Jax Fish House & Oyster Bar finally made an oyster eater out of me

%{[ data-embed-type=”image” data-embed-id=”57150c0189121ca96b956055″ data-embed-element=”aside” ]}%

I blame my visceral squeamishness about oysters on my stuffy Midwestern roots. We didn’t have mysterious luxuries like fresh bivalves on our Indiana dinner table when I was a kid. We ate fish sticks.

That doesn’t mean that I’ve never enjoyed oysters. In fact, the ones at Jax Fish House & Oyster Bar might finally have made me a believer. More on that in a minute.

Freshly shucked or baked in Mornay sauce or charbroiled and fried, oysters are the major attraction at the Colorado-based Jax. And the shells even figure into the décor. Several towering columns in the new Plaza space are constructed from heavy-wire cages that have been filled to the brim with clean oyster shells.

The rest of the dining room’s design isn’t so striking. A seemingly unironic 1980s sensibility dominates, with big, illuminated fish tanks at least drawing your eyes away from dull, drum light fixtures and diner-style booths. At first glance, the room reminded me that at least three expensively mounted seafood concepts opened in Kansas City during that decade and closed faster than a mad clam.

Local seafood competition is fierce because Kansas City residents are unwaveringly loyal to their favorite fish-centered hot spots. Those who like the Bristol, for example, or McCormick & Schmick’s tend to be dismissive of upstarts. Does anyone remember the short-lived Jules on the Plaza?

Jax, with its congenial service and limited but imaginative menu, is a worthy contender. In fact, it seems poised to lure diners from the nearby McCormick & Schmick’s, which has lost much of its distinctive cachet since Landry’s bought the chain two years ago.

What sets Jax apart is its advertised commitment to sustainable seafood — a stance that doesn’t necessarily resonate with the local fine-dining crowd but has been good for business at its outposts in other markets — which returns us to talk of oysters because Jax grows and harvests a variety of its very own, the Emersum (in Virginia). The Emersum joins at least eight other varieties of oysters, from both coasts, visible in great piles of ice at the shucking station near the bar.

It’s an exciting visual, I suppose, to sit at the bar and watch the men in white jackets shuck with fervor, but I prefer the dining room — which isn’t all that spacious — and its terrific view of chef de cuisine Bobby Bowman’s kitchen.

So, right, the oysters. One night, my server forgot to bring the fresh oysters that my party had ordered (we didn’t really notice, having ordered too much food anyway), but on a different night, the sextet of half shells arrived faster than the drinks did. On that occasion, I set aside my prissy prejudices and ate the chubby and briny Emersum and a New York import called, provocatively, Naked Cowboys. I also tasted a surprisingly sweet, petite West Coast model called the Royal Miyagi. And every one of them was refreshing and delicious, making good on Hemingway’s claim that a good oyster gives its eater “the strong taste of the sea.” I’m not cured of my hesitation, but here I’d do it again.

I also tried the Mornay baked oysters, which came out bubbly hot, with bacon and spinach. It’s a pretty snazzy dish and not really more costly than getting the things raw.

True oyster lovers will have no trouble assembling an all-oyster meal, but even they should consider dipping into the restaurant’s more eclectic choices. I’m thinking of the spiciest cup of chicken-and-crawfish gumbo I’ve ever tasted — perfectly spicy, in fact — and a fine Spanish-octopus starter (not so named for the chiles and jamón serrano accompanying it; the tentacles in the terrine really are from Spain).

The lump blue crab cake, which boasts more than 4 ounces of crabmeat and almost no binding filler, comes slightly seared, not baked, and is perched on a slick of understated grilled-lemon tartar sauce. That stayed in my head afterward, too.

But don’t let the servers talk you into ordering the buttermilk bread. OK, it’s house-made, but what I got was a baked lump of chewy nothingness with a side of sticky-sweet honey butter. (Why isn’t that awful stuff on an endangered list?) Stick to the long, buttery, toasty bread that pastry chef Kelly Conwell makes for this restaurant’s lobster roll. It’s just right for the generous mound of fresh lobster salad that it comes with, tossed with celery and just a spoonful of muted mayo. What this sandwich doesn’t need are the pebbly bits of smoked bacon that interrupted my lobster pleasure. They add neither good flavor nor complementary texture and instead bring down an otherwise flawless sandwich.

Unlike the Colorado locations of Jax, the Kansas City restaurant sells a pricey 8-ounce filet mignon (from California beef) and a pork-loin dinner with smashed fried potatoes. There’s also a good Kobe beef burger — it can be topped with a fried oyster — though mine wasn’t cooked to the temperature I’d requested.

But really, it’s the fish you want at Jax. The flaky, light Neah Bay sablefish I sampled was exquisitely prepared, and the peppercorn-crusted ahi tuna, dappled with a just-right brown-butter-balsamic sauce, was arranged with golden beets and cauliflower and mounted with truly artful aplomb.

I was sort of surprised to see blackened catfish on this menu, but it gets a winning, properly Southern presentation, sided with comforting bacon-braised collard greens, cornbread and a puddle of very rich crawfish velouté. Crawfish also plays a role in a Creole-inspired Arctic char (meaty and moist), served up with cider-vinegar-spiked greens (very soothing) and a ham hock with an heirloom-lima-bean succotash.

Pastry chef Conwell does right by desserts, including her oddball take on tres leches cake, offered here as a Swiss roll. What I tried was a light and agreeable concoction with mascarpone and a dominating note of coconut. Just as pleasant, but with about four more components than it needs, is a bowl of butterscotch pudding. It’s not the brown, sticky mucilage of the lunchroom but rather a marvelously light, cream-colored custard, topped with that distracting pileup of accessories: marble-size balls of Granny Smith apples, tiny cubes of applesauce cake, squiggles of whipped cream cheese and one wee apple fritter (hot and sugar-dusted). I say more fritter, less squiggle.

I’ve talked with a few friends who feel disloyal dining at Jax instead of, say, the Bristol. But dine at Jax they have (and will again, I think), and that guilt should be tossed away like so much useless honey butter. Jax offers plenty to like, and the food has a hell of a lot going for it. Especially if you like — or are ready to learn to like — oysters.