A LAVISH RETURN TO DINING
Chef comes home to State of Grace, where seafood shines Once-exclusive Manor House restaurant goes public
“I have to warn you,” said the waitress at State of Grace, leaning a little closer to our table. “The shrimp on the pozole comes with its head on.”
“Well, yes, I should hope so,” I teased her. “That’s where all the good stuff is.”
“Some of our guests get upset when they see that,” she explained with a trace of rue.
That exchange made me sharply aware of where I was sitting: chef Ford Fry, the king of Atlanta with his nine restaurants there, has not simply come home to the city of his birth, but to the very specific neighborhood of River Oaks. Here, the well-to-do denizens can afford a $52 entree. They’re not going to blink at the prospect of paying $3.45 for a single cold-water oyster. And they don’t necessarily want to see spindly shrimp antennae athwart their meal.
River Oaks-scale bucks have been lavished upon State of Grace, with its polished brass and gleaming marble, its pale tones and dark accents, and the regal assemblage of trophy deer antlers that is the first thing you see as you walk into the bar. The restaurant may sit opposite Fry’s alma mater, the democratic Lamar High School, but visually and demographically it has more to do with St. John’s, the posh prep school just a few blocks west. Even the hostess stand at the front door looks like an antique desk picked out by a decorator for a seriously expensive library.
Despite this surface luxe, the food at State of Grace displays an irreverent Houston bounce and a finely tuned nostalgia. The menu by Fry and his executive chef Bobby Matos — who did such an admirable job at Tony Vallone’s Ciao Bello — pops with amusing ideas that draw on ingredients from Texas and the wider Gulf Coast.
A queso fundido of molten, pully Oaxacan cheese arrives on a layer of dusky red-chile sauce, its centerpiece a tumble of gorgeously meaty hen-of-thewoods mushrooms. The dish is meant to conjure memories of the mushroom queso served by River Oaks staple Armando’s, a favorite from Fry’s Houston youth. Yet it’s elevated by those velvety mushrooms, and by housemade flour tortillas that come snuggled into their own tissue-paper jackets, tasting distinctly and deliciously of bacon fat.
Or how about that Gulf Coast classic of yore, the stuffed crab in its own shell? At State of Grace, the deviled crabmeat has a delicate, airy loft to it rather than an oldfashioned sludginess. Instead of breading, crackly pinpoints of toasted crumbs animate the surface, and a tart, tarragon-laced Béarnaise sauce writes a captivating finish. This beauty of a dish costs $19, and it’s worth it.
Yet what of that $29 bowlful of Gulf Coast Pozole, with its unnerving headon shrimp? It was so salty the day I tried it that its notably fresh, meticulously cooked fish and shellfish was overpowered, as was any green-chile lilt to its broth.
That’s the kind of pricy blip that keeps this promising kitchen from performing as consistently as it should. The good dishes at State of Grace are so fine that it makes the disappointments cut deeper.
That homage to the Felix Tex-Mex cheese enchilada, bathed in meaty chile gravy, might arrive too salty to properly savor. A Gulf Coast Cobb salad that sounds like an ideal lunch may plod along under a wan rendition of Green Goddess dressing, going nowhere fast.
Shrimp-crusted snapper with field peas, bacon and mint sounded like fun, but its coating of shrimp forcemeat needed a spark of acid to make it come to life on a recent evening, and its vegetable tumble was not any help. And curiously, the housemade pastas that should be Matos’s great strength have seemed offbalance on two occasions, despite their admirable texture. Agnolotti of wood-roasted butternut squash with foie gras and pistachio tilted too far sweet for maximum enjoyment; and beef belly-stuffed casconcelli packets contained meat so smoky it was acrid, almost bitter. Even beautifully made squidink spaghetti alla chitarra (cut with actual guitar strings) did not wear well to the last bite. Its shrimp sugo was simply not compelling enough.
Those are the debits at State of Grace. The credits start with complimentary yeast rolls so dazzling I could eat them every day of the year: downy and tall, with a hauntingly sweet butter glaze interrupted by huge salt crystals. They kill.
So do perfectly cooked shrimp “à la plancha” — curvaceous monsters with their heads firmly attached and beady black eyeballs bulging, I am pleased to report — in a lime-shot coconut broth with plenty of toast for sopping. Retro Texas blue crab fingers are brought smartly up to date with their 21st-century-Houston shower of bird’s-eye Thai chiles, crisped garlic and herbs, so that each gentle crescent of crabmeat tastes important. And little lobster hushpuppies are tons of fun, their lobsterness mainly a matter of broth-based shell flavor, their sorghum butter a sweet shock to the savor. (I did think their snowdrift of powdered sugar suited them more to dessert, but that’s just me.)
Although the Gulf seafood seems a particular strength here, a sprawling, poundedthin pork schnitzel from Black Hill Farms made a dazzling impression with its crisp-crumbed crust, its tenderness, and the snap of its coarse mustard-seed sauce. Wilted mustard-leaf frills strewn across the surface added dimension while preventing the crust from getting soggy, a clever touch.
State of Grace seems exceedingly well-run. The know-how and economies of scale fostered at Fry’s Atlanta empire are much in evidence, from the hospitable, hands-on management to the smart, attentive service; from the well-made cocktails at the long, marble bar to the varied wine list with its better-than-average selection of seafoodfriendly whites. Even the website shows polish.
Houstonians have responded to this glamorous newcomer in droves, from expensively understated River Oaks retirees to the fashionable young people who comb the city looking for the next restaurant thrill. It’s difficult to get a reservation, even on a Tuesday.
But there’s a workaround to State of Grace’s popularity. Seating in the restaurant’s oyster bar is on a first-come, first-served basis, and it is here — much more than in the dining rooms or the bar — that I find myself utterly content. The small, rotunda-like rooms is magnificent, a symmetrical harmony of circles and squares, silvery tiles and glossy marble, pale whitewashed walls and pewtery backless barstools.
Here well-sourced oysters and other shellfish are served with care and ingenious touches like sturdy housemade “saltine” crackers and tartpunchy hot sauce, or a sprightly Thai chile mignonette that sings of fish sauce. The East Coast oysters are pricey but immaculate; and at happy hour, every day from 3 p.m. to 6 p.m., a quartet of mostly Gulf Coast oysters is offered at a buck apiece.
You can order from the entire menu in the oyster bar, if you like. Or just dine on halfshells, a deviled crab, and finish off with one of the restaurant’s dropdead smoked chocolate sundaes, its thick, satin sauce kissed by smoke from the wood hearth.
That’s my perfect recipe at the graceful if imperfect State of Grace.