Jorg

SCORE: 13.5/20

THE law of averages is a pretty handy device but sometimes it can be more misleading than helpful. If you need an illustration, take a look at the score above — 13 out of a possible 20. It means it’s hovering somewhere between ‘‘getting there’’ and ‘‘recommended’’. Sounds like a bit of journalistic fence-sitting, right? Maybe. But in the case of Jorg, that doesn’t tell half the story.

It doesn’t tell you that I remain perplexed by Jorg (pronounced like the Anglo ‘‘George’’, not the Spanish ‘‘Jorge’’). It hides the fact that my elation at its birth is balanced by my disappointment at its human frailties. And it fails to represent Jorg’s capacity for greatness and its occasional guilt of the opposite.

It’s not simply the result of expectations created by the A-team behind the operation — former Jacques Reymond head chef Michael Smith and Bryce Bernhardt, who was Church Street Enoteca’s sous chef. Like plenty of proud first-time parents, it’s nothing but the best for their kid. You can smell the cash they’ve splashed on the cavernous space, decking it out with wooden beams, polished-concrete floors, windows intersected by more vertical beams, pale-green banquettes hugging the perimeter of the room and the tres chic French art-industrial Jielde lights that leave my  currently renovating compadres quivering with envy.

On a players’ comfort note, it’s a pretty interesting decision to spend all that money on the decor and then only install one toilet for each gender. In a restaurant seating 90, that’s not a good diner-to-loo ratio, and the problem is compounded by doors that give no indication whether they’re occupied. Try hovering for five minutes outside an empty cubicle, in full view of the restaurant, for that special feeling of embarrassed futility.

Smith and Bernhardt have taken their fine-dining skill sets and translated them to a more casual dining bent. Their loosely European menu has enough variety to slake the taste for difference — it’s been a while since I saw goulash hotpot with cornbread and cabbage — and it practically goes without saying that it’s designed for sharing.

But for chefs of their standing, there are some fundamental mistakes. Among the starters, a kingfish ceviche ($11) comes with a rather sparse arrangement of capers, dill, olive oil and small shavings of orange zest but it’s mono-dimensional without a gutsy acid component. Spherical red peppers filled with fregola and feta ($14) are as cute as Kylie’s bum but, unfortunately, taste like Kylie’s music sounds — vapid, wet and uninspiring.

 The baccala ($8), on very acidic diced pimento, have such a low salt-cod component, they should really be called potato croquettes.

 Artichoke three ways — braised whole; the leaves fried with goat’s cheese; and others used in a kind of roasted scalloped arrangement ($15) — is like a side-dish showcase, only not nearly as shareable.

 Most perplexing of all: ox cheek paired with chargrilled calamari and fried tentacles. Even if the cheek hadn’t been braised into mushy threads, the mix of flavours just doesn’t work.

So it’s more than a bit perplexing to jump from one of the worst dishes I’ve encountered all year to one of the best — a whole King George whiting ($31), the body filleted but the head and tail still on, wrapped in brik pastry with thin slices of garlic and onion and a touch of preserved lemon. The fish is soft without being mushy; the vegetables add a firmer texture to the mix.  Alongside, skordalia mixes it up with some shaved fennel, for an absolutely top-notch treatment of a gorgeous fish. And this is coming out of the same kitchen as that calamari?
There’s more to love. From the starters, the crunchy, three-bite chicken ribs dusted in cayenne pepper ($13) are finger-lickin’ good.

A slab of black pudding, nicely chewy on the outside, crumbly within, has its good, smoky, meaty flavour enhanced by sizzling lardons, a softly oozing egg yolk and tattie scones for mopping-up duties. It’s the poster child for the new British food.

Ditto the toasted brioche with mushrooms  and pan-fried lamb’s liver ($14), which was simple but precisely the gentle treatment the ingredients deserved.

On the desserts list, the pick is the goat’s cheese baked in brioche, with a waldorf salad and muscatels. Yes, it’s a hot cheese course but it also blurs the line between starter and dessert wonderfully. It could swing either way and I’d be equally happy.

Service-wise, Jorg remains a man of mystery. The third owner, David Christiano, is the front-of-house guy but he hands our table over to another member of staff.  She’s great, recommending a chardonnay from a small producer that’s one of those rare gems. But spying on other tables reveals not everyone is enjoying the kind of seamless, personable  and un-sucky service  I rate as the best approach to the craft. Like the toilets, it’s a gamble.

As, indeed, is the food. In hospitality’s answer to Newton’s law of motion, for every ‘‘ooh’’ there’s an equal and opposite ‘‘err’’. If there wasn’t so much riding on this, you could harbour suspicions they’re checking to see if the diners are still paying attention. But there is — and they’re not. Instead, I’m none the wiser as to what’s going on in that kitchen to make its output so maddeningly erratic.

Does a number sum up all of that? I think not. But I do think Jorg is well worth checking out, albeit with this 1000-word caveat emptor in mind. So let’s hope people bothered reading the review instead of simply checking out the score. If you’ve gotten this far, I thank you.

SOURCE: Epicure

Have you been? Do you agree? Tell us...