No Sign of the Colonel

Of our three mains, only one, I think, is really stellar: the cast-iron sea bass, a carefully cooked piece of flaky fish, slicked with a bit of salty tapenade, topped with cherry tomatoes, perched over a bed of fresh corn on a plate swirled with saffron and beet purée. The night's "the devil wears pasta" is underwhelming: silky ribbons of fresh pasta whose spicy Italian tomato sauce is pretty bland, though prettily topped with torn basil leaves. My inside-out burger is kind of a stunt: two grass-fed beef patties encase a layer of bun, the whole topped with melted Tillamook and caramelized onions. It tastes OK, but not great. The crispy-edged, twice-cooked, smashed baby potatoes alongside, however, are great.

A rerun of the excellent beignets and the almost-molten-hearted brownie are joined on the table by berries (black and red, lightly touched with balsamic vinegar) on a bed of sweetened whipped ricotta.

The ghost of the Colonel has been exorcised.