Memphis: I Know Why The Cajun Sings

          Once they had cleared away the clutter of resistible and irresistible memorabilia of an antiques bazaar, the soaring space at 329 Columbus Avenue was transformed. And -- as if there weren’t already enough kitsch and cozy, plain and fancy, humble and exotic beaneries on Columbus to feed us all four times a day -- now we have Memphis. Named not for the Tennessee Memphis nor the Italian design group but for the ancient Egyptian city.

          That connection is almost as elusive as the place. Don’t blame your cabbie if he can’t find it. There’s no sign of a name or number anywhere on the front door, which looks like the entrance to a whole-sale-fur building on West 30th Street. Discreet as a funeral parlor. Only clue is the limo lineup. (Is Memphis hot? Give it three limos on the heater meter.)

          Never mind that you’ve prowled these once mean, now carnivalized streets half your life. Navigate the runway alongside the bar to get the full architectural impact. You can’t help but be amazed by what archaeology has unearthed here: a setting stately and handsome, with its eclectic columns (Ionic and Corinthian all at once) and marble stairway to a gentle balcony, gray walls warmed with translucent glass brick and oddly funky sconces, a potted tree that scrapes the nineteen-foot ceiling, and a serious sound system playing music from “The Big Chill.” It’s the notion of interior and graphics designer Todd Ruff. But best of all, Memphis is a mostly wonderful place to eat.

          Given that actor Al Corley is the principal owner, it’s no surprise to see Carly Simon, Treat Williams, or James Taylor here and to spy Diane Keaton scaling the marble. The extras are a sturdy mix of Wall Street affluential, East Side yup, SoHo slummer, hungry neighbor, and a certain breed of barfly that gets disoriented if it isn’t leaning on the current hot bar in town, eyes swiveling, brain pickling. But this is not the antic frenzy that assaults. My guess is the lights are a shade too dim and the layout too sedate for the hysteria level of theater at Prima Donna or America downtown. Indeed, when the kitchen steams out the kinks and abandons ideas that don’t really work, Memphis might turn out to be one of the few places in the neighborhood where a serious mouth would choose to eat.

          Yes, there is the obligatory noise. And the serving crew, male and female alike, are dressed à la Fred Astaire -- in natty black cutaways or spiffy shirts and ties. They are clearly waiters-in-transit-to-anywhere-else, but they are cordial, cheerful, good-looking, and refreshingly competent. The menu is a celebration of southern home cooking, mostly Louisiana-born: appetizers from $3.75, entrées $12 and up.

          A basket of warmed mini-muffins in a napkin cocoon is the opening seduction. Can you resist the molasses-perfumed pumpkin, or properly greasy corn muffins fired with jalapeño? And what about cranberry? Raisin bran? Surprisingly, the biscuits are fossilized -- but nibbling at your fourth muffin, you may not take this insult too seriously.

          Our guests from France find the muffinettes a puzzlement. They snicker and roll their eyes -- “Is it not a dessert?” they ask. How can we explain that palates elevated by the great gastronomic concertos of France are still pushovers for downhome tradition? But now we are digging into the house’s spiced Belle River crayfish platter, a pound of fat, flame-red beauties.

          You crack the inner shell of the tail, releasing the sweet meat with its peppery after-heat, then suck the heads to extract the last bit of goodness. Our guests, proprietors of the celebrated Parisian seafood house Le Bernardin, are amazed -- delighted to confess that these are the best crayfish they’ve ever eaten. And at just $7.25, there are enough of the critters to satisfy four of us.

          But there’s no point in examining Memphis through a Gallic prism. American regional cooking is our own affection. Of course the duck is sweet and crisp. Of course there is honey in the mustard sauce. And given the Cajun accent, we’re not surprised by the fever of the jalapeño. Purists may argue that battering delicate crayfish tails in peppered crumbs to deep-fry and dip in rémoulade is a travesty, but fans of “Cajun popcorn” will disagree -- and these are served along with wonderful molten fingers of lightly breaded eggplant. A chicken leg is boned and filled with a homey bread-and-sausage stuffing, served on a frizzle of pickled and jalapeño’d red cabbage. Baby-back ribs nest in cabbage, too, but their savory flavor cannot disguise that they have been over-steamed and under-grilled. Even the wild-rice salad has its TNT -- from cayenne pepper and rings of fierce red onion -- on a cooling bed of red-leaf lettuce. Unhappily, the acrid taste of lemon peel makes the turtle soup inedible. And the gumbo of the day may suffer from an excess of starch.

          Big, fat, luscious New Orleans shrimp are grilled with their shells on in a peppery barbecue sauce. Chicken is tangy with a moist oyster pan dressing, though perhaps a bit dry, but the fried chicken can be a real treat. You may have to fight off your neighbors’ attacks on its mashed potatoes with cream gravy. A double-thick pork chop, plumped with corn-bread stuffing, is the real winner; the vinegared pan gravy sweetened with molasses and apple slices may strike you as lovely gloss or aberration, depending on your mood. A big batch of good jambalaya is served in a covered pot -- the moist and tasty rice is studded with chicken, crayfish, innocuous baby shrimp, and Andouille sausage. One evening, the wild rice garnishing the Opelousas duckling tastes hideously medicinal.

          The fish of the day -- a less-than-fresh-tasting redfish -- is drowned in an étouffée of dark roux, crayfish tails, onions, and peppers guaranteed to overwhelm almost anything. The vegetables could use a bit of butter. And when the muffins aren’t heated properly, they are tough to bite into -- a cruel loss. Finger bowls may or may not arrive after you’ve torn into your crayfish, but a smiling waiter will appear to decrumb the table before making the dessert presentation -- on a tray draped in a giant tropical leaf.

          The lime mousse is assertively limey -- bits of peel add to the intensity. A moist chocolate-walnut cake sits in a bourbon-cream puddle. The carrot cake is gooey and good. Crusts are thick and rather sturdy. The sweet-potato pie with pecans may be really good one night, sadly arid the next. Banana-sour-cream pie is studded with the real thing, and those are fried banana chips on top. A modest wine list focuses mostly on American vineyards, with a sampling of French and Italian labels -- good choices and a few reasonable ones as well.

          “How is it possible that the same restaurant could do food that is so wonderful and food that is so inedible?” my French friends wonder. What can I say? Memphis is young and still finding its way. Actors who open restaurants may not always provide the strong editing and sensitive palate even a skilled chef needs. And our mouths, spoiled by the subtlety and brilliance of the world’s gifted chefs -- indeed by the elegance of a fish emerging from Le Bernardin’s kitchen -- may have lost a certain tolerance for the muddier moments of swamp cooking. But already there’s joy enough at Memphis to tickle our nostalgia for Americana. With time, it could get even better. (And if whoever found my pearl dragon ring in the ladies’ room would return it, I’d be eternally grateful.)

329 Columbus Avenue, between 75th and 76th Street