Trader Vic's
5330 E Mockingbird Lane
Dallas, TX 75206
Phone: 214-823-0600
By BILL ADDISON / Restaurant Critic
Where exactly does the line blur between camp and class? When does time-capsule kitsch segue into appreciable artfulness? How has a retro groovy concept suddenly achieved status as cutting-edge cool? And why, oh why, can't the taste buds detect the obscene amounts of alcohol in those fruity cocktails profuse with rum?
Sitting on a stool at the polished wooden bar of the newly reopened Trader Vic's arouses these kinds of existential pop culture questions. Or maybe it's just the Mai Tai.
Regardless, this musty dinosaur of a theme restaurant has re-emerged to become Dallas' dining – and drinking – sensation of the season. And it has done so with unexpected sophistication.
Rewind to 1966: The Hilton Inn opens on Mockingbird Lane and introduces Dallas to Trader Vic's, the California-based special-occasion chain that celebrates all things tiki. An Americanized fantasy of South Pacific culture, tiki translates as bamboo torches, rattan furniture, carved humanoid talismans and Les Baxter on the record player. Culinarily, it means adulterated Asian cuisine, pupu platters of mostly fried finger food and rivers of powerfully spiked punch gone tropical with pineapple, citrus and coconut.
Vic's is all the rage through the '70s. But fads change, and Dallas' economic upset in the '80s takes its toll on the Hilton Inn and its tiki speak-easy. Trader Vic's closes its doors in 1989.
Skip to 2005: Realty America Group begins restoration of the rundown building that was once the Hilton Inn. It plans to rechristen it a Hotel Palomar, a small boutique hotel brand with a growing national presence.
The new owners crack open the long-sealed crypt of the once-party-hardy Trader Vic's, and what do they find? Polynesian Pompeii. It's dilapidated and covered with dust, but it still fundamentally looks like Trader Vic's. A farewell party is organized to send the space off to that great trading post in the sky, but then wheels start turning. After years of disinterest, tiki is sneaking back into fashion. Aren't new locations of Trader Vic's popping up in Chicago, Las Vegas, Seattle and Scottsdale, Ariz.? Might Dallas also be ready for another round of Zombies? A $2 million renovation of the place ensues.
Which brings us to a recent Saturday afternoon, with an attempt to call the newly reopened Trader Vic's for a reservation that evening.
"We're completely booked," says the woman on the other end of the phone. She sounds as if she repeats that phrase like a mantra.
Two of us decide to show up anyway. And frankly, I'm skeptical. I'd been to other Trader Vic's around the country and found them mildly entertaining but ultimately gimmicky.
But as we descend down the restaurant's wood-lined rabbit hole into tiki Wonderland, the skepticism begins to dissolve. The loving care with which the place has been restored is obvious everywhere: hand-painted details along the walls; fireproofed twigs painstakingly woven together to replicate thatched roofs; the dim, just-so lighting; the two candy-red, barrel-shaped Chinese ovens used to cook meats and seafood. Even the carpet, colored that ruby grapefruit hue so emblematic of the '70s, looks luminous.
We were praying for maybe a last-minute canceled reservation? The hostess shakes her head: No such. Ah, well. We head for the bar, which turns out to be the heart of the restaurant.
The crossroads of humanity has gathered here, and everyone is having a blast. A woman tells her friend how wonderful and disorienting it feels to be here: She was a regular 20 years ago. We grab seats next to a tiki geek, who points out details that survive from the restaurant's first go-round.
"Look," he says, "at the small tears in those light shades? They're originals. And so is the lacquered Chinese newspaper that lines the canopy over the bar. And these tiki columns were made by Oceanic Arts, one of the biggest producers of tiki art in the world ..."
We begin sampling drinks in earnest (just a sip or two of each, of course). The bartenders, though bedecked in Hawaiian shirts, exercise their craft with precision and pride. Our main mixologist, Phil, steers us toward the less sweet libations. There's Doctor Funk of Tahiti, with its strong whiff of licorice. Its offspring, Doctor Funk's Son, is encased in an igloo of ice and delivers a truer taste of rum. The bourbon-based Honi Honi offers a more aggressive zing.
Even the signature Mai Tai is less cloying and more forthrightly limey than I remember from other Vic's. The only disappointment is the Dallas Star, a swimming-pool-blue concoction that takes saccharine to excessive heights.
Obviously, we need food to temper the booze. Another welcome surprise: Mickie Crockett, a veteran of Dallas restaurants and the first female executive chef in the company's 74-year history, elevates Trader Vic's anachronistic fare with respectful attention to ingredients, smart twists and consistent execution.
The bar menu is a truncated version of the dining room offerings, but it still shows off the kitchen's prowess. Crab Rangoon, that old saw, gets new life here: Greaseless fried won tons are stuffed with a subtly melded combination of crabmeat and molten cream cheese. Crispy prawns covered in panko remain plump and moist. Bongo bongo soup, despite its goofy moniker, is a posh purée of spinach and oysters.
Ms. Crockett adds her own ideas to the menu, as well: Crispy duck confit spring rolls are Texan-sized and well-conceived, the robust shredded duck meat being an astute counterpoint to the crisp shell. And speaking of Texas, what spunky chile adds spark to the tuna poke (the Hawaiian forefather of tuna tartare)? Jalapeños? Nice shout-out to the home state.
Once you make it into the evocative dining room (which we finally did on a Tuesday night, after a 35-minute wait for our reserved table), focus on entrees prepared in the Chinese display ovens. Their oak, hickory and mesquite woods impart proteins with equal-opportunity savor: Cowboy rib eye, Colorado rack of lamb and Chilean sea bass each absorb gentle, complementary smokiness, and they all arrive at table precisely cooked and seasoned.
Desserts are really the only place where passé silliness rears its mutton chop-flaunting head. Banana fritters seem like overkill after all the fried appetizers, and the Snowball, coconut-coated vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce, tastes like an after-school snack from bygone years. The one requisite sweet is the macadamia torte, a brownielike confection chockablock with macadamias. It's like a Mrs. Fields cookie adapted for a luau.
Service may be jovially raucous in the bar, but in the dining room it becomes hushed and reverent. Not stuffily so, but servers read the tables astutely, keep the water glasses filled and, yes, are ever-ready to bring another drink.
Everything about this retooled Trader Vic's transcends the tackiness that crept into this company's reputation. It isn't until the end of our dining room meal that I'm yanked back to reality.
"I'm sorry," reports a server. "I know you requested a hot buttered rum for dessert, but we ran out of the Trader Vic's mix used to make it."
"Trader Vic's mix?" As in corporate-sanctioned, premade, shipped-from-God-knows-where mix? Yikes. No more details. Let me just float along happily in this otherwise rapturously imagined fantasy.