In the June 27, 2008, Pasatiempo, I hummed a few praises for Max's Late Night Cafe, a small, unassuming restaurant tucked behind a blues club on Guadalupe Street that, despite redevelopment and snarled traffic in the Railyard area, managed to create a strong buzz and foster a devoted following among local fine-dining enthusiasts. More than two years later, the nearby blues club is now Corazon -- a hoppin' nightspot with live music and dancing -- and the food at the restaurant (now simply called Max's) has blossomed beyond my wildest imagination. That hum is now a song in five courses.

The decor hasn't changed much; warmly painted stucco walls are offset by a shiny, modern countertop that separates diners from the closed kitchen and a servers' station. The patio outside the entrance is hidden from street view.

An early Friday-evening meal for three in late August was my introduction to the seasonal contemporary American cuisine of Max's new chef/partner Mark Connell -- a Massachusetts transplant who brings with him experience cooking the French-influenced American cuisine of Salts Restaurant in Cambridge; a tempered appreciation for molecular gastronomy; and a passion for the simple-yet-elegant nuances of authentic Mediterranean cooking.

Three of us sat indoors, started with bottled still water, and chose a lemony, slightly dry 2008 Provenance Rutherford Sauvignon Blanc, which, despite a hard-edged finish, proved a marvelous pairing for the seafood selections to come.

The feast began with a light and satisfying amuse bouche of thin summer melon planks loosely bound with a flavorless gelatinous substance (agar-agar?) alongside a tiny wisp of sweet, peppery oil. Next, on to a single oyster, harvested from Quilcene Bay in Washington state. Delicate, sweet, and slightly briny, it took me back to my blister-fingered shucking years along the Little Snookum inlet.

Two of us opted for the five-course tasting menu (a chef's choice of smaller portions from the first and second courses plus dessert), and the entire table picked off the plates. An heirloom tomato salad with arugula and goat-cheese sorbet was a meditation on the bounty of area farmers markets. A stone-fruit salad of peaches, apricots, shaved fennel, arugula, and balsamic reduction also satisfied, hinting at the changing weather and harvest but not quite letting go of summer.

"Heavenly" describes the corn soup with pork-belly "croutons" and leek emulsion -- the soup's slight sweetness, vegetal whispers, and semi-smoothness taming the salty crunch of the crisp-chewy pork.
A perfectly cooked carnaroli risotto with porcini and oyster mushrooms came with delicately flavored mushroom foam, an addition I didn't mind here, because it added something positive to the dish instead of distracting from it -- which culinary foams often do.

Our friendly server, who was genuinely pleased to find the answers to the few questions he couldn't answer on his own, next delivered two dishes cooked sous vide (in which ingredients are heated in a water bath at a constant, relatively low temperature in vacuum-sealed bags to preserve their flavor and structural integrity). The first, an oblong mini-fillet of sturgeon with olives, artichoke, and a smooth, bright red-orange piquillo pepper sauce, offered a slight pucker and a tender, lean-yet-meaty texture. It was sided with a remarkable caper-crusted potato confit.
The rare-to-medium-rare Wagyu beef sous vide with sauteed spinach and wild mushroom ragout as tender, but the ragout overpowered the beef's natural flavor. It came with a barrel-shaped knob of polenta stuffed with silky hot truffle-scented Sottocenere cheese -- an unequivocal starch-and-cheese foodgasm.

Giant day-boat scallops were superb: well caramelized, not rubbery, and paired with warm and oozy foie gras ravioli and a sweet, earthy English-pea puree. And finally, the pork dish, which put most pork dishes in Santa Fe to shame: the suckling repared three ways -- crisped pork confit, braised shoulder tucked into a chard blanket, and tender seared loin with a gently mustardy Sauce Robert. It was so pretty I didn't want to eat it. But that thought only lasted a few seconds, I assure you.

We finished with a white chocolate globe filled with a quenelle of white chocolate/basil ice cream and garnished with candied basil. Drizzled with warm coconut-basil syrup tableside, it's a feast as much for the eyes as for the taste buds. The globe opens up on one side, revealing its prize. Small white-chocolate orbs filled with passion-fruit juice followed, and one ended up in my dinnermate's lap. The staff was apologetic, remained professional, and even offered to pay for dry cleaning. Look, these things happen. And after a meal that good, the staff can throw those delicious orbs at my favorite suit for all I care, as long as one of them winds up in my gullet.

The following week, I met a friend for dinner on the busy patio. Well, two friends, actually. Our dinner companion was Beatrice, a black Labrador retriever/Great Dane mix and a service dog-in-training with the local nonprofit Assistance Dogs of the West. We were accommodated without question, and water was graciously offered to the dog. We ordered tap water and two glasses of wine, a nicely chilled Vouvray for my dinner partner and a 2008 La Crema Monterey Pinot Noir for me. The red arrived a bit too hot.

Once again, the meal started with the melon amuse bouche, this time decorated with a small sprinkle of herb granita. My partner's stone-fruit salad contained cherries, but they had no flavor. My organic-field-greens salad with pitted cherries (again flavorless), almonds, and Banyuls vinaigrette (Banyuls is a French grenache-based fortified wine) was elevated by a thin plank of caÒa de cabra, a soft-ripened goat's milk cheese with a blooming rind and hints of earthy mushroom and citrus. Unfortunately, the salad greens -- and those of my partner -- were oversalted.

I went for the beef sous vide again. This time, the sauce was tamer and not delivered with such a heavy hand, allowing the rich, well-marbled aspects of American Wagyu beef to shine through. My partner went for the scallops with foie gras ravioli on my recommendation. She loved the dish -- even though it arrived lukewarm on a cool plate.

We finished with that magnificent white-chocolate globe, but this time, the tableside presentation fizzled. The warm coconut syrup was sloshed all over the top of the globe by our server, melting it in its entirety and turning the sorbet quenelle inside into a half-melted blob. It was still delicious, but the ooh-aah factor was lost. Even Beatrice looked underwhelmed.

Many dishes at Max's subtly display Connell's playful science experiments, and there are abundant smile-coaxing surprises that I'll allow you to discover without spoilers. Some say foams and nonstandard cooking methods are outdated. I say they must hate cappuccino, then.

Few fine-dining restaurants in Santa Fe manage to balance good food with good service and Max's is currently doing it better than most. The kitchen's creations are innovative and well structured in both flavor and texture, never fussed over or deconstructed to the point of visual or gustatory ridiculousness.

Service is straightforward, friendly, and never cloying, but product knowledge and a long lag time between check presentation and transaction completion could use attention. Wine service is casual but knowledgeable, and a
competent wine list keeps selections limited but interesting -- although storage temperatures for reds may be an issue. If local sustainable ingredients are a source of kitchen inspiration, I'd love to see a few of them mentioned on the menu or verbalized at the table. And I'm pretty sure those passion-fruit-filled white-chocolate orbs should be illegal.