Venue Review: Forty Six

Forty-six is a reasonably magic pair of digits -- the atomic number of palladium, the total number of books in the Catholic Old Testament, the number of peaks in the Adirondacks (leading to the nickname of "forty-sixers" for folks who've scaled them all).

Here, though, as the name of a new restaurant in Kannapolis owned by David Murdock, Forty Six refers to the number of chromosomes in the human body. And reasonable magic -- with a little science, spirituality and sports thrown in -- it is.

Murdock, who also owns Dole Food Co., is, with an estimated $4.2 billion, roughly the 200th-richest person in the world, according to Forbes. Murdock cares about health and wellness. And not just in a I-want-to-eat-better way, like the rest of us. In a let's-establish-a-cutting-edge-research-campus-and-do-breakthrough-development-and-put-my-money-where-my-mouth-is way.

A restaurant focusing on healthful choices, then, seems a no-brainer for him. But it's more.

It's diplomatic entree into a community still contemplating this whole research campus thing, and what it means. ("We are technically the first thing on the campus to open," says general manager Lauren Kimes. So when locals come in, they eat, relax and ask questions in a comfortable setting. "We get them to drink a little of the Kool-Aid that way." Though, of course, Kool-Aid isn't on the menu.) The campus is a remarkable and ambitious project; if it's unfamiliar to you, searching Google or the Observer archive will help.

Forty Six is, as well, an entertainment venue for visitors to the campus.

And it's the source of a little tension, if you listen to its PR: "It's healthFUL food, not HEALTH food," nearly everyone involved is eager to point out. NOT TOFU! could be its motto.

Which means it is food such as a wild salmon "BLT" in which the "bacon" is cured smoked salmon, tucked, along with a seared fillet, into brioche with avocado and arugula.

It's fat sea scallops, seared and resting on a soft corn fritter, atop sliced mushrooms and thin shreds of crisped leek. It's Ashley Farms organic chicken in a broth scented with oregano and lemon, with whole-wheat couscous. (This was a mite watery, the only dish I had that pulled its punch.)

It's moist, whole-grain breads with nuts and berries. It's salads in which the greens are by far the most prevalent ingredient and the dressing is doled out with a very light hand (refreshing!).

It's balanced proteins and grains, combinations that have proven health benefits, ingredients you don't find everywhere.

And -- because, as Kimes puts it, Murdock "is a fish vegetarian, but he's also in the business of making money" -- it's a perfectly restrained portion of chocolate lava cake with espresso ganache and strawberry whipped cream, along with smoothies of antioxidant-rich Tibetan goji berries. (Note: pretty good; tastes like chicken -- I mean, strawberry.)

The restaurant is handsome in a contemporary way, with weathered brick walls and light hardwoods the backdrop for sleek silverware and crockery. An austere grid of bare-filament light bulbs suspended from the ceiling is warmed by a good view into the kitchen, and quotes from folks as varied as Madame Curie and Socrates are stenciled onto the walls.

Black-clad servers scurry, though we stood at the door for several minutes one night before being spotted, and I'd like them to be more conversant about fine points: Details escaped our young attendant.

Executive chef John Sedlak and executive sous Daryl Hartsell change the menus frequently and try to buy locally, I'm told. So beef comes from in-state, when it's available (which is fairly infrequently); produce is often from area farms and "our freezer is naked," says Kimes.

You'll find lots of fish, from Copper River salmon (in its short season) to bacon-wrapped grouper with blackeyed peas. You'll find seasonal merriment: We went near Halloween and managed not to order the Candy Corn-Tini or any of the four pumpkin desserts (though pumpkin ginger torte with dulce de leche ice cream was tempting). You'll find trans fats held to a minimum but butter used occasionally, and agave nectar as the only sweetener offered for hot tea.

That was the single time I found the health focus unavoidable. Otherwise, it was perfectly possible to dine and not have the foggiest notion you were amid such healthfulness.

Which, I suppose, is the point -- though I hope with a little time and confidence (that can only come from diners showing they won't be frightened off), Forty Six will trumpet its focus. We should all know, and appreciate, its point.