Epicure's Delight

Regardless of when you believe human beings became human -- whether it was at some point during thousands of centuries of random evolution, or the more deliberate beginnings depicted by your creation myth of choice -- those humans always had to eat. Of course, those humans were also lazy bastards, and quickly grew weary of the labor-intensive practice of strangling wild animals to death with their bare hands. But then came tools, from the fishhook and the scythe to the latest in cost-effective, genetic transmogrifications.

And so, today, at least here in modern, urban America, most of us have been liberated from the burden of food gathering. Throw in the Industrial Revolution, and the majority of San Franciscans have also been freed from the burden of producing anything of any material value whatsoever. Instead, we have stockbrokers, lawyers, and the entire Internet industry, not to mention accountants, models, spokespersons, politicians, parking control officers, interior decorators, dog groomers, telemarketers, and, at the end of the chain, the most luxury-born parasite of all: the food critic.

But to back up: Though humans have always needed to eat, this too evolved. Today we snack, we feast, we nosh, we do lunch, and then, when we're done screwing around, we dine. According to my dictionary, this last term means only to eat dinner, or to entertain with dinner, although of course it implies more -- an elevated state that can be defined by quality, place, lavishness, and the company one keeps, but perhaps most of all by the diner's state of mind.

In other words, "dine" is a what I would consider a weighty term, so I expected a lot from Dine, the restaurant. Dine delivered. In fact, if I had to sum it up, I would say Julia McClaskey's elegant, hearty, American-style dishes achieve a superb balance of decadence and restraint, run through with a passion for the natural goodness of fresh foods and an awareness of the unlimited possibilities of modern, global cuisine.

As you enter a cavernous, softly lit dining room, a tremendous still life -- fruit in a bowl, oil on canvas -- speaks of simplicity and bounty. Exposed brick absorbs excess light, and larger tables are set far enough apart that the steady hum of conversation surrounds the diner like an aura, but doesn't intrude. At the center of the room, a chandelier with a luminous globe at its center hangs above a vast wood banquet table, as if to say that, at least here, dining is a social ritual, one that draws freely on the best the world has to offer.

An anecdote: While scouting Dine in advance, my friend Michelle and I were seated at the bar when a keg went dry, emitted a quick belch, and doused us with a spattering of beer. Our bartender was, of course, mortified, and, after providing napkins and soda, comped not only the drinks in front of us, but the next round, and the previous one, for a total of six drinks. To me, this is a sign of a class operation (not to mention a great deal), and while our return showed a few of the growing pains of a bustling -- and perhaps slightly understaffed -- new restaurant, any difficulties were more than overshadowed by the hospitality we felt from beginning to end.

We began with a simple indulgence -- a half-dozen luscious, glistening Tomales Bay oysters on the half shell ($10) served with horseradish and a delicate mignonette -- and, since we were celebrating (that afternoon, I had completed graduate school), two flutes of sparkling wine. When dining, I think money -- or at least two bucks -- should not be an object, as evidenced by our Bruno Paillard brut, France ($10) and the Schramsberg blanc de noirs, Napa Valley ($8). The Schramsberg seemed unfocused, a sweet, mild haze compared to the absolute, crisp precision of its French counterpart, which knifed straight to the special nerve between the ear and the back of the jaw, as good, dry champagne always does.

Our palates awakened, we embarked on a long and pleasurable journey in which every dish seemed a self-contained world. Balance was the key, as with the Maine scallops ($11) -- monstrous, crisp-seared bivalves served with chilled asparagus spears and a creamy lemon-tarragon aioli. A small, cleansing radish salad completed the circle, so that even one appetizer felt like a meal.

A grilled heart of romaine with sun-dried tomato vinaigrette ($9) was a masterpiece; a hint of smokiness clung to crisp, foot-long greens touched with little more than a rumor of vinaigrette, while sweet, chewy sun-dried tomatoes and satiny goat cheese on toasted bread drew me into a marvelously complex symphony of texture and flavor. Then came the gap. As we waited for our entrees, our glasses sat empty for one ... two ... no, make that five unendurable minutes. Surely, even the cave dwellers had it better than this, and since our waitress was attending to what seemed like a dozen other tables, we ordered another round of drinks from a passing stranger (a waiter, as luck would have it), then headed out the door for a midmeal smoke.