When I left San Francisco for Boston I was convinced that I was leaving behind the incredible foodie culture and iconic, gourmand juggernauts of the region like Cyrus, Zuni, Town Hall and Kokkari. And, in fact, upon arriving in Boston it became clear that my premonitions were completely conceived. For the most part, this city is chock-full of pub grub grease-pits and mediocre, uninteresting restaurants with vastly inflated prices and extensive truffle oil use.But, maybe, keeping my expectations low (and after a series of disappointments at supposed Boston yuppie hideaways like Masa and Sibling Rivalry and special occasion treats like No. 9 Park) prepared me to be blissfully surprised when I finally dined at Mistral.
If I were to describe in exquisite detail my ideal daily (note, this is not a description for those exclusive, once in a lifetime, sell-your-Jimmy-Choo-handbag-to-pay-for-the-meal places) dining event from the valet to the entrance way's first impression to the decor to the lighting to the music to the service to the bar scene and bartenders to the wine list to the menu layout to the appetizers and entrees to the prices to the companion clientele and, of course, to the bread offering and bathroom conditions, I would describe in exquisite detail the entire Mistral experience.
First, the valet service is quick and helpful (one kind young man rushed to catch me when I hit the skids on a nearby patch of ice) and, um, kind of a ridiculously handsome bunch, and the entrance is impressive and sophisticated in wrought iron glory. A warm, neutral space with simple, organic decor elements strikes a Mediterranean slash Northern California Wine Country note (and you wonder why I love this place) overall. The lounge-y hipster area encourages happy hour co-mingling at the front of the restaurant and off to the far-right of the larger dining space that occupies the side-left and back of the place, separated subtly from the more demure diners with frosted glass (I did prefer the potted cypress wall that was recently replaced but I'm sure no one really cares what I think), is the fantastic, expansive concrete bar where RTT and I prefer to feast. There was a happy quote collage on the bar-facing wall which I thoroughly enjoyed as a bar-dining view, but it has regrettably been replaced with a chic liquor display and less-chic television nooks (alas, there is now no restaurant in Boston from $ to $$$$ that doesn't have a television on which the obsessed public can ogle their beloved sports teams). I should also mention that the bathrooms are always clean and oddly devoid of women, which I find to be rather lovely and calming. Who likes to wait in line to use the restroom?
My drink of choice is the rare Hangar One Kaffir Lime Vodka & Soda or a generous glass of the Catena Malbec. And, I must say, the bread teaser with a garlic-chick pea spread is some of the best I have had in my life (and I am a wee bread snob). I think my favorite food item in all of the earth, the Maine Crab Ravioli, is my preferred appetizer but I also adore the Seared Foie Gras and simple Garden Greens Salad. I am essentially addicted (if one defines 'addicted' as devoted to a practice or habit or fare) to the White Cheese & Hot Pepper Pizza and will be scarcely able to face the daylight when they take it off the menu in the Summer season. Perhaps I can abduct chef Jamie Mammano and force him to make it for me come May? Really, in the end, a shocking lack of matchbooks is all that is left to be desired...
By the time we leave Mistral, I am perfectly satiated, life is grand and I am the happiest Skip in Boston. Why would I not want to eat here every week? Why would RTT not want to keep me so euphoric?
Indeed, RTT and I are going to make Mistral 'our place.' RTT knows it's worth the investment.
