BY DEBORAH MCDONALD...We could be ourselves at Eat'n Park, and that's what mattered. It was an extension of our family dinner table, where eating and mischief flourished equally. Sometimes my dad chased my little sister around the table to retrieve the novel he had been reading (an old family prank). Or, Dad would listen to ball games on his transistor radio. A laborious ordering ritual followed. Dad mulled over every entry on the immutable plastic menu as though something might have slipped past him in the last 40 years. One sure bet: You could depend on the menu to remain static. Then, just as the server was about to give up, Dad would order "his usual" with the predictability of dawn.
It's another world now, we laughed, sipping pomegranate martinis, slouching comfortably on the barstools at Six Penn Kitchen - the model "upscale casual eatery" by Pittsburgh's Eat'n Park Hospitality Group. We lost track of time imagining Dad's reaction to Eat'n Park's bold entrance into the 21st century.
Seated by the grand wall of windows facing Penn Avenue connected us to the external street flow. High ceilings, 20-foot brick pillars, huge cutaway Japanese lanterns and a thrilling staircase break up the internal space—a massive room, open, yet cozy. Little surprises pop up here and there. I'll not ruin them for lovers of minutiae, but I will say I adore the ground-level bakery, a mini-Wonka factory with homemade pastries and a mélange of retro treats that look as good at 6:30 a.m. as they do at closing. A handful of stools faces the exhibition kitchen, reminiscent of Eat'n Park counters and a prime gathering spot for foodies who want to soak up technique.
I've seen people pout when led to the second floor of a restaurant, assuming it will probably not be as high-hearted as the first. Level two is an emancipating exception, diverting attention from the hustle of the street to romance, with another glittering bar, imaginative modern art and a roaring fire. All contribute a handful of spice to the mix. "I thought for sure there'd be a giant floating Smiley cookie lurking behind a curtain somewhere, shouting out orders like the grand Oz," teased my husband, Brad.
Chef Chris Jackson's paper menu changes weekly, with the intention of igniting our sensory circuits with unexpected flavors, textures and heady scents. He passionately supports local farmers and the slow-food movement. Curing, brining and roasting can mean a meal that takes "three or four days to hit the plate," says Jackson, who describes the process of preparing the heartbreakingly tender cracklin' pork shank like a mother fussing over a newborn. READ MORE OF THIS ARTICLE ON THE PITTSBURGH MAGAZINE WEBSITE: http://www.wqed.org/mag/columns/dish/2006/0706_review.shtml |
