Quarter Bistro's Tuna Tartare

Clive Watson | Contributor

Okay, you've got to try this.

When we sat down in the Quarter Bistro's tavern, already full of the anticipation that comes with exploring a new menu, we were delighted to discover that Wednesday was half-priced wine by the glass day. As we're serious oyster fiends, we were also thrilled to see they had no fewer than four distinct oyster preparations (freshly shucked, fried, Rockefeller, and oyster shooters).

But it was midway through reading the description of their tuna tartare that I nearly fell right out of my banquette. Check out this list of ingredients and see if one of them is not like the others: “Ahi tuna … capers, garlic, serrano pepper, lemon juice, rice vinegar, dijon and Irish cream.”

Alright, my headline gave it away already, but in order to feel the full impact, I feel you simply had to read that in context.

Weaker diners would have fainted. The narrow-minded would have averted their eyes or perhaps even walked out in protest. The impulsive would have ordered four. I’m happy to report, we played it very cool and arranged to have a solitary specimen delivered to our table.

Now we’ve all probably run across a few dessert recipes which incorporate Baileys: brownies, cakes, whipped creams, ice creams and even Guinness floats, all made with Irish cream. But savory preparations? Hors d’oeuvre? Tuna bloody tartare? But here’s the really weird part: it actually works.

The square platter of Quarter Bistro’s tartare is engagingly arranged, with the tuna itself occupying one corner, sculpted into the shape of a giant comma or perhaps one half of a yin-yang. (It didn’t occur to me at the time to ask if tuna should be yin or yang, but I’m open to suggestions. Anyone?)

In the opposite corner, various baby greens are interwoven into a statuesque cup — radicchio, endive and a few other mildly-bitter leaves, all of which turned out to contrast with the tartare marvelously, both in flavor and in texture. And in the middle of the plate, you’ll find a quiche-lette, both adorable and comical in its grandly stylized flourish of crust.

A few pita chips are arranged in each of the remaining corners, and they serve well as vehicles for the tartare. We ran out of chips about halfway through the plate, which forced us to discover that the small canoes of endive work as well or better for the purpose — not only do they crunch nicely, but their leafy bitterness offsets the sweetness of the Irish cream and the zip of mustard and lemon juice.

The ginger-horseradish vinaigrette splashed on the greens lent mostly a sweet-savory influence to the experience, with just a pleasant note of spice. The quiche-lette, which seemed at first just a charming non sequitur, actually provided a starchy richness which grounded the leaner, gamier and more intense flavors of the dish.

But I just can’t get over the marriage of tuna tartare and Irish cream — the unlikeliest of pairings. My hat’s off to the chef at Quarter Bistro. Why does it work? Well, I’m still trying to sort that out.

Olive found that the distinctive Irish cream flavor blended in so well with the tartare that it wasn’t immediately recognizable. I, on the other hand, found it always clearly at the fore in the profile, but yet fully in balance with the other elements.

My best guess is that the mild, earthy burn of the Dijon mustard pulls the caramel and vanilla notes into context.

But what do you think? Have you tried it? Does it work? And if so, why?

Clive Watson stirs, shakes, strains, savors and waxes incoherent at triplesequitur.com.