Just because Matt's in the Market is now two and a half times bigger doesn't mean it's any easier to get a table. If you show up without a reservation, you'd better bring a snack; just like before, you'll wait approximately an eternity, if you can stand it. I never couldâmore than once, I went without calling ahead and ended up waiting in the second-floor hallway, watching those eating at the tiled counter in the shoebox of a room, then finally feeling faint with hunger and going someplace else. So I'd never eaten at Matt's, which appalled Matt's loyalists ("NEVER?"), who are legion.
This spring, Matt's closed down, knocked out the south wall, and expanded into the corner. The tiles that spell out "COUNTER INTELLIGENCE" (from the cafe that preceded Matt's) were cleaned, framed, and now hang over a seven-seat bar. The open kitchen takes up almost the whole footprint of the old space, and the staff looks very happy back there; they're finally literally cooking with gas (the old stove was butane). Matt's has also gained three more windows overlooking Pike Place Market, which means three times more views of swirling currents of tourists during the day, more quiet cobblestones at night, more glinting slices of Puget Sound all around. These windows, thrown open to the flowerboxes on the Market's roof and the smell of the salt air, are almost painfully great.
The season and the space suggest lightness and cool, which the brief dinner menu lackedâclams with hot-sounding piri-piri/beer broth ($10) or mussels with chorizo ($13); roast duck with a wintry trinity of lentils/bacon/sautĂ©ed mushrooms ($26); steak with roasted potatoes ($32). An arugula salad ($11) with paper-thin fennel bulb and a tangle of pickled red onion was freighted with both pancetta bits and duck cracklings, and had unadvertised spinach, the heavyweight of greens. Its cava vinaigrette: thankfully light. A smoked catfish salad ($10) was laden with big chunks of rich fish and pieces of nectarine, the fruit not quite as juicy-ripe as it could be. With a bottle of Sancerre ($32) on the table and the buzz of the room, though, morale remained high.
The most summery-sounding item, an entrĂ©e special ($29), was incredible: two barely seared scallops, cleaving into nearly sweet, completely supple bites at the slightest pressure; a couple of prawns, tails entwined, like the idea of heat had been perfectly applied rather than heat itself; more fennel and a few crisp green beans. The miracle sauce surrounding it allâweightless, lemony beurre blanc flecked with orange zestârefused to separate or congeal or do anything but be wonderful until the last of it was swiped up with bread.
Another entrĂ©e, tortilla-crusted Alaskan halibut, was highly recommended by the friendly, seemingly trustworthy server. It leached a pool of grease onto its plate and tasted like a bowl of chips. The avocado-tomatillo salsa on top made sense, but what lay beneathâgreen beans and broccoliâwas puzzling, as well as drowned in the grease pool. This dish cost $29.
Desserts ($6â$7) had the aspect of afterthoughts: a spoon-resistant, anticreamy pot de crĂšme; standard-issue key lime cheesecake, with standard-issue bits of white chocolate on top; greasy chocolate bread pudding (a new recipe, according to the server, which includes time in a pan with olive oil).
Fans of Matt's are often even more rabid about the greatness of Matt's lunch. Tables are as sought after as everâa phone call at 11:45 a.m. on a Thursday found the next available at 2:00 p.m. At 2:00 p.m., the place was mobbed, with reservations backed up 20 minutes. The din, though, was festive, the room breezy. I was pretty much desperate to love lunch; there's no joy in not liking food, even less in then having to write about it. And the catfish sandwich ($12) was good: tasty cornmeal crust on flaky snow-white fish, a little spice to the mayo. But paella ($16): every element coated in grease. The server brought word from the kitchen that the dish is "finished with olive oil to cut the acidity" (of what?); that it could be remade; that one could order it with no oil next time ("Paella, hold the oil slick"?).
Matt's will never not be popular. It's an intensely pleasant place to be, maybe now more than everâthey've not crammed in too many tables, everyone seems to be a regular, there's a celebratory, congratulatory air. But with the buildup about the new space, about getting in, you want incredible. Maybe it's growing pains, but, for the moment, it's less than that.
