Excelsior

By Alison Arnett and Sheryl Julian, Globe Staff, 10/23/2003

A nostalgic Alison at Excelsior

Will we ever stop calling it Biba? The fate of Excelsior still seems tied to the panache of Lydia Shire's groundbreaking first restaurant at the same location. This one is more masculine in many ways, more strikingly men's club in decor and (sometimes) more efficiently run. But it's hard not to compare.

Brown replaced red, and reserve replaced zaniness. Did the place go from Democrat to Republican, or at least the culinary equivalent? We get to the upstairs of Excelsior via the glass-walled elevator that offers up a view of the wine collection, sort of like showing off the jewels. A look around the dining room reveals an expensively dressed crowd, and it's easy to see that this was the opening that counted last summer.

The cuisine bears signs of Shire's humor while showing off the luxe to match the redo. Appetizers include foie gras steak with walnuts, Kobe-style barbecued beef, and a thick, sinfully rich buttered butternut squash soup. Lobster floods the entree list, and it looks like every other diner is springing for the steaks, marked with an "X" or a "Y." Shire makes the man's steak the demure one with Roquefort butter and a flounce of beet pressed into a lace pattern; the lady's steak, exactly the same sized sirloin, has a zesty "X" of wild leeks and hot green garlic.

. . .and Sheryl below, not as content

We call Excelsior bar to make a reservation. We tell them at the door that we have a bar reservation and state the time. We're asked to wait. At the bar, we nibble extraordinarily crisp scallion pancakes and edamame in their pods. Finally, when we inquire about our table, a gentleman takes us to Excelsior's electric hall of mirrors - its elevator to the dining room. "We have a reservation for the bar," we remind him, whereupon he informs us that Excelsior doesn't take reservations downstairs.

We are off to a bad start, but he finds us a table. A miniscule dish of guacamole and salad is arranged like a porcupine, with delicious chips standing in a delectable smooth green puree. Tuna tartare is just a morsel, alongside a large chewy roti (bread), the house specialty. Together they are an odd combination, unbeatable individually. Smoky lobster pizza, a suggestion of the waitress, is as rich and divine as it is billed. So is fudgy sourdough chocolate cake with an inky chocolate sauce.

The clubby room, with tables along the window and the wall opposite the bar, feels luxurious and comfortable. Eating well and watching the foot traffic on Boylston Street is fun, no matter how many times you've done it. Alas, a staggering $214 bill (four of us for drinks, then three at table) has to make you wonder what the check would have looked like if we'd taken that elevator ride.