Mirabelle's plum reputation not enough to dazzle

Restaurant reviews are snapshots in time, an editor told me not long ago as I struggled over a rating. Not what happened five or 10 years ago or what the future might hold, but what's going on right now. And right now, the critical darling Mirabelle is only a two-star experience.

In 13 dishes during three visits, I came across too many overcooked proteins, too many sauces and garnishes that overpromised and underdelivered, and service that was spread too thinly to back up the accolades I've heard and read about the place since it opened in 1998.

Two of my occasional dinner guests are fans of Mirabelle, one for nights with wine and jazz, another because he said it reminded him of the old Castle Hill Cafe without the long waits for a table. That's a flattering comparison, and it makes sense, because Mirabelle owner Michael Vilim and co-founder Cathe Dailey also ran Castle Hill at the time of Mirabelle's birth. Echoes of that relationship endure. Mirabelle and Castle Hill (now called Corazon at Castle Hill) still share menu favorites like Mexican and Asian chicken salads and a lunchtime dish called Lucinda's Basil Cheese Torta.

But whatever magic that sister-restaurant symbiosis once held has worn off for me. I liked the old Castle Hill, but Mirabelle reminds me more of Streat, the international street-food concept Vilim started last year. You'd never confuse the settings — Mirabelle has an amber-saturated suburban charm; Streat is an urban lunch counter built for speed — but both step on themselves as they crowd together flavors and styles.

Asian, Mexican, Italian, French, Indian, Cajun. At Mirabelle, you're seduced with all kinds of dialects from a fluently written menu. Take this entry, for a pork chop ($23.95): "Cinnamon-soy marinated char-grilled Asian pork porterhouse with sake-laced green apple relish, yakitori-seared bok choy, jicama, eggplant and mushrooms with ginger-spiced sweet potato mashers." Or this, for lamb ($24.95): "Braised lamb fore-shank with chianti lamb reduction, citrus mint gremolata, creamy Parmesan polenta and wilted kale with smoked onion vinaigrette."

What I kept coming back to was, "These words describe this?" The pork was like sawing through a raw pineapple, all crust and fiber. The lamb was overcooked, dry and sinewy, with a bitter edge sharpened by kale that was way too sweet. The more subtle elements got lost, their flavors mingled into gray, like paints swirled together.

Much brighter but no less compromised was a Szechuan chicken salad ($11.95 lunch/$14.95 dinner), a tumble-down meat-and-greet of purple cabbage, yellow corn and field greens with no real spice, just a pool of sesame-ginger dressing and fried wonton pockets saturated with oil.

My enthusiasm for an "exotic mushroom sautee" ($8.95) wilted into a homogenous mass when it seemed all the exotica had been cooked away, even if the accompanying Gorgonzola focaccia bread was spot-on. An unlikely flavor union of bacon-wrapped redfish, cashew curry and mango relish ($22.95) worked well except for fish made lumbering and dense by overcooking. A blackened shrimp appetizer ($8.95) brought flavor and technique together — Cajun spice, sharp Gorgonzola cream, well-cooked shrimp — but a Brillo-wy blanket of fibrous leek "hay" gave the dish the out-of-time look of '80s hair.

What I'll say in Mirabelle's favor is that entrées are conceived with vegetables and starches, and when they work, the value is right. Mushroom bread pudding and sautéed green beans rounded out a beef tenderloin with nutty Gruyère butter for $26.95, and a pork tenderloin crusted with sage and topped with sweet green apple purée and fig slaw with mashed potatoes and green beans made a solid lunch plate at $12.95.

Three more dishes that worked: Creamy and cool pâté with duck and mushroom ($6.95) was mild and reassuring, served simply with bread, cornichons and Dijon mustard. Duck and sausage gumbo ($4.95 for a cup) was unapologetically swampy brown and just as complex. Beignets ($7.95) stuffed with apples, chestnut and currants in a barely corporeal sabayon cream, challenged only semantically by their closer resemblance to fried pies.

But true harmony — all of a restaurant's strengths expressed in one trip — was an elusive commodity on my dinner visits. One night seemed to suffer from a vacuum created by one of Mirabelle's signature wine dinners. In the tight world of the wine illuminati, Michael Vilim's a made guy, and his connections make possible the well-priced multicourse and multiglass dinners that fill the restaurant's big private dining room from time to time (see the information box for the latest dinners). We felt the energy sucked out of our side of the place as the staff filed into the party room with tray after tray. I wanted to be in that room, because our night was a mixture of benign neglect and long, cricket-chirping interludes between courses of uneven execution.