Saturday Night on the town: tuna tartare and chest hair at One
They couldn’t have made this place tougher to find if it had been placed in the Witness Protection Program: One, one fine restaurant, is tucked down an alley in Rochester’s Alexander Street area, just behind that recent and completely unnecessary Buffalo import, the Anchor Bar. Rochester has a handful of places that ooze the New York City feel, and this is One.
The decor is dark, uber-trendy industrial Bohemian, the crowd a mix of overdressed professionals, carefully under-dressed young dudes and one graying guy at the next table, shirt halfway unbuttoned to not only show off some kind of fertility medallion, but also allow his girlfriend to run her fingers through his chest hairs.
I shuddered, buttoned my shirt and studied the wine list. A good one; I went cheap, a $7 Cline California Zinfadel (On Wednesdays, One is currently offering most of its bottles for half price). We ordered three small plates. The tuna tartare taco came with avocado, creamy wasabi sauce and micro greens, dusted with tiny red and green caviar, folded in a crispy wonton. The only way to possibly improve on this would be if you could order a cardboard bucket of takeout.
The sauteed calamari glistened in a red sauce with capers and pearl pasta, served the Italian way, with just enough sauce to coat the calamari, rather than the American style of floating in it. While allegedly spicy, we were told that the chef had knocked the heat down a few notches, which is so damn Rochester. Our waiter helpfully offered to bring a dish of sriracha sauce, which brought it up to acceptable second-degree burn levels.
The third plate was the restaurant trend du joir, tiny hamburgers known as sliders, and a pile of good filler fries. The sliders were overcooked to the specifications dictated by food-borne illness lawyers. The gruyere cheese, sauteed onions and bacon were joined by a sriracha application; White Castles remain superior.
Our waiter was a likeable dude, despite the fact that he had too much to do; when he realized my second glass of wine hadn’t appeared in a timely manner, he offered me one on the house. When Margaret reacted to my good fortune with a long face, she got one on the house as well. A moment later, it seemed the music had been turned up. But no, it was our waiter, a few tables away, beautifully serending a group of older folks with an aria. If I had asked, I’m sure he would have given us a little Led Zeppelin “Black Dog.”