Beware the crushing grip of Marjorie Fuller. While her husband, Mark
Fuller, former head chef at Dahlia Lounge, works his magic in Spring
Hill’s spotless open kitchen, she works the room, chatting up each
table. Patrons are by and large charmed, and one-word responses and
vague gazing into the distance do not deter her. Best to go with it,
and learn, for instance, that Spring Hill is what its neighborhood, the
West Seattle Junction, used to be called—the landlords’ family
had a dairy of the same name back in the day. Eventually, she sweetly
asks your name, then shakes your hand in a breathtaking, viselike
manner. She’s a petite woman. If you wear a ring on your right hand,
indentations will be visible on the neighboring digits.
While West Seattle’s finer-dining arrival has been serially heralded
for several years now—see Ovio Bistro/O2 (now closed), Blackbird
Bistro, Beàto, Ama Ama—nothing has achieved destination
status. Spring Hill will. On one night recently, women with very
well-executed plastic surgery clip-clopped around on very expensive
high heels, clearly imported from another neighborhood, if not another
planet; they were right at home in the proto-futuristic interior, which
is in the sharp style of Taste SAM, Boom Noodle, and many others
worldwide. Narrow, pale wood panels create the feeling of being inside
an oversized CD case, while distressed concrete floors and hard
surfaces obliterate the music coming from discreet speakers. Over the
urban din, you may not always be able to hear your server, but the
signal is clear: high-end, at a familiar, finely tuned pitch. The two
strokes of genius: a geometric green grid of wine rack at the back that
functions as a wall, and the particularly compelling open kitchen.
Mr. Fuller and his staff move silently and smoothly around each
other in choreographed harmony in the kitchen. Nary a word is spoken;
pots do not clang. One man’s job is to stand still with his brow
furrowed and his chin sunk to his chest, concentrating deeply on
endless prep tasks. It’s professionalism incarnate, of the opposite
sort from red-faced, plate-throwing TV chefs. The precision and
intensity are presided over by shining ladles and tongs hanging in
order of size, and it’s all reflected in a stripe of mirror along the
opposite wall. Watching the lining-up of each stalk of asparagus on a
plate makes a certain kind of person feel a little choked up.
What’s being produced in this kitchen is marvelous in two ways.
First: From an ample sampling, much of the food is not merely excellent
but interesting in its excellence, giving your mind something to do
along with your mouth. What Mr. Fuller is calling a cold cioppino
($12), for example, is a miracle of a summer soup: a crystal-clear
tomato broth with a bit of basil oil and half-immersed morsels of
Dungeness crab, shrimp, mussel, and halibut. How can something
transparent be so flavorful, and also so subtle? Why is this the
perfect medium for seafood? Think it over, eat it up. A small plate of
steak “hot & cold” ($12) has hand-chopped tartare formed into a
cube, a piece of rib eye with flavor-matching chopped caper sauce, and
a few puffed potato chips like those nearly buoyant Asian rice snacks.
How do you make potato into air? (The explanation involves tapioca,
dehydration, and a few more steps; wondering is more fun.) Why doesn’t
your grilled steak ever come out as completely perfect as this little
bit, crisp char and roseate center? From the ice-cold shellfish section
of the menu, king clam ($7), aka our friend the geoduck, is citrus
cured, barely spiced with the addictive addition of Chinese red pepper,
served thin-shaved in a little dish marooned prettily in a giant bowl
of ice. What is it about all other geoduck everywhere that’s not snappy
like this, but chewy and, frankly, kind of gross? A salmon
entrée ($29) features fish as perfectly seared as you’d expect
from a Dahlia alum—Mr. Fuller has doubtless cooked an
oceanful—but wait, there’s more: asparagus, stems carefully
shaved by that intent prep cook; gnocchi that’s both neutral and
remarkably good; tart-sweet yet restrained red pepper sauce; and
salmon-skin “crackling” that’s a shatteringly crisp, massive
improvement on the idea of a pork rind. Roasted duck ($24), sliced into
medallions with a liquidy orange-mustard sauce, is among the best, in
town or anywhere. The veg served with it right now is a witty, seasonal
visual joke on frozen vegetable medley—local fresh peas, baby
onions, glazed thumb carrots. There’s also a quinoa biscuit, an
adventure in texture in a generally run-of-the-mill class of bread.
The second way Spring Hill’s food makes you marvel: Even when an
element of a dish doesn’t work, you’re still happy to be eating it,
applauding the effort and unembittered. A salmon pâté ($9)
is so smooth and buttery, it slides into boring, but then it’s got
smoked dill ground to dust, tiny cubes of jiggly pine-nut jelly, slices
of sweet-pickley mustard-brined apple. Supposedly “creamy” grits ($14)
were grainy, but the prawns with them—like everything off the
apple-wood-burning grill—were smoky wonders, as was a rich,
brown, Southern-style shrimp gravy. Morels made a lovely seasonal
accent here, but the poached egg seemed like overkill. Despite the
intellect’s objection, not an iota went uneaten. Underdone grits are a
foible of a new kitchen; likewise, a few noodles in the handmade
tagliatelle ($19) were stuck together, but the simple spring dish (fava
beans, more morels, cherry tomatoes, shreds of spring onion, Parm) was
outstanding. Mild rainbow trout ($22) was superlative in every way,
especially with its big, vinegary marinated artichoke hearts, but the
accompanying spaeztle was a little dry. No one cared.
What is a concern at Spring Hill: the steep prices on the Oregon and
Washington wine list. In this economy (and in this still far-flung
neighborhood), a few low-end options are a must; the by-the-glass
average is $11, and bottles of red begin at $40 and ascend
precipitously. The oddity of a can of Rainier on the beer list for $3
starts to look pretty attractive.
For dessert, the melty, sea-salted chocolate cake ($6)—more
like a dense, cool mousse—with salted peanut ice cream deserves
the raves it’s already getting. And service, reportedly predictably
bumpy at the beginning, already appears to be evening out, with one
server in particular a marvel of both knowledge and politesse (“Is
there anything I’m overlooking that you would care for?”). Once Ms.
Fuller ceases her hand-smashing campaign, everyone will be sitting
pretty at Spring Hill.