Photo by Jade Wilson
Oysters arrive, 20 of them, immaculate, encircling a bouquet of condiments. Next, an incantation, as their mustachioed bearer aims his pen at each variety and recites their names: Alpine Bay, Salt Shaker, Deep Cove, Sea Siren, Blackbeard’s Gold—magic words that condense the dining experience into a focal point, a mandala of glistening bivalves.
Saint James Seafood closed its doors—along with several other restaurants and businesses—on April 10, 2019, following the tragic gas explosion that claimed two lives and leveled a historic block in Durham’s Brightleaf District. The adjacent buildings suffered serious damage, and while it was spared from subsequent demolition, Saint James was about as adjacent as you can get.
Somewhat miraculously, it has returned, its lofty dining room and shadowy “Captain’s Quarters” intact, the paintings of sundered vessels and comely merpeople and yellow-slickered sea dogs still hanging in place, the enormous blue marlin gloriously unblemished. It remains quite simply the most fun place to eat in Durham, an embodiment of the iconoclastic vision and stringent execution of chef-owner Matt Kelly and his team of skilled accomplices.
For example, they have something called chowder fries, a nautical poutine of slivered potato drenched in clam chowder, cheddar, and famously smoky Benton’s Bacon. It’s a ridiculous dish—a State Fair-level stunt—but it’s pleasing on about 12 different levels, from low-brow to intellectually vivifying.
Photo by Jade Wilson
There are “towers,” of course, icebound and vertiginous, bristling with spine and shell, claw and carapace, providing a tour of the restaurant’s stellar raw bar. Oysters— aforementioned, the city’s best selection. Clams in their own pungent liquor. Mussels and crab claws, expertly seasoned and prepared. A whole lobster, sectioned for easy access to the juiciest bits.
Aguachile of flounder and avocado is fiery and refreshing, while the coctel de camaron hits the comforting notes of a childhood trip to Red Lobster. Lemon lifts the bubbling weight of hot crab dip, but the smoked fish dip is more enticing, with a horseradish bite and accompaniment of ingenious fried saltines.
The BBQ local shrimp are good, but the bowl of butter and BBQ sauce in which they float is better. Drag some garlic bread through that blood-red sea, and, oh man, you’re done, that’s it.
All of these dishes invite gleeful sharing, and while singlehandedly housing a plate of chowder fries might be a heroic act of self-destruction, Saint James’ heady joys are better experienced as a group.
That way, you can get two Calabash platters, one with scallops (good) and one with catfish (better). Served with the traditional accompaniment of fries and slaw, the platters are a showcase of the deep-frying arts, golden and crispy and immensely satisfying. They are pricey for what is essentially a plate of fried stuff, but the quality of the catch is evident beneath the expert batter.
There’s plenty to drink, too, tiki classics and well-heeled cocktails and a cooler full of cold frosty ones. The rum old-fashioned is fascinating if slightly too sweet, but the Jungle Bird is note-perfect; if you’ve never experienced this concoction of dark rum, bitter Campari, and Demerara, by all means, make the bar at Saint James the vessel for your maiden journey.
The wine list has returned from hiatus in marvelously expanded form. A dry Riesling from New York’s Finger Lakes region paired excellently with the entire menu, but it would take multiple visits to work through the list’s highlights, most of them proudly estate-grown and seafood-friendly.
Saint James has brought most of its oeuvre back from limbo—like the weirdly addictive brussels sprouts—but the menu features plenty of new additions. And one glaring omission: The gangster-ass classic Lobster Newburg failed to make the reincarnation. The deviled crab spaghetti, however, slyly replaces that timeless dinosaur dish, with crab that is acceptably crabby, pasta twirlingly light, and a snowfall of crumbled saltines filling in for oreganato.
Another new dish, the squid ink shells, aims for lofty continental highs more in line with some of Kelly’s other restaurants. The rich, briny ink subtly infuses the whole dish and carries morsels of chopped octopus along with it. Spicy ’nduja acts as a foil, and the whole thing ends up as a head-smackingly clever confluence of pork and seafood.
The best course of action at Saint James is to stick to all things raw, bite-sized, shareable, and fried. The entrees are fine, mostly. You can’t argue with shrimp and grits, lobster rolls, or the well-buttered NY strip that all good seafood restaurants must provide. Dishes like salmon with field peas and striped bass on rice, however, feel out-of-step with the wild indulgences that define the overall vibe. They are a little too fancy, too constructed, too nice.
There is one standout entree, however, that should serve as the centerpiece for any group dinner: the seafood stew. A lusty reimagining of cioppino, the roasted tomato broth is cut with earthy-sweet fennel and comes brimming with shellfish and cephalopod. It’s convivial, hearty, and a triumphant illustration of the concept of “getting your money’s worth.”
Saint James is Kelly’s fifth Durham restaurant, and it’s the purest distillation of the chef’s personality. I don’t like to lionize chefs—and I try to avoid the biases of friendship—but I’ve known Kelly for over a decade, and I always find him garrulous, funny, and big-hearted, with his own distinctive brand of stoner charm.
I’ve also come to know him as a chef and restauranteur who is deeply inquisitive, thoughtful, and exacting. I compare his restaurants to the work of filmmaker Wes Anderson, suffused with exquisite minutiae and a romance that celebrates the moods and trappings of experience without becoming mired in sentimentality.
Saint James weaves an illusion, albeit a different one than Kelly’s other spots. It’s a phantasmagoric blend of stylish modern restaurant and salt-encrusted coastal seafood joint, the kind with a lobster tank and a snow crab special for $8.99 and maybe your dad has one extra whiskey sour and lets you go crazy on the Galaga machine and maybe you realize that fried shrimp is the best fucking thing in the entire world and you eat your first raw oyster and it changes your life and the way you think about food forever.
The kind of place that feels palpably real, even though it may only exist in youthful, beach-bound memory.
Beyond the peerless quality of the ingredients and the dexterous creativity of the cooking, beyond the marshaled dignity of the staff and the exhaustively sourced decorative ephemera, you can find Kelly’s best yet most unrecognized asset—a singular, unwavering eye for detail, and an ability to sculpt that detail into experiential coherence.
And that detail makes Saint James more than just a meal. It’s a romp.
Contact contributing food editor Nick Williams at food@indyweek.com.
Correction: This article previously stated that the April gas explosion occurred in 2018. It actually occurred in 2019.
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