Spiced Pear

Great Expectations – With a stunning dining room and an unrivaled view, the bar is set high at Newport’s Spiced Pear. Fortunately, the food more than measures up.

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Though it’s an effort to turn one’s attention away from the scenery and toward the food, the challenge dissipates with a single bite. An amuse bouche from the chef arrives on large silver soup spoons (Christofle, if you’re looking). On one night, it is a flawless lobster salad with seasonal asparagus and a dice of hearts of palm; on another, a massive quenelle of raw Kobe beef served atop thinly sliced radish, shaved parmesan and a toasted baguette slice. So high had these simple salads set the bar that I almost dreaded moving forward with the rest of my meal.

Fortunately, appetizers can hold their own, from the Southern-style “country fried” foie gras ($24) to a vibrant tuna poke ($18).

The former is a study of contrasting elements: a nearly liquid duck liver enrobed in crispy batter, paired with nutty flap-jacks and heightened by the sweet, slightly acidic presence of both a flamingo-pink cherry foam and a rich Sauternes syrup. It’s politically incorrect heaven. The latter is far lighter: a porcelain pot of sushi-grade tuna, grounded by buttery avocado and then sent soaring with the help of petite pickled mushrooms and a sharp ginger-wasabi vinaigrette. Raw tuna has become such a staple in the modern American diet—all the more so with the addition of Japanese seasonings—and yet the dish still manages to surprise the palate with its subtle crunch (that’s the mushrooms) and piquant dressing. Such a dish speaks to Ketchum’s ability to skirt the fine line between familiar and novel. His menu is a distant throw from rustic but never approaches more esoteric fare that’s designed to challenge rather than please the customer. It’s a kitchen where old-world glamour meets modern sourcing.

Not all dishes, however, are robust pre-parations. Ketchum seems to delight in the unexpected. Though seafood is often served side by side with pork or veal (a clever take on surf and turf), he still manages to placate refined palates with an appetizer of savory gulf shrimp ($18) woven together on a bed of pan-fried lemon gnocchi. The pasta’s crisped exterior and mild acidic flavor are the perfect foil for a sublime candied fennel butter that offers only the faintest hint of sweet licorice. It’s a sauce that could easily translate into a sophisticated dessert but one that adds refinement to the hefty shellfish.  

Although Ketchum has a delicate hand with seafood, he still maintains an upscale approach to America’s quintessential dish: meat and potatoes. Seared duck breast ($40) is paired with a Swiss-inspired rosti cake of shredded potatoes and a thick fig reduction that begs to be savored with a California zinfandel. Berkshire pork ($38) meets a polenta galette (potato disguised as corn in my book), both of which are napped with an acidic autumnal cranberry jus.

With steakhouses all over town, Ketchum might have stayed away from cowboy beef, but he produces a rib-eye ($49) that I’d choose over nearly any other.

The sear is stronger than most, creating an irresistible dichotomy between the charred periphery and the ruby interior.

Add creamed spinach and a melange of mixed vegetables, and a classic regains its stronghold.

In contrast, pastry chef Laurent Vals’s desserts are unabashedly contemporary, though form never supersedes function. His concoctions are aesthetically fetching and his attention to the nuances of flavor commendable. He often presents in pairs and trios, melding traditional pastry with savory techniques: fresh pineapple is served as both crudo and carpaccio; brine-cured olives are tempered with fragrant vanilla; caramelized peaches swim in passion fruit nage, a term commonly used for a shellfish broth but, here, simply a sweet liquid bath.

Though seasonal fruits are always in play, it’s safe to say that Vals works wonders with chocolate. His well-known chocolate trio ($15) introduces disparate textures and flavors to the perennial favorite. Even the coarse grain of natural sugar asserts itself proudly in a subtle mousse rather than kowtowing to ultra-refined commercial products. He playfully drapes paper-thin pineapple over almond pastry cream, topping both with a spongy chocolate financier and a dense ganache ($12). Not dramatic enough? Look for a small accent of edible gold leaf on the massive glass plates and porcelain platters.

If you’ve arrived on the best of evenings, you’ll be given the option of choosing your own trio of desserts—an opportunity that shows up every so often. Consider it Vals’s Greatest Hits, Volume One and hold your first edition. His work, quite simply, is unrivaled in this state.

Let me add, for those in doubt, that I’m not delusional. I’m well aware that many people will never spend $50 or more on an entree, no matter the quality of the food or the setting. It is opulent; some might even argue decadent. But those at the Chanler would add that it’s also divine, and, after four years, I remain powerless to disagree. After all, eating at Spiced Pear is a bit like reading a Jane Austen novel: You may question the air of exclusivity, but it doesn’t make the witty banter or sprawling lawns—in this case, the superlative food and unrivaled view—any less appealing.