Fish Story

When I first heard the story of why young restaurateurs Maija Diethelm and Caine Kreimendahl decided to call their cozy Westport wine bar Boozefish, I could almost envision the scene taking place in a movie. Not a particularly good movie, but a postpubescent comedy like American Pie 2 or Coed Fever. Their idea to blend the slangy name for alcohol with the gilled, scaly swimmer that inebriated people are said to drink like is no more riveting than the one about James “Moondoggie” Darren and his beach-bum buddies melding girl and midget into “Gidget” for the 1959 movie of that name. When they were pals at Kansas State University, Diethelm (majoring in hotel and restaurant management) and Kreimenthal (working on a degree in secondary education), liked this nickname for their intoxicated friends so much that they decided to use it as the official title for the wine bar they planned to open someday.

I think it ranks right up there with other restaurant names that sound like inside jokes gone awry, such as the ill-fated Forks in the Air or Mama Stuffeati’s. But Diethelm makes a good defense for the name. “Everyone is curious about it. We have people calling to ask about it. I think it’s really cool,” she says.

Cool, maybe. The place has a lot more panache than you might expect. It’s not a fraternity hangout, thank God, but a European-influenced wine bar with a creative assortment of hot and cold appetizers, plunked on a stretch of Westport Road that (with the exception of high-society florist Bergamot & Ivy) isn’t exactly cosmopolitan in flavor. In fact, the location that Diethelm, 25, and Kreimendahl, 24, snapped up for their first business venture had for years been home to perfectly ordinary — but lovable — neighborhood joints like the Wyoming Street Grill and O’Connors Pub.

Fans of those laid-back saloons still wander in and shake their heads at how the space has been transformed into something much fancier. The floors are newly tiled, the stucco walls artfully painted (they look as if they’ve been stained from years of customers puffing on unfiltered Gauloises), the tables epoxied with wine labels and photographs of European cathedrals.

On my first visit, I sat in a corner booth next to a tall table where four extraordinarily pretty women in their late twenties posed on stools, twirling goblets of wine in one hand and cigarettes in the other and gossiping like mad (about no one I knew, alas). Smokers can light up at any table but the four at the very back, near the restroom — which should send the antinicotine contingent into spasms, because on busy nights, customers are packed in like sardines. But if Diethelm and Kreimendahl really wanted to evoke a Parisian sensibility, they would have had no smoke-free tables — and fewer TV screens mounted around the bar.

Nevertheless, the place has an intoxicating appeal that gets sexier as the evening wears on and the crowd starts feeling a little heady. At one point, I found myself staring voyeuristically around the dining room. A well-oiled geriatric man pawed his younger blond girlfriend; a waitress — mercifully not ours — chewed gum and ignored her tables; a quartet of young heartthrobs drank dark ale at a corner table; and a heavyset woman of indeterminate age lustily shoveled French fries into her mouth.

The irony of the name is that the owners are firmly focused on wines, not low-rent booze. The wine list is well-rounded, with decently priced bottles (from $20 to $50) of predominantly California vintages and some interesting European and Australian imports. “We want to encourage our customers to try new things,” Diethelm says. “So we’re more about varietals than familiar labels.”

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Because the new bar’s profits are coming from the wine cellar, its food isn’t considered a primary lure. But it could be. Chef Blake Russell’s menu is eclectic in style, but it’s hit or miss in execution. I’m still fuming that I paid $16 for one night’s dismal “special,” a bowl of gummy angel-hair pasta thick with melted cheese and scattered with sun-dried tomatoes and a sextet of grilled shrimp. It was nearly impossible to eat. Same with the soup du jour I tried one night: The day’s “baked potato soup” sounded perfect for the chilly evening but arrived flavorless and lukewarm.

Russell’s three-month-old kitchen is still getting its sea legs. Other than an occasional dinner special, there are no entrées on the single-page evening menu, and the half dozen sandwiches and two salads are standard bar fare. The kitchen staff is on firmer footing with more visually attractive appetizers, which are presented with attention to color and detail — though most could use a kick in the seasoning department.

I lit up over the pale green spinach tortilla folded around melted Gruyère and portabello mushrooms. The fried calamari was a just-greasy-enough jumble of crispy mollusks, but why in the world did it come with a dipping sauce of infused olive oil? Our kind waitress scurried out with alternative dipping options: a tangy dill sauce and a fiery chipoltle aioli. Maybe Russell worries that intense spices might dull the palate for the serious wine drinker; any real fire had been extinguished from the “Tastes Around the World” platter, a mix of dips and chips that included generous mounds of a creamy hummus, a jarringly sweet mango salsa and a chunky artichoke salsa that lacked heat. The real disappointment on that plate came in the form of a “traditional” salsa that was little more than chopped red tomatoes.

The only fish served at Boozefish is an appetizer of salmon, chopped mushrooms and herbs baked in a flaky pastry crust. We much preferred the Mediterranean Platter, with its three kinds of hummus — the familiar garbanzo bean version, a black olive mixture and a mildly seasoned red pepper dip — along with olives and wedges of pita bread. My trio of friends felt this combination of tastes and textures was the perfect accompaniment for a glass of seductive Chilean merlot. My friend Bob found his mixed greens salad, which had been doused in a soy-ginger vinaigrette, too heavy on the salty soy and too light on the grated ginger. I, too, wished for a dressing with less sting, although the genial Pam, who splashed the stuff all over her Oriental Salmon Salad, said the concoction was “utterly perfect on a slab of hot fish.” She cooled her salty palate with a swill of Andretti ’99 Chardonnay.

Russell’s sandwiches are tasty, but they don’t get any more imaginative than good ol’ American bar food. One night I shared a grilled Reuben on marbled rye and a surprisingly spice-free Cajun turkey sandwich. Typical tavern burgers come plain or with cheese and mushrooms, while chicken sandwiches come in two versions: grilled or fried.

We sampled only one of the featured desserts, all of which are prepared by a local baker outside the restaurant (except for the cheesecake, which is made in the tiny Boozefish kitchen). The tiramisu was a reef-sized slab of whipped cream, Mascarpone and ladyfingers drenched with enough potent coffee liqueur to make my head swim.

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Are attractive appetizers and boozy desserts enough to reel in the dining crowd who, like my acerbic friend John, dismiss the restaurant because of its sodden name?

“We’re not a restaurant. We’re a wine bar that serves food,” Diethelm says, adding that she’s aware the offbeat name “might be deterring some people from coming in to see what we’re about.”

But Boozefish has more substance than its gimmicky name suggests. It’s a comfortable, friendly and accessible gathering place, and if the food hasn’t quite caught up to the stylishness of its wine list, the potential is there. And someday there might be patrons who walk through the front door more interested in chef Russell’s food than just booze. But there’s not a word for them yet.