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Everybody who has been following the restaurant scene of late in Austin knows that Emilia's Restaurant has made a spectacular debut. John Mariani (the savviest food critic there is) reviewed it with panache, and their young and brilliant chef, the thirty-year-old Will Packwood, won an award from Food & Wine as one of the "Ten Best New Chefs in America 2001." For a restaurant that hasn't even been around for a year, yet, this is stepping out in style.

But I wanted to write about it merely because I love dining there, and learning a bit about the whole process of assembling such a complex place has fascinated me. It's not every day that someone smashes out on a huge-scale venture like this, invoking jacquard tablecloths, some 7,000 bottles of wine (all hand-selected, although I imagine that Matt did not actually put his hand on each individual bottle), and a constant, intricate stream of foie gras, fresh figs, cilantro, mussels, elk striploin, and caviar wending its way into the magic kitchen.

There is a children's book that I absolutely love, entitled ELOISE, written by torch singer Kay Thompson in the 1950's. Its heroine—who is six years old—lives with her nanny at the Park Plaza Hotel in New York. As she proudly announces, looking at a portrait in the lobby, "My mother knows The Owner." It's always fun to know who's behind some enterprise of great pitch and moment, and you really cannot miss Denis Tracey, who planned and orchestrated the whole affair, along with his various brilliant staff members. (The restaurant is named after Denis' wife. Denis himself is a retired Dell executive, who clearly was concealing a right-brain streak all along in his first career.) It was he who considered, bought and renovated a historic building site which is located downtown (next to the convention center).

The land itself was first bought in the early days of the Austin settlement, and in 1854 a two-story building was eventually constructed to house a grocery store, in addition to a saloon. The honey-colored stone walls have mellowed into a beautiful texture that makes you want to reach out and touch it with your hand; and the floors are a rich wood polished to a gleam. There are oil paintings of fruit on the walls of one room, and of Texas wild-flowers in the next, and the tables are definitely not fussy. Except for a single spray of deep purple orchid on each table, the usual accoutrements of candle, salt and pepper shakers are chastely absent. Lighting from the ceiling creates a diffused glow throughout both rooms.

The food is simply lyrical. The first time you read a description of a dish on the menu, it's difficult even to visualize it—what can one make of a combination such as "Roasted elk striploin: molasses scented sweet potatoes, summer tomato succotash, curly endive salad and a tasso-whisky reduction"? Our waiter, Matt (whom I adore), said--in the politest possible way-- "order this," and so I did. It's hard to describe the effect of this accurately, but with this chef's concoctions, when you put a bite into your mouth, it first tastes very good, and then a second later you want to clutch the tablecloth with your fingers in ecstasy. Flavor zooms through your body. His cuisine makes everything else taste bland or monochromatic—you have suddenly discovered a new definition of taste.

There are several combinations to try. Starters include such dishes as "Foie Gras 'au torchon' with roasted figs, rosemary-currant scone, baby arugula and a tawny port syrup," or the "Peekytoe Crab Salad, with blue corn crisps, avocado, American Sturgeon Roe, sweet onions and cilantro-Texas Grapefruit Citronette." But the utterly amazing thing is the "Mussel and sweet corn chowder with roasted pepper-avocado relish and cilantro oil"--even my husband (not prone to groan ecstatically over a plate) actually interrupted me in the middle of a sentence to exclaim that this bowl of soup represented the entire purpose for the evolution of mussels.

The wine, also, is superb—I know this from having tried a couple of bottles on the occasions when I was lucky enough to dine there. But almost more fun is talking to Matt Berendt, the wine steward. He is the genius behind the cellar downstairs, having assembled what he calls a "classic" collection from the world's most eminent and well-established vineyards. He talks knowledgeably about depth and range, and about having to furiously keep up with re-ordering. This requires a bit of finesse, because you can't know, as sommelier, which bottles are going to disappear off of your shelves, and thus will need replacing.

I also like talking to waiters, who will skillfully point you in the right direction when you are hesitating about what to order. And if you are interested in cooking, they are a mine of information. Russell explained to me the entire process of creating a foie gras torchon, and last time I dined at Emilia's, Matt forged into the kitchen on my behalf to inquire about making creme brulee. (This is my new quest, for Christmas dinner.)

Emilia's manages that rare balance in ambiance—ultra sophisticated, ultra contemporary, it is also warm and elegant. This is because the people who have created it love what they are doing--we are beholding here the polished product of several Men With a Mission. Restaurant awards and publicity are great, but what really counts is how welcome you feel when you walk in the door. I always have that heady sensation that we are smashing out on a gorgeous evening, and I am always right. I think that Eloise would love Emilia's too.

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