Restaurant Review: Canlis Hooked on Classics

Like all women of a certain age, 59-year-old Canlis has gamely fought the onslaught of the encroaching years. And by the fickle standards of the restaurant world, she’s aged extraordinarily well. With artful nips here and clever tucks there, the grande dame of fine dining in the Pacific Northwest has stayed the course through three generations of family caretakers, always staying current but never quite cutting edge.

As a family-run institution, this elegant Roland Terry–designed aerie over Lake Union is a legacy of love. When Chris and Alice Canlis inherited the restaurant from founder (and Chris’ father) Peter Canlis, they shifted the restaurant away from its surf ’n’ turf origins, burnishing Canlis to high brilliance. The illustrious wine cellar became a draw in its own right, and former chefs such as Greg Atkinson and Aaron Wright turned the kitchen into a seasonal showcase for the bounty of the Pacific Northwest.

In recent years, more of the daily operations have been entrusted to the third generation, Mark and Brian Canlis. Last December, the brothers made their most visible move: passing the head chef’s toque to 31-year-old Jason Franey, who moved here from New York’s Eleven Madison Park amidst much fanfare.

Franey’s new menu debuted in January, and he’s edited the old book with a heavy hand. Enough of the classic dishes remain—“They’re sacred,” quipped a waiter—to provide a reassuring sense of continuity. And they are as delicious as always. The cluster of Peter Canlis prawns, crowning a pool of butter sauce freckled with red pepper flakes, continues its decades-long reign as the most beloved shrimp appetizer in Seattle. The chopped Canlis salad—a civilized riff on the Caesar—still rules diners’ appetites with its creamy coddled-egg dressing and crumbles of bacon. The embossed pouf of the iconic Grand Marnier dessert soufflé—regally emblazoned with a capital “C”—still draws gasps of delight when its little pitcher of crème anglaise is poured into the cut top of the soufflé, sending up a vanilla-scented wisp of steam.

Perhaps only regulars like myself will notice that the rest of the menu, like the economy, has been shorn of the luxurious abundance that characterized it during the last decade. But maybe you don’t need to have eaten there dozens of times over the past nine years to notice a certain lack of ritziness in the offerings. I certainly noticed—and mourned—the absence of the opulent steak and lobster combo, the obligatory (but delightful) roasted chicken, the retro caviar blini.

We’re all living in narrowed straits now, and many restaurants have put the brakes on extravagance. Still, seeing Canlis’ new menu without those gilded extras is like seeing a movie star without her makeup. A bit shocking, but if you look closely, you can see the resemblance, because, with its classic dishes, Canlis still has great bone structure.

The new offerings from chef Franey are decidedly minimalist in form and reserved in flavor—though it was sometimes hard to tell whether it was by accident or design. Salad-like first courses arrive composed, not tossed: a trio of Hawaiian shrimp, with matching hearts of palm, notable for the briny funk of its fermenting daikon slivers; the inscrutable Kona Kompachi, three demitasse portions of minced yellowfin tuna mounded atop avocado slivers; cubed beets, glossy with olive oil and arranged by color into three piles, tasting exactly like… cubed beets.

Franey is obviously in favor of letting ingredients speak plainly. While this is an admirable trait—and one that follows a tradition initiated by illustrious Canlis alum Atkinson—there has to be a point when the thing itself—say, a beet or a piece of salmon—stops tasting just like itself and tastes like a better version of itself, by the addition of something else, like a richly reduced sauce or an artful sprinkle of sea salt. Franey’s thing is fruity acidity—with mixed results. The parsnip velouté was elevated by the tiny bursts of minced Bosc pear mounded in the middle of the creamy soup. But the slices of yellowfin on the winter tasting menu were overwhelmed by the accompanying Satsuma mandarins.