Range

Somewhere between the broad band of casual dining and the lofty peaks of four star dining is a narrow segment of restaurants that serves as the backbone of most metropolitan dining scenes. Too polished for paper napkins but relaxed enough to forgo tablecloths, these restaurants cater to those who care enough to ask where the lamb on their plate was raised but are frugal enough to enjoy it only occasionally. And thus some of the exacting standards and refinement of haute cuisine is trickled down to a larger audience, as if to stem, however hopelessly, the pragmatic and detached approach to food that has dominated the post-Industrial age of manufactured meals.

Of these restaurants, where entrees run roughly beween $15 and $25, a few stand out in San Francisco: Myth, Delfina, Woodward's Garden, to name just a few. But while all of them have brigades of loyal, defensive patrons and reputations that rival some of the great restaurants of this city, only one managed to garner a Michelin star. Range sits at the edge of the Mission's "Gourmet Ghetto" with a cool confidence, though which came first - the star or the confidence - is hard to tell.

Michelin's stamp of approval notwithstanding, Range's confidence is somewhat surprising given that the restaurant seems to struggle with its identity. It's not exactly a see-and-be-seen kind of a place that draws the young, stylish trust-fund set, nor does it really cater to the pre-symphony demographic, and it apparently avoids that mysteriously affluent Mission hipster crowd despite its location. The service staff is neither noticeably warm nor aloof, is efficient but unenthusiastic. There is the occasional stroke of personality and fleck of quirk, but these are just ornaments against the general palette of vanilla. In fact, one might describe the place as bland, or perhaps even dull. The vibe is altogether unremarkable.

But still, it succeeds. And it succeeds best when and where it aspires to be more than what it is; when it reaches for two, and perhaps even three, stars. I once had a flat-iron steak that had a superb crust around a buttery, tender interior, accompanied by a veal sauce that caused me to drop my fork and sink back in my chair. The strawberry shortcake from the same evening was comprised of small, sweet, fragrant strawberries, a light, crisp shortbread, and just the right amount of fresh whipped cream. It was a dessert that, even as I reread this, sounds so ordinary but was, if you would trust me, something of a revelation. There is even the small detail, that does not go unnoticed, of home made truffles that arrive as petit-fours. During these moments one star seems like an injustice.

Inconsistency, however, is what keeps Range down. One week after that superb steak, I had another that was tough and sinewy. The sauce was dull, lifeless, and questionably propped up by too much sweetness. A tomato salad, as familiar as strawberry shortcakes, failed to surprise the way the dessert did. The strawberry ice cream profiteroles with lemon cream and pistachios was nearly inedible. The ice cream was icy, the choux pastry frustratingly hard, and the lemon cream did nothing to improve the situation.

Consistency. It separates the good from the great. While one should demand perfect consistency from the great restaurants, one must forgive the occasional moment of failure from the category of restaurants in which Range resides. But in assessing a restaurant it is not enough to consider the lack of off nights. One must consider the height of the high points. For when Range succeeds, it succeeds spectacularly. Herein lies the measure that, in my opinion, makes Range the finest among its peers. So should you, on your first visit, have a disappointing steak or a mediocre salad, you would do well to suspend your judgment and give it another go.