Photograph by Michael Amsler

Holding Out for a Hiro: Gen Mizoguchi prepares chirashi zushi.

Hiro Worship

A new Japanese restaurant in Petaluma ups the ante

By Davina Baum

There are good reasons behind having more than one newspaper in town. Different coverage, different viewpoints–it all adds up, in theory, to benefit the readers.

In the case of Hiro’s, the new Japanese restaurant in Petaluma which Jeff Cox wrote about a few weeks ago in the Press Democrat, the benefit is all mine for having tried it, and I pass the joy onto you, the reader. Cox, who was “astounded” by Hiro’s, focused on the restaurant’s cooked food and rolls, rather than nigiri–the simple combination of fish and rice that can make or break a sushi restaurant. The omission became the perfect opportunity for me to pounce upon the unsuspecting eatery.

On a Thursday night, Hiro’s was packed, thanks in part, the waitress said, to the recent review. The space is dramatic, with a bar up front and a long, deep sushi bar stretching into the front half of the restaurant. Most sushi bars have a raised, glassed-in refrigerated section, but the sleek version at Hiro’s was sunk into the bar, making it easier to watch the three sushi chefs (including a woman, which is rare) slice and dice to keep up with their orders. The place was loud and lively, with undefinable, upbeat music bumping somewhere in the background.

Owner Hiro Yamamoto and managing partners Zach Woods and Mathieu Royer have spared no effort in making their restaurant visually stunning. Even the bathroom (I can only speak for the ladies room), with a beautiful, artfully designed sink, adds to the experience. The artwork, right down to the carved wooden table in the restroom, is by Naoki Takenouchi. The huge Japanese block print above the sushi bar is arresting, though the caged black and white crumpled paper above the tables left this diner a little perplexed.

Let your brain chew on the art while your mouth chews on something else. We started with cocktails, for Hiro’s offers a huge sake and sake cocktail list. I ordered the house-made lemon infused sake, and Zach Woods–very personable and taking a clear interest in his menu–came over to tell me that he had taken the lemon sake off the shelves because it wasn’t tasting right (it’s since been taken off the menu).

Instead, I tried the cucumber sake ($6)–cool and crisp with a lingering sake sweetness. Like vodka, sake takes well to infusions; it’s the perfect platform for fresh flavors. My companion had an umai mango ice ($6.50), sake and mango blended and bursting with the taste of the fruit.

With the drinks, we ordered a couple
of appetizers to munch while we focused on the sushi menu. The calamari tempura ($7.50) was a generous serving, hot out of the fryer. The batter, slightly on the salty side, coated the little tendrils just right, and the seafood was fresh and tender.

Sunomono ($6) is the ubiquitous cucumber salad that is so often doused with a cloyingly sweet dressing. Hiro’s version went much lighter on the dressing, and the thinly sliced cucumbers avoided the dreadful, syrupy end that so often befalls them. The salad, served in a martini glass, was topped with shredded crab meat, which provided a good textural counterpoint to the crisp vegetables.

As our sushi order started to weigh down our table, we ordered another round of drinks. The frozen white peach bellini ($7)–sake, white peaches, and champagne–was another fruit bomb, with the champagne getting lost in the blending. I tried a sake off the extensive list, which is quite helpful in listing a dryness index to indicate how sweet or dry a sake would be, as well as the prefecture the sake comes from.

I chose the Katana ($7.50) for its moderate price and its dryness (I’m a fan of sweeter sakes and wanted to taste the difference). The clean, sharp sake was poured into a glass that sat within a cedar box–the overflow into the box signifies the generosity of the hosts (and also imparts a wonderful cedar aroma to the drink). Hiro’s also has an interesting selection of sho-chu cocktails (sho-chu is a Japanese distilled spirit, usually made from potatoes, rye, or corn) and, of course, wine.

Throughout the meal, the service was good if hectic. Hiro’s seems to have a lot of people on staff, and every once in a while they tag teamed us to get a drink order or check in. The staff were all very friendly, though, and seemed to enjoy their work.

And then the hedonism truly began. Our table soon filled to capacity with beautiful dishes. The sushi, fresh and sparklingly clean, was perfectly cut–not an out-of-place tendon to be found, teeth slicing through it with abandon. It’s not hard to find fresh sushi in the North Bay, though it tends to be much more expensive than in San Francisco, Hiro’s being no exception. The talent of the chefs at Hiro’s comes through, however, in how they slice and put it together: not too much rice, the right amount of wasabi.

The saba (mackerel, $3.50), always one of the cheapest options on a sushi menu (and one of the most flavorful, as long as it isn’t overly fishy) was delightful, the oily freshness shining through in its silvery color. Maguro zuke (marinated tuna, $5) is something I had never seen on a menu before. It was deep burgundy in color, a much deeper red than regular maguro, and very tender, but it tasted like maguro.

The katsuo (bonito tuna, $4) is usually served lightly seared, which can dry it out, but Hiro’s chefs managed to keep it perfectly moist. The tiny red bubbles of tobiko (flying fish roe, $4) encased in their nori wrapper burst in the mouth with a salty pop, and the unagi (freshwater eel, $4.50), warmed and dabbed with tare sauce, tasted smooth and rich.

And then there were the maki sushi, or rolls, which perhaps are the downfall of anyone with eyes bigger than their stomachs. Rolls are where sushi restaurants have learned to innovate for their American patrons, and with each new restaurant come bigger, more ambitious–or foolhardy–options. They are also where restaurants have learned to gouge money from their patrons.

Hiro’s has its fair share of expensive, mayonnaised options. The red roof roll ($12) is shrimp tempura and cucumber wrapped in rice and nori, with a slice of salmon and a dollop of spicy mayo (the red roof in question). It’s a bit much; the individual flavors don’t come through clearly. The caterpillar roll ($11) was whimsically arranged into a sinuous caterpillar shape with sprouts for antennae, and filled with eel and cucumber and wrapped in nori and avocado.

The hamachi frito roll ($12.50) was a study in excess–yellowtail, eel, green onion, and avocado wrapped in rice and nori and dipped in tempura batter, then fried–but perhaps not surprisingly (excess is rewarded), was the best of the bunch. The hamachi was served well by its warming dip in the fryer, and the roll came out not too oily and wonderfully rich, with flavors shining through.

Needless to say, we had sushi to take home, but it’s wise not to overorder. Sushi, of course, doesn’t last long, and it doesn’t taste as good when it has sat in the fridge. We couldn’t even look at a dessert menu. But hey, Jeff Cox had written about the desserts already–thanks, Jeff!

Hiro’s, 107 Petaluma Blvd N., Petaluma. 707.763.2300. Open Tuesday-Saturday for lunch, and Tuesday-Sunday for dinner.

From the January 23-29, 2003 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.

Photograph by Rory McNamara

Rack ‘Em Up: Randy Sommerville, executive chef at Rosen’s Eastside Grill, digs into one of his own creations.

Eastside Story

The other half of Petaluma gains a funky and family-friendly eatery with Rosen’s Eastside Grill

By Sara Bir

It’s an odd sensation to walk into a place that boasts a cosmopolitan feel when that place makes its home in a suburban shopping center. Petaluma now has such a place in Rosen’s Eastside Grill, a new and boxy building in the G&G shopping center. The Eastside Grill is the spawn of Rosen’s Waterfront Grill, a fine-dining favorite in downtown Petaluma.

The Rosen sisters, Jan and Michelle, have charmed diners all over the country with their justly career-making cheesecakes (which are shipped down to swanky and famous restaurants in L.A.). But you cannot build a restaurant on cheesecake alone (never mind that those abhorrent Cheesecake Factory places are so popular). Thankfully, the Rosens and chef Randy Sommerville keep this bar and grill’s noncheesecake fare simple, satisfying, and entirely up to snuff.

One reason the Eastside Grill works at this location is that it’s clearly the kind of place where parents can take their families on a Friday night and the kids won’t make a stink about it. There’s a wide-screen TV above the bar, silently broadcasting some sports-channel stuff, so it could also make an after-work hangout for sports fans.

Those on a first date will also feel pretty comfortable at this casual yet stylish location. The banquettes are dark, rich wood, and Roy Lichtenstein and Picasso prints hang on the walls. Even the plates–whose rims are edged in primary-colored benday dots–are splashy and funky. The noise level, usually so high at places like this, is totally manageable; we could barely hear the generic saxophone music wash in the background (thank God!), so low was the volume.

The menu is rather all-encompassing, with wood-fired pizzas, pastas, burgers, and entrées whose basic approach is almost a breath of fresh air. No balsamic-reduction-drizzled roasted avocado-topped seared skate wings in a citrus crust here. Nope, you can get yourself things like a hamburger steak with onions and mushrooms or beer-battered fish. Those who lean away from red meat are best off if they have a soft spot for starches or fish.

We started off with parmesan olives ($6.95), what you might call a classier version of jalapeño poppers: green olives stuffed with parmesan cheese, breaded, and taken for a dip in the deep fryer. They arrived at the table in a martini glass (clever!). Like any breaded-and-fried cheese thing, these kind of explode in the mouth, but the salty olives cut through the gooeyness of the melted cheese. Since I love olives, I’d rather have just olives, but these were undoubtedly delicious.

The Eastside Grill’s salads are classic affairs, the kind of salads you’d see published in an issue of Gourmet about half a century ago–chef’s salad, Cobb salad, the ubiquitous caesar, and the iceberg wedge with blue-cheese dressing.

The spinach salad with candied pecans, dried cranberries, pancetta, and feta cheese was ample (all of the servings here are) and didn’t skimp on the ol’ bacon or pecans. The dressing, which tasted sort of bottled, came on the side, though. This is a heresy! How is a person supposed to toss her own salad when it’s on a plate and not get salad all over the table? Somehow we managed, and the salad was good enough, but I’m sure a decent tossing back in the kitchen would have transformed it into the salad it had the potential to be.

The pesto pizza ($12.95) had a crisp, thin crust, but not so thin that it was impossible to lift up a slice without it going flaccid, all too often a mark of lesser wood-fired pizzas. The promised fresh tomatoes were smothered under a profuse amount of melted mozzarella and sliced so thinly that they sort of disappeared, but as a whole the results were good. The pizza’s large enough to have some slices to take home and have the next day for lunch.

Mr. Bir du Jour, always a cautious fellow, got himself a cheeseburger ($9.50) with fries. Lovers of burgers–substantial ones, whose burly patties run with greasy juice–are on a constant quest for a reliable source for a killer non-fast-food burger, a big fat one that’s not refined or gloppy or out of control. Go ye, I say, to the Eastside Grill! The patty came on a nonmushy, lightly toasted bun and was cooked exactly to the medium doneness ordered. The fries were, you know, fries. Mr. Bir du Jour was happy. I was envious.

The only big flop of the night was the chicken pot pie ($12.95), whose generous proportions carried over into farce. This thing came to the table, and–no kidding–it had the diameter of a ’76 Impala steering wheel. All four people sitting at the table could have shared the pie for dinner and not gone home hungry. I felt dwarfed and gluttonous sitting behind it.

The broad expanse of golden pastry covering the top was overworked and tough instead of tender, and the sea of filling it obscured was flavorless, a random assortment of overcooked green beans, cauliflower, red bell pepper, potatoes, and plump hunks of chicken. The gravy was thin but tasted of flour, like mediocre diner gravy, and it sloshed around in there more like a so-so chicken stew than a homey pot pie. Halfway through dinner, one of us noticed a soup spoon on the far reaches of the rim of the plate, so apparently it’s supposed to be like that, though I’d prefer a normal-sized chicken pot pie that requires no spoon.

The pot roast ($14.95), on the other hand, put the so-called pot roast my mother set on my family’s dinner table to shame. Tender and cooked perfectly (no toughness lingered), the meat had the succulent richness of a good beef cheek. Our friend declared it the best pot roast he had ever had. The accompanying mashed potatoes (entrées come with a choice of two sides) were creamy, smooth, and full of fatty dairy goodness.

To wash down the pot roast, we tried a 2002 Santa Barbara Rock Rabbit Syrah ($6.50 glass), which was big and fruity and not all that distinctive, but it’s a good, versatile match to many of the items on the menu (as were most of the wines on the short but serviceable list).

We were very full but also very curious about Rosen’s deep-fried cheesecake ($7.95). Because cheesecake is the cornerstone of the whole Rosen operation, skipping it would be like visiting the Blarney Stone and not kissing it. But deep-fried? Such treatment sounded suspiciously British. We had imagined a beer batter-dipped wedge of runny grease, but upon inquiry to the waiter we discovered it’s sheathed in a very non-British won ton wrapper.

Still, we skipped it in lieu of the apple crisp ($6.95), piping hot and with a pleasingly firm Granny Smith apple filling under a sweet crust of caramel and a dollop of vanilla ice cream. (It would have been nice had our waiter brought the bill after he brought us the dessert, though. He seemed a bit scattered that night.)

Mr. Rosen himself then came to check in on us and, dismayed that we had failed to kiss the Blarney Stone, sent us a piece of cheesecake on the house. Well, no wonder they are famous for this stuff! It’s light and airy, not as dense as a New York-style cheesecake but just as creamy and still with substance. The top was beautifully browned and the graham cracker crust wielded a citrus punch.

Rosen’s Eastside Grill is an amazingly friendly place–the staff was all very pleasant, and it was easy to feel relaxed and at home. You eastsiders of Petaluma are pretty lucky folks, I’d say. Just stay away from that pot pie and you’re home free.

Rosen’s Eastside Grill, 701 Sonoma Mountain Parkway (in the Parkway Plaza, by G&G Market), Petaluma. 707.763.4644.

From the January 16-22, 2003 issue of the North Bay Bohemian.

© Metro Publishing Inc.