Butterfield 9 Has Your Number

Michael Harr may be the best Washington chef you never heard of.

Since he took charge at Butterfield 9 last year, the ambitious but erratic restaurant has subtly, almost stealthily, become one of the most intriguing and nuanced restaurants in town. The timing is meticulous, presentations complementary rather than cosmetic and side dishes as considered as the centerpieces. The sweet and sour endive and parsley coulis that attended the scallop-crusted halibut were light, clean and acute; "burnt honey crispy rutabaga hearts" smartly mirrored the glazed eel, earthy and sweet at the same time.

Even more impressive is the elegant balance of flavors. Harr's kitchen has mastered the high and unhappily rare culinary alchemy of blending just the exact amount of salt into a dish so you cannot taste it as a separate ingredient. The tarragon butter poached baby lobster, a finger-length tail and thumb of claw, was the best such dish in memory. The lobster's texture, the long-grained fleshiness that is so often cooked out of it, was offset by the soft nap of braised fennel compote and its richness given a surprising but discreet grounding by a beautiful smear of wine-dark cherry jus.

All in all, it's tempting to say that Butterfield is indeed a 9 -- especially as you can converse in an ordinary tone of voice. What a concept.

Harr's menus are an embarrassment of riches. He offers a pre-/post-theater menu (three courses for $38), an unusually alluring bar menu (roast pheasant, crispy artichokes with fingerling potato chips, chevre-stuffed tempura fried squash blossoms) and at least two five-course tasting versions, available with paired wines, in addition to the a la carte list. And that doesn't count the amuse bouche or two he sends out or, for example, the separate $30.06 Restaurant Week menus in August.

In fact, the restaurant's generosity is almost compulsive: As a gesture of appreciation to August clients, even before Restaurant Week, the $35 fee for pairing wines with the tasting menu was waived, though in no case was the pouring less than generous, and for one course, when the sommelier decided that the already delivered sauvignon might be only a mediocre match for one of the dishes, two fresh glasses were provided and all four left for the guests to compare.

The multiplicity of menus begins to make one giddy with opportunity (and, since neither sides nor seasonings are likely to be duplicated from page to page, you can find yourself hankering as much for the artichoke as for the veal). For one thing, there is always a vegetarian tasting menu, which should dispense for good and all the idea that "haute" and "veggie" cannot coincide. Among the vegetarian dishes have been an amuse of delicate cheese grits serving as the "white" of a perfectly poached quail egg yolk, warmed just to suspension; a baby bowl of peas simply luxuriating in butter; and butter-browned ricotto gnocchi with pea vines and spinach. Another night's opener was a demitasse of asparagus soup, topped with a dollop of lemon-scented creme fraiche, from which even the tiniest strain of sulfur had been erased. Farro, a firm, antique grain closely related to spelt and tasting something like nutty brown rice, was turned into a perfectly balanced risotto with pureed greens topped with tempura-battered squash blossoms.

A different tasting menu began with a tidbit of tuna tartare of particularly good quality. The first seafood course was called clam and scallop seviche but should really have been called sashimi, the yuzu vinaigrette had dealt so gently with the translucent flesh. The meat for the entree had not been delivered that day, so Harr offered to make a dish by request or to prepare a surprise instead. The impression the scallop had left was so strong that the diner requested more, and the improvised main course emerged as a fine duo of seared scallop and filet of fresh Hawaiian escolar (what many restaurants call white tuna), seared just enough to stiffen its buttery flesh and in a clear fennel fumé.

Kid is unduly neglected these days -- perhaps we should go back to calling it chevon or capretto and make it trendy -- but Harr turns its many parts into "studies" that actually vary night to night, mixing legs, breast, neck, ribs, even some organ meats such as liver and brains. One version included a dainty double chop and a lovely little tenderloin, both cooked rare to order, a single acid-free kidney and a confit-stuffed ravioli dressed with fig conserve. The entire presentation was given just the cleansing tang it needed by a fan of butter-blackened Belgian endive leaves. On the other hand, although the kidney was fine, it was naked and unsliced, which left it looking rather silly amid the rest of the arrangement.

Harr tends to limit the stronger flavors to smaller plates, such as the perfect square of beef short rib, completely tender but without a trace of viscosity; he also has a restrained hand with the truffle oil. But he's anything but shy: What sounds uncharacteristically brash -- a potential ganging-up of Sichuan peppercorns dust, tannic walnuts and zinfandel -- draws out the defiant whisper of gaminess in ostrich some chefs try to smother.

A few quibbles: Though the pappadam-like crisps in the bread basket are very nice, the other breads are uncharacteristically pedestrian. Having salt and pepper grinders at the table is fine, but the pepper might be cornier. And for soups as thick as the asparagus, a demitasse spoon would be appreciated because so much sticks to the cup.

It's hard to save room for dessert, but even if you don't order anything, a mint-size meringue or truffle is apt to appear. The wine list is nice, and Butterfield 9 stocks a half-dozen boutique teas as well as Santa Lucia coffee and two flights of ports.

Butterfield 9 600 14th St. NW (Metro: Metro Center) Phone: 202-289-8810 Kitchen hours: Monday-Thursday 11:30-2:30 and 5:30-10; Fridays 11:30-2:30 and 5:30-11; Saturdays 5:30-11; and Sundays 5:30-10. Prices: Appetizers $8-$21; entrees $22-$37; fixed price $35-$65. Wheelchair access: Good