Miss Irene's in Fells Point, Baltimore

While visiting Baltimore for the holidays I happened into Miss Irene's in Fells Point, on the corner of Thames and Ann Street. I had seen the Chef the week before, in the street outside the restaurant, wearing his short sleeved chef coat in the sub-freezing cold, shaking hands with a delivery man from a local dairy. As he turned to go back inside, he gave me a quick wave. I briefly thought that he had mistaken me for someone he knew, then I remembered I was in Baltimore. Folks here are friendly, Hon.

I didn't realize how new the place was until one of the servers had mentioned they'd only been opened about three weeks. He mentioned that the chef, Kenneth Plante, also oversaw the kitchen down the block at the Waterfront Hotel (which has not been a hotel since 1955, and is currently a restaurant and bar. The 1990's TV series Homicide: Life on the Streets used the Waterfront to film bar scenes. But that's another story.)

We didn't have a reservation, but there was no wait for our party of three to be seated for dinner. The hostess ushered us past the bar on the street level, up the stairs to the much more intimate bar adjacent to the dining room, and suggested cocktails while our table was prepared. The offer was so graciously made we could do nothing but accept. Tiffany, the bartender, grew up in Dundalk, not far from Fells Point. She handed over the specialty cocktails menu and seemed as delighted that I was familiar with some of the specialty liqueurs as I was to see them in use: Calvados, St. Germain, Pernod. I ordered a "Riposte." She set a martini glass on the bar, filled it with ice and water to chill, and went about the business of concocting my beverage.

While she poured and stirred and shook, she spoke fondly of "Chef Kenny," whom she has known for years, and of Miss Irene Glyphis, the namesake of the restaurant, an immigrant from Greece, who died in 1995. She and her husband, Mr. Mike, had owned the building, living on the second floor and running the bar downstairs that was called the River Drive Inn. The locals in the gritty neighborhood that Fells was back then all knew the place as "Miss Irene's," and when the current owners purchased the building from the Glyphis family in 2005, they asked if they could keep the name. Reaching for a brown apothecary bottle, Tiffany thoughtfully finished the drink with a few drops of bitters and placed the cocktail before me.

The Riposte hit its mark.

We sat and contemplated another cocktail, settling into the relaxed atmosphere--the warm tones of the dark wood, the soft lighting, the familiar smells of bread and roasted meat. After a few more sips, Chef Kenny appeared behind the bar, filling a large cup with ice and water. He greeted us briefly, then returned to the kitchen. It was time to sit for dinner.

There were a few dietary restrictions in our party, including a vegetarian and a shell fish allergy, both of which were thoughtfully accommodated.

We started with two specials: a special house salad for the vegetarian (no prosciutto), and Beet Bisque (velvety texture, rich flavor, beautiful color--I won that round). House bread was served with regular and chili infused olive oils. Then came the Duck Risotto with caramelized onions and mushrooms--rich flavors, but disappointing textures. Bits of duck were small and could only be distinguished from bits of mushroom because they were tough. The risotto itself, however, was cooked perfectly. The House Made Pasta (pappardelle?) with walnuts, dates, figs and lobster (there was also supposed to be Humboldt Fog, but maybe it melted?) was excellent. I'll definitely order the pasta again. We saw the lamb shank and the pork chop walk. Those are on my list of things to try next time, too.

Dessert was a bit of a disappointment. Like many restaurants these days, they don't have a pastry chef, but they did boast some "house made" desserts. The Tahitian Vanilla Creme Brulee was disappointing--the custard tasted like it was made from a mix, but the burnt sugar top was crisp and delicate. The Apple Galette was less disappointing, but the puff pastry crust tasted like a food service frozen staple. The ice cream was Haagen Daz.

The service was a mix of casual but professional, refined but not stuffy, knowledgeable but not know-it-all. And although they've only been opened a few weeks, the service was fluid--as if the staff have already worked together (who knows, maybe they have).

I returned to Miss Irene's three times in the following week. On Thursday evening I stopped by for a quiet drink, only to find the bar overrun with men in suits. Was there a convention? It was a mystery. A server, Rusty, recognized me from my first visit, and my deer-in-the-headlights stare from his years of experience. He offered to let me have my drink in the bar upstairs. I climbed the wooden staircase and slipped into the already familiar seat on the right side of the bar. Doug, an evening bartender, was prepping for service. We spoke about the apothecary bottles, which contained bitters from the Fee Brothers. And then the Chef appeared behind the bar again, just as Doug was mentioning that he'd love to be able to make his own bitters, but they have to sit in the bottle for 3 months. "You going somewhere?" asked the Chef with a laugh as he sidled out of the bar with a soda.

I ordered the Tomato Basil Bisque.

Doug and I chatted briefly about cocktails and speakeasies, and he handed me the current issue of Imbibe magazine. I read about some "hidden" bars in NYC, DC, and San Francisco. I took some notes. I asked about the lunch menu, which Doug procured without hesitation. He recommended the "Crepe" Lasagne. I was intrigued.

The Bisque arrived--delicious and piping hot, though out of season.

Rusty stopped by to ask about my friends who he remembered from our first dinner. I mentioned we'd be coming again for dinner over the weekend. He insisted on making the reservation right then, and seating us in his section. I asked if he was from Baltimore. He said he'd moved from Anchorage, Alaska and that Baltimore was supposed to be his first stop on the East Coast. But he'd made so many good friends he decided to stay. I smiled and thought of my sister, who has been lobbying for me to move to Baltimore. I made a mental tally of Rusty and Miss Irene's in the "pros" column.

At home, I did some research on Miss Irene. I found this lovely story, including a bit about her granddaughter, Emily.

The next day I returned for lunch. I did not recognize any of the wait staff, and my server--Will--seemed new and uncertain. I asked about beers, which he admitted that he was still learning about. My ongoing search for a Porter on tap led to a brief discussion about dark beers. In the end he brought me a Guinness. And I ordered the Lasagne.

I asked Will about the bartender, who I had not seen on my previous visit, but who looked slightly familiar and very comfortable behind the bar. "His name is John Ryan," he replied. "And you have to say 'John Ryan' when you refer to him. He's an institution in Baltimore. Everyone knows him. I could be in a bar anywhere and say I work with John Ryan, and people say, 'Ah! John Ryan!' He's a rock star." I looked again at John Ryan and wondered what stories he could tell. I made a mental note to come again and sit at his bar.

The view from my table by the window was lovely. It was mid-afternoon and the sun was shining on the water of Baltimore's Inner Harbor. I thought of a young man, my ancestor from ten generations ago, who arrived here in Baltimore on a ship from England. He'd spent a month at sea to get here, then married and spent the rest of his life in Baltimore. I'd travelled from here across a continent a dozen times in the past few years, but have yet to make it to the shores where from which he came. I wondered if he'd ever eaten a crepe. And if he liked Porters.

The Crepe Lasagne arrived, and it was just as Doug had described it. Three crepes were layered with bechamel, cheese, and sliced sausage, then baked until bubbly and topped with fresh sliced green onions. The crepes lent a sense of lightness, and the bechamel and sausage gave a satisfying richness to the dish. I savored every bite.

At the bar, a young woman was speaking to an older gentleman about hanging his paintings in the restaurant. I could tell he was local by his accent. The young lady mentioned an opening night reception and that they wanted him to give a toast. He shifted uncomfortably on his bar stool, then ordered a Coke. John Ryan procured one post-haste.

I sat in the warm sunlight for a while, enjoying a fullness of belly and a few pages of my book before bundling up to take the brisk walk home. And out of the corner of my eye I spied the chef, pulling another drink of water behind the bar. I smiled on my good fortune--to have had several delicious memories in the past week, all at the hands of this chef and his staff.