Richardson Browne should write a book. Given his success and maverick reputation, it could doubltess become required reading for anyone who gets a hair up their assets to make a go of it in the restaurant business. After all, the guy's an Emiril Lagasse-Hunter S. Thompson gene-splicing experiment. His business cards make no bones about rattling his critics (although his "kiss my ass" message is articulated in Spanish), and he's hurled $100 bills at folks who've bitched while waiting for tables, presumably, so they'd eat elsewhere. If he's part of the attraction, make no mistake: It's the wildly creative cuisine at his two, New Mexican-style eateries that keep Browne's places playing to packed houses day and night, year after year. Heck, even President Bush schlepped there for turkey enchiladas. Tantamount to cannibalism you say? Shame on you.
As surely as Richardson's and Dick's Hideaway stand as monuments to Browne's business acumen, his Rokerij- which debuted in 2004 in tribute to Browne's libertine home away from home, Amsterdam- remains his work in progress. From the get-go, the steakhouse's old Dutch vibe brought a mixed bag of reviews. Some enjoyed the genteel feel, others didn't quite know what to make of the whole Euro-paean picture. Even for a guy generally considered a mad genius of dishes and design, tilting with windmills may have struck even his biggest fans as a little out there.
Enter fate. One night, God knows who- and for God-only-knows what reason- lobbed a Molotov Cocktail onto Rokerij's roof, charring a good chunk of the restaurant. Browne faced a fair-sized restoration project. instead, he went back to the drawing board.
Pulling in for a first look-see since the rebuild, I find parking at a premium and a valet directing traffic in Rokerij's lot. Save for a tip, the service is free. The hardcore frugal can save even that buck or two by hoofing it a half block from the street spots lining Maryland east of 16th Street, just north of the property.
At the door, one must choose either the high or low road into Rokerij. I opt for the latter, wondering what had become of the the sultry, subterranean lounge at the bottom of a tunneled flight of stairs. Happily, I find it just as it was; dimly lit, twinkling in candlelight, and cat-in-a-shoebox cozy. The fireplace is still there crackling and fringed with plush armchairs and a sofa. So, too, the burnished copper bar with its cushy barstools, and the deep dining booths that bookend a beautiful room.
Heading somewhat apprehensively upstairs to dinner after a drink, my thoughts turn to what about Rokerij may have risen- for better or worse- from the ashes. I recall the neat but otherwise nondescript dining room looking almost museum-like, its walls plastered with reproductions of works by Rembrandt and such. Granted, that motif had some relevance here, but I can certainly see how it may have come across as a bit staid. Putting the wooden shoe on the other foot, it's hard to imagine any bistro abroad articulating American steakhouse Zeitgeist through the works of Whistler and Winslow Homer. If the affinity between Amsterdam's legendary libertarianism and Browne's own Bohemian bent was the message, trying to capture it through Renaissance-era imagery may have muddled it a bit.
Suffice it to say, I find changes to the original canvas applied in broad strokes. Rokerij's had more than a little work done up top, enough so to make even her gorgeous sister restaurants envious. Simply put, she's gone from Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring to Scarlett Johansson in a little black dress.
Settling on a big, comfy barstool again, I'm bellied-up to and bowled over by a bar that's been gloriously extended and wrapped around a brand-spanking-new exhibition cooking island. A seat in the old main floor lounge seemed almost punishment; its few stools tucked away in a corner, and butted-up against the clatter of a kitchen line where cooks and service staff barked back and forth. But from where I sit now, I'm nearly the center of attention, and more of the room's makeover flirts with my perceptions. Lights are low and inviting. Smoldering pecan wood perfumes the air, and the sight of a prime rib roast being massgaed with a dry rub works like foreplay on my palate. Bed-sized booths once draped in sensible upholstery are stretched in seductive, black leather, and the former private dining room- crammed into a space too close-quartered for comfort- has been dropped for a gorgeous new number decked out in Wi-Fi, a high-def TV of drive-in-like dimensions with DVD, a stellar sound system, and a laptop. From the looks of things, Rokerij's emerged from her Holland-daze, to become a saucier smokehouse (that's what Dutch rokerijs are, by the way). It's definitely an improvement, and decidedly more Richardson-esque.
For the better, too, is the buffeted menu. While many presentations are Rokerij's own, I recognize other selections- mainly seafood- staged, sauced, and even salsa'd in ways familiar to Richardson's faithful. Browne's doing a little co-branding here, and why not? Some of the same goods he used to secure his Southwestern corner of the market should help turn the corner with Rokerij.
My appetizers demonstrate the hybrid approach. Oysters Rokerij proffers three plumb specimens baked with fresh Dungeness crab, spinach and bits of smoky bacon, all topped with that addictive jalapeno-spiked hollandaise perfected in Browne's New Mexican kitchens. Calamari- whose distinct flavor and delicate texture were, alas, frittered away by over-frying- provided a mop for an equally muy bueno red chile sauce. It's not until I savor silky steak tartare- pristine, prime beef tenderloin minced with fresh herbs, egg, cornichon and capers- that things take a turn for the purely Occidental. Let me assure you: As of the time of this writing, I'm exhibitng no Mad Cow symptoms whatsoever. For those of you who shudder at the notion of eating raw red meat of even the highest grade and proper handling, consider; you run as much a health risk ordering your favorite sushi, and frankly, you've no idea what you're missing.
Finishing up preliminary courses, four sea scallops in a wrap of crisp bacon pair with a trio of dipping options; sauces of roasted onion, red pepper, and another helping of plate-licking hollandaise. Glutton that I've been, it's a good things I'd arrived early enough to feast on bargain pricing. From 4-6, seven days a week. small plate options like these and others can be had for a song ($5). Otherwise, such petite pleasures run nine bucks apiece (or two for $16, three for $22). Order any wine from the glass list before the clock strikes four, and you'll sip for seven dollars.
Filling up before dinner on my first visit, I make the same mistake the second time around. A charcuterie platter is available at two pricepoints ($14 or $24), and I order what figures to be the small one to save room.
What I'm served is nonetheless cornucopial. Generous samplings of cheeses- a habanero-flecked havarti, a mustard seed-studded Gouda, and a white wine-cured chevre- fringe a platter laden with pepper-crusted dry salami, rosemary-scented ham, and a course pate' I find akin to the kishka- a blood sausage- a learned to crave as a kid. Mixing and matching all these foodstuffs with wine-poached pear, roasted garlic, and good, salty imported olives, I'm done in again. It's all good, though, and too much to resist.
For dessert, I take a few bites of the baby spinach salad ($8) that sat around watching me make a pig of myself. It's tossed in bacon vinaigrette and, if nothing fancy with simple chopped egg and crumbled feta accompaniments, it's simply delicious.
Shamefully, I've precious little to report on the entree front. But anyone who knows Richardson Browne's restaurants can tell you that, if you like how something on the menu reads, you'll love the consistency his kitchen crews demonstrate in translating it to the plate. Whether it's that crusted prime rib ($32) I watched being readied for a long, lazy roasting, the double cut lamb chops I've enjoyed on previous visits ($25), slathered in mint jelly as God intended, or a slow-braised veal shank served in rich wine gravy over papardelle ($30), everything tastes as good as advertised.
Maybe that's why so many who've beaten a path to Richardson's Browne's doors tend to quote chapter and verse on the man's proprietary talents.
His restaurants speak for themselves.
The Rokerij
6335 North 16th Street
Phoenix, AZ 85016
602-287-8900
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