After glowing reviews in, inter alia, the Los Angeles Times, Palate seemed a reasonable selection for a final meal before heading north. Unfortunately, off-putting service started with our waiter’s lassitude – her soporific demeanor could be attributed to a pill-popping proclivity. Disappointing service persisted with each plate’s delivery as our server carried multiple plates, conveying an unpleasantly hurried milieu. As for the food, no adjective more complementary than decent comes to mind. Every restaurant has its off nights, but I would rather not visit a second time to find out for sure.
The trotter was the meal’s apogee. The swiss chard, though, was too salty, even for me.
I did not mind the scallops’ petite size so much as their inordinately firm texture brought on by well-doneness. I understand low and slow cooking to tenderize tough cuts. Scallops require careful handling, for if left in a pan fifteen seconds too long, a once sweet delight soon becomes unsalvageable.
What motivated the kitchen’s decision to leave charred radicchio on the plate? Not sure. They took a naturally bitter vegetable and made it unpalatable. Then, caramelized pears swung the unpalatability pendulum in the other direction. Simply put, this dish failed conceptually. And with that, I am going to prematurely end this commentary because I am not yet comfortably inured to the mundane.