Despite its white tablecloths and formal place settings, Gastown’s new Pourhouse, co-owned by bartender Jay Jones (in fedora), works best when it aims toward a casual atmosphere and straightforward menu fare.

Credit: Doug Shanks

ON THE PLATE: Casual suits Pourhouse best

Like most local foodies, I watched the pre-opening development of Pourhouse, the hottest new addition to Gastown’s restaurant scene, with great interest. The 135-seater opened last month at 162 Water Street, right on the tourist path across from the steam clock — as prime an address as it gets in this constantly evolving neighbourhood.

The former Flux Bistro space was picked up last spring by industry fixtures Jay Jones and Chris Irving. Serial diners will remember Jones from his highly lauded bartending stints at West, Nu, and Voya, while Irving’s kitchen pedigree can be traced back from Tofino’s Wickannish Inn and South Granville’s superlative West to London’s Michelin-starred Pétrus. Both are first-time owners.

When I first learned of Pourhouse’s name and observed its high-arched Art Nouveau branding, I imagined the sort of Depression Era-style haunt in which Hemingway would have felt comfortable, where fine drinks could be had with inexpensive and uncomplicated plates of nosh. To their credit, Jones and Irving (and their three partners, Nick Rossi, Jennifer Forster, and Chuck McIntosh) have come pretty close to nailing that vision. And with its early-adopter crowd of neighbourhood creatives and restaurant-industry folk, it looks and feels like it’s been an anchor of Gastown culture for decades. Its old wood beams, original brick, ancient radiators, and foot-pedal-operated bathroom sinks hammer this sense home, as do the period soundtrack and rustic “Bill of Fare” menu.

I wonder, then, if the introduction of white linen tablecloths and formal set ware into this otherwise casual equation isn’t a mistake. The poofy napkin arrangements and oversized wine and water glasses certainly look smart, but they may be in the wrong restaurant; it just doesn’t seem to gel with the room’s otherwise plebeian mise en scène. That wouldn’t be a big deal if table settings were only an aesthetic consideration, but they aren’t. They’re potentially dangerous, as customers expect protocol-driven service when dining in an environment that loudly declares it’s on the way.

So, if our wonderfully attentive server were held to the standards associated with the above-mentioned trappings, she’d see demerits for several technical errors (unneeded cutlery left sitting by our plates for the duration of the meal, men served first, asking before observing, etc.). It was still great service, but of a different kind: familiar, enthusiastic, capable, casual. It’s the kind I prefer, but if I saw the same mistakes at West or Lumière, I’d fear for her future and expect the manager to soon be properly disembowelled.

The food was more than adequate for the low prices, but I do have a couple of suggestions.

First, when you try to bring back a heartstring-puller like the Sloppy Joe sandwich ($12) and use local, high-quality beef and pork, it really needs to be the best damn Sloppy Joe ever. No such luck. The under-seasoned meat was also under-sauced, and it came served, inexplicably, on a toasted baguette. A good Sloppy Joe needs to be a disaster, a total napkin killer; it requires a soft, pliable bun that quickly disintegrates into a dreadful though delicious mess. This one behaved like an impervious Tempur-Pedic pillow, with all the absorbency of a terrycloth sweat sock.

Second, don’t ‘spin’ creamed corn. Just do it right. At best, this comforting side dish is hot, bright with corn flavour, thin enough to require a spoon, and slightly sweet. At Pourhouse, it was lukewarm, bland, and thick enough to require a spade.

Everything else was satisfactory. The beef short ribs ($16) were fall-apart plump but not too fatty; their carrot purée and sweet-potato accompaniments evocatively autumnal. The “campfire” trout ($16), though presented on the plate unnecessarily wrapped in tinfoil (the kitchen’s way of saying, “Like at a campfire — get it?”), was slightly overcooked and brushed a little too liberally with dill butter. I loved the grilled cheese sandwich ($10), with Gruyère, Cheddar and Havarti on cheese- and jalapeño-infused bread, which was bettered by its small side of roasted-tomato soup: deceptively thin and rather boring-looking broth was dizzyingly acidic, its high-intensity tomato taste making the mouth both water and sting. To close, I enjoyed a warm, cylindrical tower of oozingly good chocolate cake lit with salted caramel ($10), downed with a sleeve of clean-tasting Pike Place beer ($8).

I left satisfied, but confused. With such formality on display, you expect to have Chris Irving unleashed instead of strapped to a period-piece menu that probably doesn’t challenge him in the least. The young chef was trained by some of the great toques in the world, including Marcus Wareing, Gordon Ramsay, and our own David Hawksworth. He’s even made tarts for the Queen of England. But all we get to see of his capacity for awesomeness is a tasty grilled cheese? That hardly seems fair.

All that said, I’m still hook, line, and sinker for Pourhouse, if not for what it is now but for the promise of what it will be. It’s sure to stick around for a long time, and they’ll get their shit fully together soon enough. The next time I’m in for a meal, I’ll probably take it at the bar, where I’ve previously enjoyed myself with Jay Jones’s excellent cocktails. His zone of operations has a casual and cozy feel to it, shining without surrendering an ounce of professionalism — something the dining room might discover it could do also if it dropped its thin cloak of pretense.

Pourhouse
162 Water, 604-568-7022, PourhouseVancouver.com
Food: 3 stars / Service: 4 stars / Atmosphere:4 stars / Value: 4 stars (out of 5)