The life of O'Reilly

By Paul Reidinger

IT IS POSSIBLE to step into O'Reilly's Holy Grail without bowing your head and crossing yourself, but the temptation to genuflect will be strong even for those of us who aren't Catholic or otherwise observant. The venerable Mayes Oyster House has been redone in a spectacular blend of stained glass, oil-on-canvas iconography, hand-carved mahogany, forged copper for the cathedral ceiling, and halogen sconce lighting both ultramodern and medievally warm, all of which produce an unmistakable chapel effect. Yet amid the wealth of faux-sacred cues, the occasional profane note is mercifully struck; in the evenings, lounge-worthy show tunes tinkle forth from a baby grand as glossily black as a new Mercedes – and of course there is executive chef Seán Canavan's food, which, like the decor, brings together unlikely elements into a uniquely satisfying symphony.

The restaurant's name, especially as rendered in those Celtic-style letters above the doorway, carries a definite pub-grub ring, and pub-grubbers, if dismayed at first by the impression that they have wandered into a church and will shortly be expected to confess their sins, will be put at ease by such classic dishes of the British Isles as lamb stew, fish and chips, and shepherd's pie. But heartiness is not incompatible with sophistication; an oxtail and barley soup ($8) is weighty, yes, but a broth concocted in part from Guinness beer lends it a certain sheen, and a brown-bread crouton with melted Irish cheddar cheese afloat in the middle of the bowl provides a certain whimsy.

The fritter, in my experience, is lovable in all its guises, which are many, since in one form or another it is a favorite fried finger food of the world's many peasant cuisines. But I don't think I've ever had a better fritter than O'Reilly's sausage-and-oyster version ($7), with its crunch and skillful balance of sweet and salty, its sly nod to the Mayes past, and its peach-colored aioli of tomato and saffron (the last perhaps not quite a rustic touch). The fritters were small but large enough to cast a shadow over the otherwise estimable cheeseburger ($14), juicy and capped with melted Irish cheddar and a little spendy, it seemed to me, even if made of Niman Ranch organic beef.

The dinner menu, though not without its sprinklings of the traditional (pigs' feet with cabbage slaw and mustard vinaigrette, anyone?), tilts in a more California direction. This means, for one thing, plenty of seafood – oysters, yes, but also a fine ceviche ($8.50) of Alaskan halibut cubes dunked in a bath of lemon and lime juices with cucumber, parsley, celery, cherry tomatoes, and slivers of sweet red onion.

If you just can't get enough Alaskan halibut, you might move on to having it again as your main course ($19.50), where it would appear as a seared filet reclining on a bed of mashed potatoes (with spinach on the side) and sauced with a meunière-style combination of lemon, capers, and butter. But if you can't face the possibility of halibut overload, or if, like me, you seize any opportunity to have wild salmon, you might have the king salmon ($19.50), a summertime fish (often taken locally) served with an all-season entourage of chanterelle mushrooms, fingerling potatoes, asparagus, and green beans.

It would be sacrilege, somehow, to eat in an Irish-accented restaurant and not have some lamb, and while we have drifted away from the consumption of mammals (especially baby mammals) in recent years, I found myself unable to resist the curried lamb riblets ($9), grilled to a light char, juicy and tender, the gaminess of the meat tempered by the cool, green breath of mint, and the remnant bon es almost poignantly small, like the tines of a pasta fork. To judge by the smacking of lips, neither of us regretted having the riblets, but neither did we regret being reminded, by the miniature makeshift ossuary soon cleared away by the attentive service staff, that eating is a consequence of acts, not all of which bear easy contemplation.

No such thoughts attended our joint devouring of the peach melba ($7), presented in a stemmed sundae goblet with Grand Marnier and vanilla ice cream. September is late in the season for peaches, and these slices were cut from a roly-poly piece of ripe fruit that wouldn't have lasted more than a day or two longer without growing a beard of green mold and being routed to the compost bin.

A place like O'Reilly's Holy Grail would be striking in any setting, but the mid-Polk seems like a particularly unlikely place for it. The gay sleaze of the 1970s – the boy hustlers, the video shops, the foofy boutiques like Chicken Little – is mostly gone, but the occasional interpolation of nicer restaurants hasn't gone well; in the late '90s, Hoss Zaré gave it a go a few blocks up the street, at the corner of California, but his Bistro Zaré lasted only a few years. Since then the neighborhood seems to have idled; the newcomers seem to be mostly Internet cafes, while old-line Greek and Thai places march deathlessly forth. Onward, ethnic soldiers.

O'Rei lly's Holy Grail. 1233 Polk (at Sutter), SF. (415) 928-1233. Lunch: Mon.-Fri., 11:30 a.m.-2:30 p.m. Dinner: nightly, 5:30-10 p.m. Brunch: Sat.-Sun., 9:30 a.m.-2:30 p.m. Full bar. American Express, Discover, MasterCard, Visa. Not particularly noisy. Wheelchair accessible.