Remedy, which is located in the old Public House space, and wedged between soon-to-open Project Pie and The Gym of Social Mechanics, has been plating upscale comfort food for a couple of weeks now.
HG Sply. owner Elias Pope is the man behind the upscale, American comfort food and soda fountain-inspired restaurant and bar. Executive chef, Danyele McPherson (previously sous chef at Stephan Pyles, and chef de cuisine at The Grape) has crafted a menu influenced by dishes that her mom used to make. Highlights include a fried bologna sandwich on grilled challah bread with American cheese, mayonnaise, and sweet onions; pimento cheese with pickles, and warm buttermilk biscuits; and a pork belly BLT.
The beverage program is lead by Maté Hartai (previously of The Libertine, and currently owner of custom ice company The Cold Standard). His soda fountain-inspired cocktail menu features concoctions like the Mustacio with pistachio and pumpkin seed orgeat, rye whiskey, and cacao (mine came with shaved white chocolate on top); RXPX with Pedro Ximenez sherry, vanilla ice cream, and balsamic cherry; and the Oleomaze with dark rum, Falernum, kaffir syrup, and angostura bitters.
Executive pastry chef, Guillermo “GMO” Tristan (previously of Boulevardier and FT33) has created a series of pies that take the throw-back vibe of Remedy to the next level. There’s the Orange Dreamsicle with orange-vanilla custard, whipped cream, and candied orange peel; the Grasshopper pie on a chocolate cookie crust, with dark chocolate cream, marshmallow fluff, white chocolate-mint drizzle and Créme de Menthe marshmallows; and the sweet coconut cream pie with toasted meringue, and candied coconut flakes. It’s heavenly.
I stopped by Remedy a couple of weeks ago to take photos, and later returned for dinner. I was impressed by the interior. It’s gorgeous. Grays and mint greens dominate the dining room, which is complemented with marble and mirrors throughout.
My tablemate and I ordered a few appetizers and cocktails while we looked over the menu.
For my main dish I ordered the fish sandwich: a redfish filet breaded in panko, that’s topped with American cheese, shredded lettuce, and tartar sauce, and served on a challah bun. I also ordered a side of tomato bisque and french fries. My husband, who happens to be one of my favorite dining companions, chose the vegetarian pot pie with roasted hen of the woods mushrooms, caramelized onions, and sweet potatoes. Our server was incredibly attentive and warned us that the pot pie could take up to 20 minutes to bake.
The pot pie came out with a picture-perfect, golden-brown crust. My husband grabbed his fork and knife, and started dividing the dish into triangular, pizza-shaped slices. When it comes to potpie — arguably the most delicious pie known to man — I personally prefer digging in like a famished cavewoman. But everyone has a different technique for these kinds of things. I wasn’t going to scoff, but I also wasn’t going to wait for him to finish before getting started. I dipped my spoon into the bisque first. It was delicious. Luscious even, the way a bisque should be. I then grabbed a french fry — piping hot, with a crisp exterior — and dipped it into the bisque. This was the winning bite of the night.
I’ve never eaten a Filet-O-Fish at McDonald’s. But after college, while working as a barista, and freelance writing on the side, I would occasionally frequent their dollar menu. Even then, the idea of ordering a fish sandwich from a drive-thu gave me the heebie-jeebies. I bit into Remedy’s sandwich. The slight crunch of the panko complimented the succulent fish. As a dollop of grease slid down my pinky finger and splashed the plate I wondered how the $15 sandwich compared to the $4 version at McDonalds. My dining companion (who has tried the drive-thru version) later affirmed that “the Mickey D’s version sucks in comparison.”
I came up from my bite to see how his pot pie carving was coming along. He was still slicing through the surface. I went in for another bite of fish, all the while half-observing the pie, waiting for my chance to strike. It was at this moment I noticed something shiny near the top of the crust. It was subtle, thin, quietly glimmering under the glow of the restaurant’s lighting the way a penny does when it catches a ray of sunshine in a fountain. I stuck my neck across the table. As I got closer, the mysterious object’s identity became clear. It was a hair. “Um… there’s a hair in your pot pie….” His head snapped down, and we both leaned in so close to the entrée that I thought our faces would soon be nostril deep in mushroom gravy. He jabbed his fork into the crust, wrapped it around the hair and started pulling like it was a spaghetti noodle. Slowly one inch ascended out of the filling, then another… it just kept coming. And coming. He was like a magician, pulling some knotted handkerchiefs out of a top hat. Except this was no hat. I stared in bewilderment.
His shoulders started shaking as peals of laughter erupted from his hand-covered mouth, all the while his fork was still slowly pulling the hair out of the pie. It was then, at this deplorable moment, that the restaurant’s general manager rounded the corner, put his hand on my husband’s right shoulder, and asked, as genuinely as a person could: “How is everything?” My eyes fell to the table. I wanted to disappear into bench I was sitting on.
“Oh, fine,” he responded as a tear brought on from laughing so hard slid down his cheek, “Except for this giant hair….” The manager scooped the pie off the table, wholeheartedly apologizing. He said another pie would be out as fast as the oven could bake it, and insisted on getting us something while we waited. “Can I offer you some pimento cheese?” We told him we had already had that for an appetizer. “How about some hushpuppies?” We’d already had those too. “Well, is there anything I can get you that you haven’t had?” My husband paused for a fraction of a second before responding: “A drink. A really strong drink.”
The rest of the evening went off without a hitch. The second pot pie was everything we had hoped for, rich, buttery and flavorful. Meaty even, despite its lack of any kind of animal protein. After we had stuffed our bellies as full as we possibly could, we asked for the check. The restaurant tried to comp our meal, the gesture didn’t go unappreciated, but we respectfully declined. Our server then boxed up a complimentary coconut cream pie to-go, which despite how full we were barely made it home in one piece.
