Things have been on the up and up since earlier in the week's salad debacle. So much so that I actually thought the Inland Empire was in a position to redeem itself tonight. This morning I learned that only five minutes away, in the town of Redlands, there was a "cute" street with a "decent" restaurant. Usually on Thursday nights we all head back to the Bay Area, I'm flying to Ohio tomorrow and couldn't get a flight from here until the morning. Since I was rolling solo for the evening, I figured, I've been here almost two months and complained continuously, tonight would be the night that I gave this place a second chance.
Citrone is on the 300 block of Orange Street. One of the two main veins of the historic section of downtown Redlands. The dining room was warm and only about half full at 8:00. I took a cursory glance at the menu before committing with an understated "table for one, please." Expecting to be lead to a two-top lining the back wall, I was surprised to be seated at a table for four, adjacent to the long open kitchen which was brightly lit and where two chefs appeared surprisingly inactive. The service staff was attentive and noticeably all male. Not in a Steps of Rome, Italian ex-frat boy sort of way, just in a coincidental "we have no women that work here" sort of way. I was tempted to ask about the intentionality of it, but didn't.
My server presented me with the menu, the wine list, and an oversized round of warm focaccia accompanied by a dish of olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. The menu was printed on a double sided single sheet. It lumped together starters and salads, moved to a collection of pastas, and rounded out its backside with several typical entrees: pork loin, lamb chops, Atlantic salmon. The wine list was far lengthier; the crescendo being three pages of Pinot Noir. It came with a disclaimer from the waiter, "all the wines on the list are by the bottle, I can tell you what's by the half bottle and glass." But he didn't and walked away. I opted for the Paul Hobbs Pinot Noir and informed the waiter on his return "Oh, we don't have that by the glass, sorry. But we do have Carmel Road, I promise you won't be disappointed. Want me to pour you a taste?" It actually wasn't disappointing so I let him pour me a glass. I decided to start with the Citrone Salad described as orange, grapefruit, avocado, and currents in a spicy-honey dressing. I waffled with the entree choices, almost getting roped into a roasted eggplant penne. Eventually I narrowed it down to two options. The Citrone Stack: grilled eggplant, roasted red peppers, mushrooms, potato, buffalo mozzarella presented in a tower and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Or an appetizer size of dungeness crab cakes with papaya-mango salsa. I deferred to the waiter and was advised that the Stack was "big and wouldn't keep overnight." He underestimated my eating abilities, that much was clear, but I took it as a vote of confidence for the crab cakes.
I glanced around the dining room. The brick walls and track lighting were gentle on the eyes. The room was decorated with frames containing enlarged wine labels. The one outlier was the large poster that every girl has in her freshman dorm room from that series of vintage Italian liquors. It depicted two boisterous tux-clad waiters carting bunches of grapes and had the word "Union" emblazoned under their feet. The open kitchen was framed by frosted glass with the word Citrone etched in. It was back lit by an aqua glow. The decor made me nostalgic for Palo Alto during the Dot Com era.
My salad arrived. It was dressed liberally and the flavor smacked more of mustard than spice. One edge of the plate held a heap of currants scattered about two hearty rounds of citrus. The salad was good, not great, but certainly took all BJ's salad excuses to the mat. My crab cakes came. The papaya-mango salsa was heavy to the lime and red onions but a nice addition to the two cakes and the small pile of greens on the plate. The cakes were large with a dark brown exterior that implied they might be a bit crispy on the outside. Alas, alas. The exterior was not dissimilar from the mushy interior and the whole mass, inside and out, was the same color. The flavor was mediocre and I really couldn't get passed the textural disappointment. I worked my way through some of it, finished my wine and sat back. The patrons were like the crab cakes, all between the ages of 32 and 40, middle weight, mediocre looking. I'm not really sure what I was expecting.
The waiter brought over the dessert tray. There was a lot going on: peanut butter cake with a graham cracker crust, sponge cake with a white wine sauce and mocha frosting, an eye-pleasing ricotta fruit tart, cheesecake, tiramisu, other things that were forgettable. Ultimately I opted out.
It was a good try. For a second, I forgot I was just a few hundred yards from I-10 East. For a second I was really pleased with the prospect of crab cakes. And the wine was legitimately good. It's Redlands, not San Francisco. I should keep things in perspective; they tried their best. But when the best is priced like San Francisco yet just doesn't come close to comparing, it's hard not to resent it. Ultimately it was more like a throwback to my college days, when my food standards were lower and the bricks of the British Bankers Club made me feel at home. It was a definite upgrade from nightly usual but I don't believe I'll be going back any time soon.
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