You can bank on Lawrence’s new Merchants Pub & Plate
I have a long list of things I have tasted and would prefer not to try again. Plenty of these items are misfires from otherwise reliable kitchens. So it is with the most recent addition to my no-fly list, the “white BBQ sauce” served with the pulled-pork spring rolls at Lawrence’s excellent new Merchants Pub & Plate.
The spring rolls, crispy fried cylinders stuffed with chopped cabbage and roasted pork, were good, and I even liked the syrupy root-beer reduction drizzled on top of them. But I recoiled at the little cup of white liquid waiting to bathe slices of the roll. It looked suspiciously like Milk of Magnesia.
“People are kind of funny about that,” my server confided. “But it’s really delicious. We make it from cream, Worcestershire sauce, mayonnaise and a little cayenne.”
Well, now, that’s not really barbecue sauce, is it? And I wouldn’t call the concoction I eventually tried delicious. “White BBQ sauce” is just a novel phrase for an uninspired condiment.
There’s enough inspiration on the rest of the menu at this two-month-old restaurant to recommend Merchants, which has taken over the historic bank building on Massachusetts Street once home to Teller’s. It’s co-owned by chef T.K. Peterson, who, with chef de cuisine Chris Rieke, brings plenty of imagination to some solid ideas.
Yes, you must set aside a few of the restaurant’s pretensions and a certain reverential air. “We are committed to providing a dining experience without compromise,” boasts the menu, which announces its allergy-free, meat-free, dairy-free and gluten-free dishes with a code of letters that would have made a fine personals ad in this paper back in the day. (GF+ seeks DF for good V.) And the place studiously observes the vogue of listing every local and regional ingredient (Alma Creamery cheese, Anthony’s Beehive honey, etc.). Provenance is the watchword here.
But the gambit works. Some of Peterson’s dishes are masterful compositions of flavor and texture. (I’m recalling the freshly made agnolotti pasta pillows stuffed with ricotta and spiced pumpkin, in a maple-brandy butter, and the braised rabbit cacciatore on asiago grits.) And at least one of the desserts would look at home on Salvador Dali’s plate.
Put more simply, Merchants Pub & Plate is a serious dining venue with an unrefined sense of humor. The 83-year-old space still has its dramatic windows and tiled floors, and it still has the brassy confidence of a fine-dining aspirant shaking down a college kid trying to impress a date. But it’s hard to resist a restaurant that serves sloppy Joes made with exquisitely rich short ribs, let alone one that’s ready to make you a pimento-cheese sandwich. (If you ever had any attachment to the pinky stuff that Kraft packed into those little glass jelly jars, you’re in for a very satisfying moment.)
Mind you, no frat boy is going to order the somberly good-for-you pan-fried griddle cakes of white beans and kale. That’s a joke too far: pucks so taste-free that all the tomatillo chow-chow in Lawrence couldn’t lend them any zest. And the house-made focaccia, billed as “Fresh Bread” on the starter list, was disappointingly dry when I tried it, even with a generous dollop of honey butter (an indignity best left to children’s menus).
My heart softened at the appearance of a bowl of supple pappardelle pasta, blanketed under a thick ragù of bison Bolognese. It was an outstanding dish, as was a smoked pork chop, expertly grilled and perfectly flavorful. I’d also order the cornmeal-coated fried rainbow trout again. You get the idea: Merchants is at its best when its kitchen concentrates on dishes as unfussy as a bolt of gingham.
Peterson likes to accessorize, though, so the burgers get a swipe of cabernet onion jam, and a crispy walleye sandwich is topped with a citrus-pepper slaw. The latter is maddeningly delicious, but I found that the tart ginger-apple compote served with the toasted-barley risotto could do just so much for that dish. And not every patron is going to know what cranberry-and-rhubarb agrodolce (served with the pork chop) is supposed to be. (If it should taste like something other than a sweet-and-sour fruit reduction, I’ve been had.)
The staff, at least, is ready to brief you on the more complicated dishes. The service is briskly efficient overall, and if you ask a question about a dish, the reply is offered with precise logic. You could be listening to a mechanic explain the workings of a Mercedes engine.
The wine list isn’t designed for the Mercedes crowd. It’s reasonably priced and well-chosen. And the dessert options are further downmarket, with a certain prairie-homesteader sensibility: gingerbread cake, a chocolate beet torte, the church-supper-style array on the “Pumpkin Patch” plate (if someone in your congregation liked squiggles of mousse).
Merchants Pub & Plate is doing enough right in its early days that the locals seem to have noticed. On each of my visits, the dining room was full, and the crowd was a cross-section of ages. That wasn’t the case when the late, unlamented Teller’s endured its death throes. Peterson and Wilson may have finally found a formula for building long-term customer loyalty in a city with constant resident turnover: first-rate food and service.
