Steady Progress

Restaurant Progress and I have some history.

It may very well be that I will come to regret dredging up that history, but I’m going to do it anyway. First, because there’s an interesting little behind-the-scenes story here that’s never been told (publicly). And second, because I like to make good on promises when I can, even if they’re nearly a decade old.

Some of you will probably remember when Restaurant Progress exploded onto the scene, back in ye olde year of 2017. Those who don’t will hopefully forgive the cliché, but those who do will confirm that this incendiary description of Progress’ debut is apt. At the ripe old age of 25, TJ Culp left the Sam Fox system, found a ramshackle little space in Melrose, built it out with his own two hands (literally!), and opened up a hip neighborhood bistro of sorts that was jam-packed to its rustic wooden rafters practically from the moment he hung out his shingle.

The degree to which Restaurant Progress was an instant grassroots sensation cannot be exaggerated or overemphasized. It was a rare instance of the Phoenix dining public immediately and enthusiastically rallying behind exactly the kind of restaurant we food geeks wish they would support more often — independent, quirky, thoughtful, distinctive and charming.

Note what’s missing there.

The growing public narrative was that Restaurant Progress was not only one of the best new additions to the Phoenix dining scene, but one of the best restaurants in town, period. And as the gushing reviews poured into Yelp (back before Yelp was curbstomped by Google Reviews), my editor quite rightly started badgering me to get it on the review calendar. Only there was a problem.

Then- critic at Phoenix New Times, Escárcega loved Progress. LOVED it. And when she published a glowing review and called it maybe the best new restaurant of 2017 at the mid-year mark, my time was up. There are few things newspaper folks hate more than getting scooped, and my editor — quite reasonably — told me in no uncertain terms that we would wait no longer and I was to get to work on our review ASAP.

My number one obligation was — and remains — to shoot straight. So I did. While I tried to be as constructive as possible, I wrote the only review I could: the honest one. My experience was much more in line with my bewildered coterie of food geeks’ than it was with Escárcega’s. Which is fine. Despite our best efforts to get a broad sample, who knows if we had similar experiences? And even if we did, we don’t have to agree.

Boy howdy, we didn’t. Readers howled. They hated me for that one. Which is fine. Those who value popularity become influencers. Those who value honesty are better suited to the role of dining critic. Ironically, in the wake of the review, I heard from a few folks in the industry who told me they agreed, but nobody had the heart to tell Culp. (Pro Tip: You aren’t doing somebody a favor by being less than honest with them. I get it, it’s awkward and uncomfortable to offer constructive criticism to a friend, and it’s hard to do so gently and with love, but when you lie through your teeth and say everything is great, the only person you’re helping is yourself.)

Anyhoo, things eventually calmed down, and we fast-forward to the end of 2017. It’s time to write the Best New Restaurants list and yeah, there’s a big ol’ elephant in the room. Clearly, I couldn’t include a restaurant I’d given two stars (nor was I inclined to). But given the context and the public support and how I framed the review, I decided to make a fourth visit. If I felt they’d tightened things up in the interim and I had a great meal more in line with the popular take, I’d add Restaurant Progress to the list as some kind of honorable mention.

No such luck. They hadn’t, and I didn’t. And moreover, without getting into detail, it was made abundantly clear to me on that visit that I was no longer welcome. Which, again, is fine. If I were in their shoes, I’d probably have hated my guts too. But while I could see where Culp was going and I wanted to follow Restaurant Progress in the hopes it would meet its potential, I decided it would probably be best if I just left it alone for a while.

“A while” became a couple of years, a couple of years ran into the pandemic, I left the Republic, and that was that. And though friends and I discussed wanting to check back to see how things were going, we never quite got around to it. Recently, however, news of their big accolades combined with the fact that it has now officially been a Very Long Time finally got me back in to visit Restaurant Progress once more.

Man, I loved it.

burrata and fried eggplant with Calabrian chile

It is the space I remember, albeit warmed and cozied up with age. The room is still charming, the staff and clientele are still hip, the drinks are still excellent, the menu is still a tight and interesting (but not too interesting) collection of starters, mids and mains.

In terms of execution, though? This is a completely different restaurant than the one I visited in 2017.

This shouldn’t come as a surprise. It’s been over eight years since my rather weird and awkward fourth visit. We’ve all changed in the almost-decade since, and I’d expect no different from a chef who has not only held down his OG spot, but also expanded his empire to critical acclaim in the interim. (Sidebar: Sottise is great! You should go there!) Still, it’s both striking and satisfying to compare the dishes I remember to the dishes I just tasted.

We had a lovely, simple endive Caesar, dusted with cheese and basted with a lick of gently tart and pungent white anchovy dressing. I could do a compare and contrast study in why this worked so well and why the salads of 2017 didn’t, but while my lengthy preamble might suggest otherwise, I’m more interested in talking about what Progress is now rather than dwelling on what it was so long ago.

clockwise from top left: pollo croquetas with fennel vin herbs  |  hiramasa crudo
with kohlrabi and apple  |  Belgian endive Caesar

Though the Caesar was good, the crudo was dynamite. Hiramasa arrived in a clean, vegetal juice — was it kohlrabi and apple? — topped with trout roe, a bit of pungent grated fresh horseradish and a crisp apple brunoise. It wasn’t buried in sugar or vinegar. It wasn’t toppings first, fish second. It was a plate of delicate restraint, all of the accompaniments humbly deferring to the hiramasa.

We sampled some crisply fried chicken croquetas — smooth and creamy within, with an herbed aioli of sorts beneath and a crown of lightly dressed herbs and shaved fennel.

Also deftly fried, the eggplant wasn’t anything special on paper, served with burrata, mint and a melted, jammy red pepper situation spiked with chile beneath. But the execution certainly made it so. Every element sang. Chunks of cool burrata to tame scalding slabs of soft eggplant with a breadcrumb coating that crackled, and a gorgeous balance of sweet heat lurking below. All the comfort of eggplant parm (sort of), made striking through careful preparation.

clockwise from left: handmade cappelletti and Italian sausage with collard greens  |  French style lasagna,
charred and smothered in mornay  |  bay scallops in cauliflower potage

In Progress’ dim light, it was hard to visually distinguish the bay scallops from the croutons that joined them, but honestly, that was part of the fun. Sometimes you’d get a playful crunch, sometimes you’d sink into a sweet and smoky scallop, strewn about a shallow bowl of cauliflower potage, gentle and light and seasoned to pinpoint accuracy.

Pasta arrived in two formats — a lusty, rich “French style” lasagna, toasted at the edges and brimming with thick mornay. Meanwhile, make some pasta ripiena with skill and you’ll make a friend of me. Culp’s cappelletti were deftly done, joining perfectly round little marbles of Italian sausage in a velvety sauce of potlikker and melted collards.

Two Wash Ranch chicken in a pomegranate harissa glaze

Lamb ribs were perfect, sporting a toasty bit of smoky char from their seed-based dukkah crust, served with a smear of thick, complex mole and a smattering of tart pomegranate seeds. And those Two Wash Ranch chickens pack so much flavor into their diminutive little frames, particularly when mopped with a pomegranate harissa glaze, all sweet and sour with a little chile zing in one tight little package, served with a lusty succotash and a bright shallot and herb salad.

I might quibble with the tiramisu a bit, but really, the meal’s low water mark was still quite good, and we had it with an excellent chocolate cake and — in an offering that surely wasn’t designed for me but might as well have been — a very good raspberry sorbet served on top of what I can best describe as a sour, citrusy ice. Contrasting frozen textures in the same bowl — one smooth, one chaotic — and man, it worked.

rack of lamb with house mole and dukkah  |  raspberry sorbet

Dinner was a delight. The menu was thoughtfully conceived, perfectly executed, familiar but refined, and just straight-up damn tasty. It was everything I’d hoped it would be when I first walked in eight and a half years ago. How long has it been this way? Don’t know. Is it possible it was always this way and I had incalculably bad luck? Well, no. That’s what the network of spies is for — a warning system just in case I have incalculably bad luck. I immediately texted news of my meal to a few of those spies from back in the day, who told me to blink twice if I was being held hostage. No, I assured them. It really was that good.

At this point, Restaurant Progress certainly doesn’t need my endorsement. They’re rapidly approaching their tenth birthday and I’m less than relevant these days. And at the risk of speculating, I’m going to bet they don’t particularly want my endorsement, either. Pretty sure I will forever be — at best — tolerated at that place. But for what it’s worth, they have it. This dinner was hit after hit after hit. And it makes me very happy to see that Progress has grown into the restaurant it is today.

I’d tell you to tell them I sent you, but... yeah, maybe don’t do that.

** - There is, to be fair, a very rare exception where I think a restaurant is cynically taking advantage of the public and I feel compelled to go out of my way to call them out. I have only done this on a few occasions, and I hope it’s abundantly clear this wasn’t one of them.

Goals

It is unclear to me which organization dishes out the rank of “Five-Star Rice Meister,” but whichever it is, sign me up.

The Secret Undiscovered Gem That's

 Absolutely To Die Fo— *BANG*

Sometimes I feel like my primary function within the Phoenix food media ecosystem these days is to be the crotchety old guy who occasionally pops in uninvited and tells everybody to chill the fuck out. Case in point:

chashu onigirazu

The karaage I sampled was a little on the oily side, but it was tender and tasty, with a squirt of lemon and a nip of Kewpie mayo. I’d get it again. Squid stuffed with “creamy crab mayo” was less compelling, owing to a murky filling and a really clunky eel sauce drizzled on top.

The Gindaco takoyaki require some explanation. Here in Phoenix, you have probably never had the kind of takoyaki you would get in Japan. Heck, even if you fly to Japan and go to Gindaco — the chain restaurant that is the very namesake of these particular takoyaki — you won’t get takoyaki like this. They’re seasoned balls of batter with a little nugget of cooked octopus at the core, yes, but I’ve yet to find a place in Phoenix that isn’t serving frozen takoyaki chucked in a deep fryer, Akamaru included. “Gindaco takoyaki” doesn’t mean takoyaki made like they do at Gindaco. It means Gindaco branded frozen takoyaki. And that’s fine, there’s nothing wrong with them. But I’m waiting for the day when an ambitious chef fires up an actual takoyaki grill, cooks them fresh to order, and Phoenix diners complain that they aren’t crispy like REAL Takoyaki. (Book it now... this will happen.) In any case, these are as good as frozen takoyaki can be — better than most of the frozen takoyaki around town — which is to say I enjoy them just fine and I’ll happily order them again.

I've found Akamaru’s onigirazu and donburi to be much more consistently tasty.

clockwise from top left: Gindaco takoyaki  |  chicken karaage  |  salmon and avocado onigirazu

The onigirazu are an interesting feature, mostly because I don’t think I’ve ever seen them around the Valley before. I believe — check me on this — that onigirazu is a more recent Japanese convention. It takes the form of a rice sandwich of sorts — assorted fillings loosely pressed between rice and wrapped in nori, not entirely unlike onigiri but in a different form factor and featuring a much higher filling to rice ratio. Akamaru’s chashu onigirazu is pretty darn tasty, stuffed with thick, tender braised pork, some vegetables, and a beautiful whole egg, split down the middle so you can see that nice, jammy yolk. I also gave the salmon avocado onigirazu a spin. This is made with salmon flake, a multipurpose Japanese ingredient comprised of salmon that’s been seasoned, well-cooked, shredded and dried out a little. It’s a common filling for onigiri, but here it’s layered with lettuce and avocado and a healthy drizzle of mayo, and again, I ain’t mad. I’ll return to demolish this again.

But my favorite dish here is probably their unusually good gyudon. I don’t want to oversell it. It isn’t drive across town good. But it’s a bowl of quality rice, topped with tender shreds of sweet marinated beef, saturated with the melted onions and jazzed up with a little jarred beni shoga. It’s a little more utilitarian than it is artful, but it’s made with care, it’s better than most, and it’s awfully satisfying.

gyudon

So I guess what I’m trying to say is that Akamaru is not the showstopping secret answer to your Japanese izakaya dreams. Rather, Akamaru is a solid neighborhood restaurant that can be a little hit and miss, but is generally great for a quick, tasty lunch or a casual dinner with a good bottle of Japanese beer. And that’s enough to recommend. So why can’t we just call it what it is? Why does everything have to be a mindblowing undiscovered gem?

The reason, of course, is that modern food media no longer exists to serve the reader or the restaurant. It exists to serve itself. And in the attention economy, that means a constant state of piling up breathless, shiny content, day after day after day. This is incredibly destructive to a healthy restaurant scene, but it’s for reasons that I don’t think most people realize.

The core of the problem is this: Everyone is trying to sell you the undiscovered gem. But the undiscovered gem is dead. It no longer exists. In an online media ecosystem teeming with hordes of influencers who can only distinguish themselves from one another by being the first to tell you about a restaurant, whether or not the food is any good is completely irrelevant. Pretty pictures and unqualified raves reign supreme. Everything under the sun is unearthed immediately, encapsulated in short format video, described with rapturous, guttural ecstasy and placed on a pedestal as the latest mouthwatering jewel you simply MUST consume. Until the next one comes along seven seconds later.

Put another way, the gems are no longer lost in the earth. Instead, they’re lost in an endless display of fake gems.

Twenty years ago, food media was dominated by a handful of pros who couldn’t possibly eat it all, so we needed diggers. Enter the amateur food journalists. But times and technology have changed. We don’t need diggers anymore, and now we’re saddled with tens of thousands of them, all fighting for our attention. (And free food and money, but I digress...) What we need now are people who have the experience and perspective to discern and highlight which of these places are worthwhile and teach us why. And even more importantly, we need people who we can trust to tell us the *truth* about which are worthwhile and which are not. But media is no longer structured in a way that incentivizes expertise and rigor. Social media incentivizes quantity. As much content as possible. As quickly as possible. The more flashy and hyperbolic, the better.

So nowadays, every time we’re lucky enough to discover and unearth the Ark of the Covenant, we quickly box it up and bury it in a warehouse, never to be seen again.

an undiscovered gem

.........okay, bad example. Probably best the Ark stays buried. But hopefully the point is made. After two decades of food nerds fighting to level the playing field and give great little restaurants a chance to shine, this insatiable need for constant discovery and kneejerk impulse to bill every single thing under the sun as the Greatest Discovery Ever has perversely put us back at square one, right where we were twenty years ago:

The little spots that deserve the attention are lost, once again.

WHAT.

Welp, I just gave myself a nice big sad, so here’s something incredibly cool I encountered on a recent trip to Tokyo.

One chilly December evening, my son and I dropped into a tiny little tempura joint in a quiet part of Asakusa, well away from madcap bustle of Senso-ji and Kappabashi-dori. And we were treated to a lovely short format omakase by a fellow who showed some serious skill at the fryer — nice enough that I would have remembered this dinner for quite a while, even if it hadn’t been for the final course:

Are you freaking kidding me? How hilarious is this?! Sure enough, our friendly Tokyo tempura chef fully endorsed Tajín on his kakiage. A brief conversation ensued in (my limited and brutally mangled) Japanese about how we hailed from Arizona and knew Tajín well. It was a dumb little cross-cultural exchange of untold beauty, and a good lesson about what people do and do not consider “authentic.”

So was it any good?

Weeeeeeeellllll, let’s just say I’ll stick to shichimi. But I love that this *exists*.

Yup... Still Kicks Ass

A regular segment, wherein I attempt to combat food media’s (and my own) recency bias.

Guerrero-Style White Pozole at Requinto  — Honestly, this was even better than when I wrote the review a couple of years back. Erick Pineda has this steamy bowl of tender pork and hominy with all the fixin’s dialed in tight, and it starts and ends with that killer, rich broth. Yup... still kicks ass.

Italian Beef at Luke’s of Chicago — Portillo’s is packed, but Cary and Joel at Luke’s really deserve some more love. What Luke’s might sometimes lack in consistency it sure as shit makes up for by reaching greater heights, and this recent specimen was maybe the best I’ve had there, tender and sweet, sopping with flavorful jus, and laser-focused on the natural flavor of the beef. Yup... still kicks ass.

Chopped Salad at Source — I still can’t believe that one of my favorite Claudio Urciuoli dishes of all time is a freaking chopped salad. But damned if I won’t keep coming back for this light and punchy little number, all minced up with salami and cheese and garbanzo beans and those fabulously crispy breadcrumbs dressed with — as always — top notch olive oil and vinegar. Yup... still kicks ass.

Incentive

Woo, buddy, hammered out those... <checks word count... yikes>... 4000+ words in just a few hours and it’ll be a miracle if this edition isn’t riddled with embarrassing errors. But as usual, I have decided that writing something too long or too short (or too crappy) is better than writing nothing at all.

Incidentally, I have made a pledge that various stages of my secret project are not allowed to proceed until I have finished up a Something to Doux newsletter first.