at all costs. The angle of the table was not to her liking and she shifted it from time to time like a nervous nellie with a twitch. She was not displeased that they brought bread right away nor did she think we had waited too long when our waitress came by with an offer of chowder as a consolation prize for waiting too long. She thought the drinks sounded good when offered but declined the offer when made although confided in me that she might well take a sip of two were she to have one delivered to the table. She didn't resist my attempts when I wrestled the sliver of a dill pickle from her plate like a thief in the night and, conversely, I showed little patience with her when she stuck up her nose at the pickled cauliflower on my plate when offered. Fine, I'll eat it and you'l have none of it. Such was the give and take of our extreme dining adventure in downtown Portsmouth on an oh-so-fine April evening in the year 2011. While we were out on the town, our son was wrestling with his own demons down at Katie O'Brien's. To this day, we're not sure if Katie is a standard excuse, a main squeeze, or simply a dear friend who entertains Evan and others like him from time to time. You never know with teenagers.
Nancy had a salad and a nice portabello mushroom sandwich. I might have preferred less balsamic vinegar had I ordered her sandwich but kept my comments to myself. I might have ordered the special of Beef Stroganoff as well had our waitress mentioned it but she did not. Why is it that they always seem to forget the specials when Nancy and I sit down to order? Before we knew we had been sitting too long between courses, our waitress offered us a consolation dish which Nancy declined but I did not. As promised, she delivered a steaming bowl of fish chowder - southern style of course. It was de-lish. It was full of baby shrimp, scallops, potatoes and scallions. Nan popped the oyster crackers like Cracker Jacks and I was able to salvage a mere one or one or two to crumble over my dish before they disappeared all together. While our table may have seemed too small to some, too close to the servers area to others, too close to the semi-exposed kitchen to others, and too close to the door and flow of traffic to others, I rather enjoyed the hustle bustle of night and was not otherwise dismayed to be sitting where we were. I was oblivious to the two women celebrating a birthday to our left; oblivious to the table directly behind us of 5-6 women celebrating something altogether different and in various stages of intoxication; and oblivious to the constant motion of the kitchen and server staff although I much appreciated the salaciousness of the latter and the wonderful aromas emanating from the former. The party waiting outside on the sidewalk with hoods up and hands in their pockets just to stay warm made our predicament seem like less of a predicament than it really was.
Nancy thought the table was sticky to the touch and avoided it at all costs. The angle of the table was not to her liking and she shifted it from time to time like a nervous nellie with a twitch. She was not displeased that they brought bread right away nor did she think we had waited too long when our waitress came by with an offer of chowder as a consolation prize for waiting too long. She thought the drinks sounded good when offered but declined the offer when made although confided in me that she might well take a sip of two were she to have one delivered to the table. She didn't resist my attempts when I wrestled the sliver of a dill pickle from her plate like a thief in the night and, conversely, I showed little patience with her when she stuck up her nose at the pickled cauliflower on my plate when offered. Fine, I'll eat it and you'l have none of it. Such was the give and take of our extreme dining adventure in downtown Portsmouth on an oh-so-fine April evening in the year 2011. While we were out on the town, our son was wrestling with his own demons down at Katie O'Brien's. To this day, we're not sure if Katie is a standard excuse, a main squeeze, or simply a dear friend who entertains Evan and others like him from time to time. You never know with teenagers.