Two months after moving from San Francisco to Covina -- a suburban hamlet wedged between San Dimas and Pomona amid the pedestrian-unfriendly eastern reaches of Los Angeles County -- my friend Barrie paid me a visit and described her new home. Covina hasn't treated her kindly: She's seen far too many stucco box houses; she found a job that entails a two-hour commute with traffic; her new yoga studio is so far away that she spends more time getting there than doing yoga; and, worst of all, the best restaurant she's eaten at is the Macaroni Grill (140-plus locations, all with the same nonsensical name). I didn't have the heart to tell her that "Covina" (an amalgam of the words "cove" and "vine") doesn't actually mean anything; in fact, once I thought about it, I didn't blame this discontent on Covina, but on Barrie herself. After all, she's a San Francisco type, more accustomed to architecturally pleasing cities whose names evoke noble saints, cities with sensibly monikered, individually owned restaurants such as North Beach's truly splendid Cobalt Tavern.
Anthony Pidgeon
Blue Mood: Owners Rose and Guy Ferri (Guy is also the chef).
Details
982-8123. Open for dinner every night from 5:30 p.m. to midnight (bar open until 2 a.m.), brunch on weekends from 11:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. Reservations accepted. Wheelchair accessible. Muni: 15, 30, 41, 45. Parking: $3 off dinner with a parking voucher from a nearby lot, otherwise difficult. Noise level: moderate.
Tavern Lemonade $7
Gravlax and salmon tartare $8
Pistachio-crusted chevre $8
Sage roasted chicken $16
Porcini-dusted skate $17
Warm apple crisp $6
Noval Quinto 1981 tawny port $9
1707 Powell (at Union)
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Set in the space that, until this spring, housed the venerable Washington Square Bar & Grill, Cobalt Tavern seems an excellent addition to the already bustling North Beach dining scene. Though the décor hasn't changed much since chef Guy Ferri and his wife Rose took over in April, the menu has been recast to smashing effect, and features clever, affordable, French-influenced American dishes that almost always hit the mark.
With a name like Cobalt Tavern, we weren't surprised to find some deep blue hues in the décor. Cobalt-colored wall sconces liven up an otherwise modest dining room marked by smoky, purplish-gray walls and blue accents. Quite wisely, the Ferris have retained the old Washbag's dark, well-seasoned wood bar and general hominess. It's a tavern, in other words, and seemed a welcoming place as I strolled in on a Sunday evening and found a piano-and-bass jazz duo bopping and scatting in front of a tremendous, gorgeously wrought mirror. Barrie and her friend Tiffany sat in the dining room, looking festive, which may have had something to do with the delicate, bittersweet Dutch Kir each was sipping (Ketel One vodka and cassis with a lemon twist). Or it might have been the news Barrie shared a few minutes later: She's moving back to San Francisco.
Well, you could have fit 10 Covinas in the grin that spread over my face, because Barrie happens to be one of those people who makes life better when she's around. Obviously, such news called for a celebration, and Cobalt lived up to the occasion admirably. We started with the drink list, which, in addition to the Dutch Kir, featured a brilliant, horseradishy, salt-rimmed Bloody Mary, a crisp, sprightly Mojito, and a fruity, bitter, eminently sippable Negroni. The Tavern Lemonade (rum, vodka, triple sec, and house-made lemonade) proved the best beverage, though, and by far the most dangerous: The lemonade masked its more intoxicating glassmates so thoroughly that we limited ourselves to one each, lest the road rise up to greet someone later that night.
Though the service at Cobalt can be a tad slow (we had to ask for bread three times, the drink list twice), the staff is friendly, the vibe pleasantly casual, and, when victuals did arrive, they rarely disappointed. The citrus-cured gravlax and salmon tartare appetizer paired a smallish strip of lightly piquant salmon (the gravlax) with one of the finest tastes you'll find anywhere in this city (the tartare), which came as a cylinder of the same fish, finely minced, infused with a subtle blend of ginger, chili, cilantro, and sesame, then set over coins of marinated cucumber. A trio of tiger prawns seemed seasoned with little more than salt and pepper, and lacked the complexity that marks the better dishes at Cobalt -- including the accompanying peanut-cabbage salad, flavored with an invigorating, fire-and-ice blend of chili oil and mint.
Our third appetizer, a puff of warm, pistachio-crusted chevre over mixed greens, was a masterpiece: Tangy goat cheese met bits of earthy nut, luminous roasted beets, frisée, baby spinach, and a delicate pomegranate vinaigrette laced with the crunchy, edible seeds of the fruit itself. An heirloom tomato salad offered an equally phenomenal array of tastes and textures -- crunchy, acidic green tomatoes, juicy red tomatoes, sweet, luscious yellow tomatoes, and fresh greens served with a small crostini topped with a mild salt-cod-and-potato brandade and a dab of tangy tapenade.
Though some Covinians may cook as well as chef Ferri, somehow, Barrie never found them. Perhaps once a Covinian does attain such mastery, he or she moves away, to become a New Yorker, Chicagoan, or Parisian. Such are the thoughts that occupied my mind as we waited for our entrees, one of which -- the grilled salmon -- could have been cooked by a pre-move Covinian. The piece of fish was meager and barely seasoned, while a side of starchy cannellini beans, bland roasted tomatoes, and -- according to the menu -- pancetta failed entirely. We found no evidence of my favorite salt-cured Italian bacon, which left us with the one true disappointment of the night.
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