Pravda 116

Nightclubbing for the upscale comrade

by Stephen Heuser

DINING OUT

Pravda 116 116 Boylston Street (Theater District), Boston (617) 482-7799 Open Tues-Sat, 5:30-10 p.m. Closed Sun and Mon AE, DC, MC, Visa Full bar Smoking at bar Ramp access from sidewalk level

The Mercury Bar was closed for two and a half months last fall before it reopened with the same ownership, the same layout, and a new sign over the door: PRAVDA 116. The numeral refers to the street address. Pravda, of course, was the state newspaper of the Soviet Union.

This was a curious move. It established the bar as the only recorded example of Soviet chic since Rocky IV. And "pravda" means "truth," which is presumably the last thing you'd want in a bar on a Friday night. Then again, like a lot of bar renovations, this one's as much fiction as fact: the wood-mullioned street entrance is the same, and so is the long bar faced by semicircular banquettes. It's fancier than it used to be, but the principle is the same -- bar in front, nightclub in back, and a swanky (now a very swanky) dining room in the middle, with an oak fireplace and red velvet curtains and a chandelier.

There's nothing particularly Russian about Pravda 116. There's red lighting, sure, and three kinds of caviar on the menu, but otherwise the big nod to the evil empire is a liquor shelf stocked with enough high-end vodkas to supply the Red Army. To go with all the vodka there is also an "ice bar," a segment of the bar surfaced with actual ice, which is hell on your elbows but will presumably be attractive to customers from the hockey-playing nations.

Like a lot of upscale bar-restaurants, Pravda 116 has nailed down a number of the gestures of a high-end restaurant without quite nailing all of them. The first time we sat down, the host spread napkins on our laps, but our breadbasket didn't arrive till after the entrées. (On the second visit we got our bread between courses.) And our server was totally unable to recommend a wine. I mean, our server was endearingly unable to recommend a wine. Here is how the conversation went:

"Is there any wine you suggest with the steak?"

[Pause] "Um, merlot?"

"You're just guessing, aren't you?"

[Relieved] "Yes."

Things were much better after we'd dispensed with the charade, because we liked our server quite a bit. I also asked for a vodka recommendation, and our server pleaded ignorance. Then again, so did the bartender -- "I don't really drink vodka," he said, while chatting with the valet -- which made me wonder who, exactly, thought 125 different vodkas was such a good idea. He eventually suggested Chopin, a potato vodka made in Poland. I ordered a Chopin martini, which came with three olives on a skewer balanced across the rim of the glass. It tasted fine, for vodka.

Food can easily be overshadowed in a high-concept club like this, but -- credit where credit is due -- the owners have always made a point of installing someone who's up to the task. The Mercury Bar first opened with a tapas menu by Steve Johnson, who now owns the Blue Room. The new chef, Chris Parsons, does his job here with aplomb and even grace.

Most of the appetizers have a luxe quality that fits with all the velvet and mirrors. An appetizer of scallops ($9), for example -- our server dutifully warned us they'd be raw -- was served on a magnificent cake of crushed ice, the way you'd expect caviar to be served on a cruise ship. Each sweet little bay scallop came on an open half shell, flavored with a sexy mix of pineapple, chili oil, and radish sprouts. Tuna tartare ($11) was just as chichi: deep-pink cubes of yellowfin pressed into a pillbox shape and flavored with scallions, the concept just like steak tartare and the flavor buttery and piquant, like the biggest maguro hand roll you ever had.

A green salad ($8) was totally the opposite: a big unadorned bowl of mixed greens, plenty to share, in a light mustard dressing. Nothing fussy. Somewhere in between was potato soup ($9), a slightly underflavored purée with intriguing green pools on the surface and two tempura-like potato fritters plunked in the middle.

Thanks partly to its location, Pravda 116 draws some surprisingly unglam customers in the early evenings; the theater rush clearing out at 7:45 on a recent night was mostly middle-aged couples in print dresses and tweed. The real target audience shows up later: Euro kids and those who chase them, a young and rich clientele that dresses mostly in black. In the quiet hours before 10, empty champagne buckets stand sentry around the perimeter of the dance floor in back. You understand why there's a champagne menu and a $75 portion of caviar listed as an appetizer.

But, curiously, there's also a big ol' ribeye steak for dinner, a piece of meat so large and excellently cooked that you might not be irritated for a minute that you're paying $28 for it. It is served with hen-of-the-woods, a kind of mushroom with more pedigree than flavor, but otherwise it's a lush and tasty winter dish. Guessing, like our server, we ended up drinking a nice, fruity Coppola red with it ($9 per glass).

Amish chicken ($18) was also a winner, in spite of the bewildering name. (I picture roosters in suspenders gathering for a coop-raising.) It's a moist breast on a bed of rich parmesan-laden rice and a buttery, foamy layer of green broth, one of the few broths I've had on a meat plate that I really liked. Scottish salmon ($22) -- every piece of meat here has a pedigree -- arrived as a thick cylinder of fish with a nice, salty crust and a flavorsome side pile of oyster mushrooms.

Chocolate cake ($7) was pleasantly dense, with cherries inside for variety and frozen yogurt instead of ice cream on top. (After a big meal, the restraint is actually nice.) There is also a pear crisp with nifty pear chips ($7). But the absolute winner -- a dessert truly exotic and, in my experience, totally original -- was the "golden pineapple" ($7), a thick ring of caramelized pineapple with a scoop of light-green basil sorbet in the middle. Basil sorbet! The combination was fragrant and sweet, and although it was very unusual ("Some people won't like this," my girlfriend said), I could barely resist scooping up the last of the liquid on the bottom of the dish. I'm just a boy who can't say nyet.

Stephen Heuser can be reached at sheuser[a]phx.com.

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