Anticipating that a double scoop of culinary perfection waited down the road, my man and I set off for the Bayou City eager to begin our mini-vacation. But food was not the main reason we left our idyll by the lake to venture forth to Houston. First and foremost on the agenda, our two closest friends were getting married, and they had asked me to be the Flower Girl.
Of course I am too tall, too old and too allergic to function as Flower Girl, but it was the only spot left open in the official wedding party. So I bought a frilly dress, got into high heels – I don’t have occasion to do that much out here in the Hill Country – and stood beside the happy couple holding a basket of posies.
The ceremony took place in the private wine room of chef John Sheely’s Mockingbird Bistro. I’ve had the pleasure to dine with this talented, hard-working chef over the course of 15 years, and so expectations loomed large that the food and wine would complement the occasion as spot on as our newlyweds were clearly made for each other.
For me, there’s nothing swankier than passed hors d’oeuvres, and silver trays loaded with tidbits that could be plucked up with fingers were all over the place. Waiters roamed among the guests offering bacon-wrapped shrimp skewers, tiny bites of pâté de foie gras, crispy Gulf oysters served on spoons and sea bass ceviche with avocado mousse atop thinnest round crisps
The wine for this phase of the festivities was Casteller Cava, a creamy sparkling wine from Spain. My husband (not usually a big fan of the bubbly) sloshed it down like a pirate with a tankard of grog, and then reached the umpteenth time for a spoon of oyster. Whispering in my ear, he asked, “After all this, are we really going to chow into a sit-down dinner?”
I answered him with what I hope was a withering glance, and raised an eyebrow to double my disapproval of his bumpkinly question. “We are in Houston, darling.”
With a lovely French Sancerre, the first course was a summer salad of mesclun greens, sweet and spicy Texas pecans, raspberries and chèvre. A Kathryn Kennedy Lateral (Bordeaux-style blend of grapes from Napa Valley) was poured with Sheely’s duo of slow-braised short rib and petite filet in red wine reduction. Horseradish-whipped potatoes served inside an eatable cylinder of fried potatoes, roasted porcini mushrooms and local sweet pepper confit completed the plate.
Dessert was a triple triumph. With a flute glass of Italy’s Moscato d’Asti served alongside, the individual oblong dish set before each guest held a square of cinnamon apple bread pudding, a small ramekin of vanilla crème brûlée and a decadently seductive flourless chocolate cake.
When at last communal sighs of satisfaction rustled round the room and all forks were put to rest, I leaned over and whispered in my hero’s ear, “I’m guessing by the smile on your face that you’d like to eat like this every night.”
A mere 20 hours later, we would walk through the portals of another heavenly dining destination, again sitting down to a feast worth writing a column about. And who would be our illustrious host for the next round of finding paradise on a plate?
Some say he’s a legend in his own time. Some believe him to be the world’s greatest restaurateur. Some (like the seven sitting U.S. presidents who have dined with him) go away from the experience wishing they could come back tomorrow and do it all over again.
In the Houston restaurant business for 47 years, Tony Vallone is the man you want to see when your food-loving soul aches for over-the-top indulgence.
I have known Vallone for 45 of those 47 years, first meeting him at the Sage Road incarnation of Tony’s Restaurant (where I also first met Kerrville resident Jacques Duhr, who was Tony’s head chef at the time).
For nearly half a century, the phrase “Going to Tony’s” has meant one is setting out to put on the Ritz, to dine high on the hog, to hit the highest of the high spots. Dressing up in best Sunday clothes (with Texas big hair teased to a cry of “Mercy!”) is de rigueur because one will eat with the elite, see and be seen to the max, and break one’s bread among the upper crust.
But I’ve been gone from Houston for several years, and this would be my first visit to the restaurant’s current location. Opening in 2005, the Greenway Plaza building was first occupied by Camille Berman’s iconic Maxim’s before passing into Vallone’s deft hands.
Greeted at the door by Vallone’s lovely wife Donna, who escorted us to a table in the main room of the restaurant, I noted the change in style and ambience from the ultra-elegant and very formal Post Oak Boulevard version of Tony’s.
Waiters are no longer dressed in tuxedoes; instead, they wore suits and ties (no matchy-matchy stuff going on, either – the sommelier, for example, sported a very interesting, geometrically-busy bright pink tie while our headwaiter Roberto had chosen a quieter gray). But in true Tony’s fashion, waiters were everywhere and watching their tables like pit bosses at a casino.
We decided to try the five-course tasting menu. The trek through chef Grant Gordon’s artistic vision brought us first the foie gras torchon, luscious goose liver accompanied by macadamia nut crumble, black pepper-scented Texas honey and kaffir lime.
The sommelier had recommended a Hestan Vineyards Stephanie Merlot to pair with our meal, and it also suited our second course of Umbrian black summer truffles that were shaved over risotto.
Third course brought us young Maine lobster served with semolina couscous and toasted tomatoes. For the fourth course, my husband chose the 40-day aged ribeye with summer corn, and I was beyond enchanted to try Tony’s coniglio – tiny bites of Texas rabbit with pancetta Dijon jus.
The great restaurateur himself appeared just as the cotton candy stuck with twinkling, fired-up sparklers emerged from the kitchen, announcing to the room that Tony’s famous Grand Marnier soufflé was being served as our final course. With that excellent dessert, we drank Veuve Clicquot and toasted our smiling host with tears in our grateful eyes.
The next day, on the drive home, we did stop at a fireworks stand to buy a box of sparklers that I lit and stuck into the center of a nice homemade Fredericksburg peach pie. We paired the pie with iced tea and ate in our shorts.