Pour

An unlikely contender has taken the lead in my mental ranking of best high-end restaurants in Lancaster, Pennsylvania: Pour.

I say unlikely not because it's not high-end—two people can easily drop north of $50 on a couple drinks and appetizers—but because it's more of a New York-style tapas bar.

The drink menu regularly lists 20 domestics and 20 imports in bottles and ten taps from Pennsylvania to Denver, Germany and Belgium. Six reds, six whites and sparkling wines are available by the glass or bottle, and there's a healthy cabinet of port. Pour consistently mixes the most surprising and nuanced cocktails in Lancaster, playing games with Jefferson's Reserve bourbon, Blue Coat gin from Philadelphia and Thistle Finch white rye from six blocks away.

In the evening, diners spill out of a lively courtyard onto Prince Street's gallery row. Inside, cascading metal wine racks and colored lighting make the bar feel comfortably upscale—like your aunt's "modern" house on Staten Island.

But the food menu is what really astounds. In a town where frozen pastries pass for hors d'oeuvres (see "Culturas"), Pour serves exquisite morsels of perfectly paired quail, duck, swordfish and pork butt.

No, the portions aren't big. You won't take home leftovers. But the food will be worth tasting the first time.

Slow down for once. Look at your food. Take a bite. Try to identify the ingredients. Then take a drink. Then continue your conversation. This is what eating out should mean: an experience very few of us can create at home.
 
In truth, Pour may be misnamed. Even if they didn't serve drinks, you could get drunk off the food.

http://pouronprince.com/

 

Camelot Cellars Urban Boutique Winery

I held my tongue. Literally. And made gagging noises.

No, actually, my friends and I were very polite. But I felt sorry for the couples across the bar who looked like they were on dates and trying to be taken seriously. 

Then the cheese plate came out and had to be freed from its plastic-wrap cocoon in our presence, and our server forgot to unwrap the two slices of stale bread, and we were pretty sure the revealed chunks of cheese were from Kroger. 

And then the bill came out and it was every bit as much as you would expect to pay for four good drinks and charcuterie at a nice place, and my hosts picked up the tab and I felt bad for them.

Camelot Cellars. They import exotic grape juice from all over the world and turn it into crappy wine on site. Avoid avoid avoid.

http://camelotcellars.com/

Commonwealth on Queen

My brunch date and I stumbled onto Commonwealth on Queen the morning of their invitation-only soft opening. As we apologized and turned to leave, the man behind the Square register invited us to stay, as long as we gave the kitchen a little grace.

We gave them grace. After five minutes of staring at a tabletop, we learned there was no table service, so we went back to the counter to look at the menu. When my exotic breakfast order arrived looking a lot like scalloped potatoes with paprika, I held my tongue. Nor did we complain when the coffee came midway through the meal. 

It was, after all, their soft opening. But I did secretly wonder whether Commonwealth was some kind of church ministry. Nobody seemed to have restaurant experience.

Months passed. An article was published. We went back.

I ordered the Barn Burner. My date ordered the Big Ol' Breakfast Sandwich and a French press. We signed with our finger and found a table outside. 

Five minutes went by, then ten. I got up, thought about grace and sat back down. Five more minutes went by. I went inside. Sandwiches were coming toward me, so I followed them out to our table. They were cold.

Still no coffee. I was done with half my sandwich when the French press arrived. The server explained that she was in the middle of making it when they got a rush of customers. She gave us silverware.

I asked her if Commonwealth was part of a church ministry. She said not. We drank coffee. As we got ready to leave, she came back with sugar.

Commonwealth on Queen says they are a "farm to fork" cafe. Friends, local is no longer quaint, and it is no excuse for poor service. I can name half a dozen other restaurants that feature local foods, and none give me the impression they are waiting for the hens to lay before they make my omelet.

Tho' your big windows and sculpted chairs beckon me, yet I will not be a citizen of your commonwealth.

http://commonwealthonqueen.com/menu/

The Accomac Inn

Nothing says hospitality and comfort to me like the smell of wood smoke in the winter. The host took our coats and seated us immediately in a simple room with a lively fire. My barrel-aged Manhattan was strong and cold. My date's coffee came with an insulated French press and steamed milk. A variety of dinner rolls arrived piping hot. Each ingredient in the pearl barley, kale and beet risotto (smoked mushrooms, snails) tasted like itself and delicious in combination. “Risotto” was even in quotes on the menu!

When the little things are done right, expectations run high for the main event.

My date ordered the most homely-sounding thing on the menu—meatloaf with ketchup—but it came out looking like a rock star with a crispy bacon mohawk. The mild venison loaf contained a mushroom surprise, and the cranberry ketchup was a striking complement. Comfort food with a wink and a laugh.

I threw caution to the wind and ordered seafood. Squid ink risotto and saffron sauce tangled on a long plate. The humble cod was flaky and flavorful. Almonds were little nutty explosions that made the scallops taste even more buttery. It was not overdressed or overly salty. I began to wonder whether shrimp can be harvested from the Susquehanna River.

The Accomac Inn has been around since 1775. It sits on the west bank of the Susquehanna, just above Wrightsville. In the summer it serves brunch on a long screened deck overlooking the river. In the winter it hosts jazz and firelit dinners. Most of its food is grown on site or comes from local farms.

My date and I came to the Accomac on impulse after hiking Kelly's Run (near the Pinnacle in Lancaster County). We were hot and tired and wearing sneakers. Anne pulled a shawl over her Race against Racism workout shirt; I put on a sweater and tried to look hipster.

It didn't matter; no one at the Accomac blinked. We were given friendly, attentive service by a young woman who later confessed she was new. We confessed we were impostors. We stayed for dessert.

http://www.accomacinn.com/restaurant/

Checkers Bistro

Chef Daniel Quishpe was my first neighbor in Lancaster. On the sidewalk one day he told me to check out Checkers Bistro. “We’re doing something a little different,” he said. 

I did check it out, and Checkers was different. The restaurant seemed to be run through the ground floors of several former townhouses. Each dining space was appointed in a different style, from wallpaper to stucco, and the whole contraption was given a glass entrance and wood-trimmed bar. It was odd.

The food, though, was simple and delicious. You could taste the tuna in the tuna po’ boy, the beets in the beet salad. When I mentioned it was my birthday, a small complimentary cake appeared with congratulations written in chocolate syrup.

A year ago Lancaster heard Checkers would be moving into a renovated warehouse space on Harrisburg Pike. They would double their seating and adopt an existing kitchen. In a town where you can leave your neighborhood by walking down the block, I wondered if they would keep their clientele. 

To be honest, the jury is still out for me. The new space is beautiful—simple, dark furniture; theatrical lighting; photos and equipment from the Champion Blower and Forge Company that manufactured fans, drill presses and other tools there until the 1960s. 

But the menu, ostensibly a “unique blend of French, Asian and American cuisines,” just reads like glorified bar food to me. The dinner menu lists steak frites, tuna frites and sweet potato frites, as well as pomme frites, potato gratin and housemade “smashed” potatoes. And fish & chips. 

My beef Bolognese was forgettable.

I will be going back—to sit at the angled cement-like bar and try something from their handsome wine cellar—but this time I will not brace myself for “different.”

http://checkersbistro.com/

Roburrito's

Good burritos. Rude staff.
Try Neato Burrito.

http://www.neatoburrito.com/

 

Tony Stella’s Encore

Tony Stella’s Encore gets a standing ovation for service. We poked our heads in at 6:00 p.m. the Sunday before Labor Day and were immediately seated at the one table with a cancelled reservation. Water, fresh bread and a drink menu arrived as we were “settling in.” In the corner, a young pianist sang Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah, one of the most excruciatingly beautiful love songs ever to pass for background music.

The recommended Napa Valley cabernet was smooth and bursting with berries. The absinthe menu was long—fully eight labels, plus mixed drinks—and included a helpful explanation about louching, the process of dripping ice water into the clear spirit until it becomes cloudy. 

Having never tried absinthe before I naturally ordered the 138-proof Grand Absente distilled in Forcalquier, France for $20. Our server reappeared with an armful of accoutrement, and as we watched the water dissolve a sugar cube on the absinthe spoon, she explained how Picasso, Van Gogh and Hemingway waited for “the green fairy.”

Absinthe became legal in this country in 2007. It is traditionally made with anise, fennel and wormwood, giving it a strong licorice flavor. For someone who enjoys both Sambuca and black jelly beans, Grande Absente was refreshingly sweet and herbal. Nursing it through dinner, it acted as a palate cleanser, like pickled ginger with sushi.

Dinner had mixed reviews. Tony himself appeared like a summer storm in a white dress shirt to present the evening specials. "I have chicken: Toscana breaded and grilled breast of chicken over spinach, onion and tomato finished with a balsamic vinaigrette. Chicken. I have filet of sole—hang tight—"

He had received a phone call mid-recital, and it wasn’t until after we overheard his performance at other tables that we realized he never completed our list. 

We ordered off the ample menu. My date’s roasted duck was dry, to the point that she regretted not sending it back. My veal was good—firm but not chewy and covered in a rich dark sauce that Tony said was his mother’s unusual recipe. I tasted garlic, rosemary, onion and vinegar. 

The complementary salad was good; it had a mild blue cheese. The complementary side of pasta was unnecessary: the pasta was out of a box, and the entrées were already too big to finish. I finished my entrée anyway. And most of my pasta. (It had good sauce.)

The meal lasted a spacious two hours. I felt pampered and relaxed. My date felt annoyed about the duck. When the pianist launched into Hallelujah again we knew it was time to go.

http://www.tonystellasencore.com/#!menus/c24tf