What do you do with a three-day weekend Sunday? Besides squandering it,
I mean. I didn't even get out of bed until noon, so it's not like I was
primed to seize the day. James suggested a daytrip, Atlantic City was bandied
about but wasn't motivating enough. There weren't even any bad-good President's
Day shows. It was cold, too frigid for anything outdoorsy (like I was considering
nature, anyway). As usual, my mind wandered towards food. Where could we
drive in under two hours (the distance restriction we'd set) that had food
deserving of the effort?
Blue Hill at Stone Barns popped up for no particular reason. I looked it up on Open Table and they had a table for two left at 9pm. Why not? Honestly, I've never had any inclination towards the seasonal, organic, grow-your-own bent that possesses gourmet types. And is the middle of winter an ideal showcase for such a concept?
Whatever, it just sounded like a fun adventure and I was excited to get two "fancy" meals in less than a week (Pampano for Valentine's). I initially down played the upscaleness, pointing James to the $65 three-course tasting menu mention online. But hell, I just got my tax refund (no great shakes, believe me). Farmer's Feast all the way.
We actually left too early since it only takes about an hour and a half to get to Tarrytown (Pocantico Hills, whatever, it's basically Tarrytown) and were already in the vicinity by 5:30pm. On a Sunday night with time to kill and not much in the way of diversions, we took a chance on Town Tavern, which appeared to be the middle aged white guy choice in a mini downtown strip dominated by Latin American establishments. It was totally Archie Bunker--no women, heavy accents, flagrant violating of the smoking ban, no one under 50 except the bartender. I kept waiting for something horribly racist to burst out of someone's mouth (it's been known to happen) but heated conversations didn't get any more out of hand than calling the luge "gay."
It wasn't a horrible way to kill a couple hours, despite being subjected to lots of Sinatra, we at least got our third round of Bass free. Tarrytown must be a weird mix. A lone guy in a beret popped in and had a couple glasses of red wine. Other single men came in and ate frozen stuffed (with what, I'm not sure) chicken breasts warmed up in a little countertop contraption by the bartender. He must've had a surplus because everyone who asked for food (a sign advertised dinner Mon-Sat) got the chicken breast pushed on them. No one complained.
It did feel a little funny, knowing we'd be partaking in a multi-course tasting menu just up the street in a few hours. I like to believe I blend into my surroundings (yeah, right. As we were leaving, a couple guys were good-naturedly asking me about my Pepto-Bismol pink duffle coat from Target, telling me I was "retro.") but James always sticks out for wearing a suit and tie. He's just like that.
At Blue Hill, the male diners of our general age were all about expensive jeans, funky lace ups, turtle neck sweaters and blazers. We weren't able to take in the beauty of the grounds, which was fine by both of us because we're hardly nature lovers. James got all mad because I insisted on smoking right up to the front entrance and all the smooth jazzy folks could see me being uncouth.
The vibe is clean, rustic, modern barnyard (Pottery Barn but hipper and more minimalist). I wouldn't exactly say that it's my scene. Somehow it reminds me of that horrible Kitchen Trends show where everyone's obsessed with islands the size of studio apartments, Tuscan tile, granite, mosaic backsplashes, dish warmers and refrigerated drawers. Not that it quite had that suburban aspirational look. Maybe it was more like a highly calculated entertaining spread in a Conde Nast publication meant to convey casualness. I could never exist comfortably in the picture, though for the next few hours I could appreciate the concrete, neutral tones and metal beams with woody touches.
I was already tipsy, thanks to Town Tavern. As contrary as it might sound, I find this to be an optimal state for enjoying fine dining (but then, maybe I'm just a budding alcoholic. James actually complained about feeling ill towards the end of the meal, but he's one of those freaks who can't stand drinking more than one glass of wine). These kinds of restaurants tend to be stiff, despite the image they might intend to project, and a few pre-dinner drinks puts me in the proper amiable mood.
The wine? Something ill-matched and totally inappropriate, probably.
I'm not even close to an oenophile . And how are to supposed to know which
way to lean without seeing a menu first? Perhaps tasting menu diners rely
on the sommelier for suggestions. I'm just not there yet. I picked an
Alto Adige Pinot Noir a propos of nothing. I will say that there were
a decent amount of reasonably priced bottles (under $50), which is a concern
of mine.
A parmesan and (I think) fennel frico lollipop, served with a soup that
I’m pretty sure was chestnut (I never realized how bad my memory
was until trying to recall food without the help of a menu to refer to).
What I’m definitely sure of was that there was a miniature, like
¼” square, curry marshmallow floating in the shot. And that’s
the flavor that sticks in my mind.
Adorable beet burgers. These were really sweet and flavorful.
Though I somehow felt like the sesame seeds were being wasted. Eating
radishes like apples was much tastier than I would've
thought.
Salad of twenty herbs and lettuces. Which twenty? I have
no idea. Normally, I shy away from large amounts of leaves (it’s
a stem phobia) but this was playful. In one bite you’d get a hint
of lemon, in another subtle anise. Bitter, sweet and surrounded by radish
coins. By this point in the meal, I had decided that if I had a personal
chef to prepare fresh, creative, light fare like this I’d lose weight
with little trauma.
Then we received my favorite dish of the entire meal, which
totally shot my theory about healthful eating to hell. The cooks were
totally toying with me. I’m too pork crazed to ever become perversely
svelte. Romaine topped with a take on a Scotch egg, which was soft boiled
and coated in panko, parmesan and almonds. A hot guanciale vinaigrette
gets prepped in a little cast iron pot at the table and poured atop in
an oily crowning glory. After popping the runny yolk, the hearty leaves
were thick with rich oozy goodness.
There was a grapefruit sorbet palate cleanser in there somewhere, but
I couldn’t say at what point. Cod with French lentils. This was
light, simple and clean tasting. It would fit back in with my original
personal chef plan to make healthy eating painless.
The least memorable course. I’d completely forgotten about the
pasta until I looked over the photos I’d taken a few weeks later.
A great variety of mushrooms were used, enoki, trumpet, to name a few.
I want to say the ravioli was filled with duck because I know there had
to have been poultry in one of these dishes. Even the photo’s blurred
more than the rest (I don’t feign pro photo skills) which must be
indicative of something.
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We were ready to cry uncle with the cod. Despite tasting portions, these
chef’s menus always end up stuffing you to the gills (I’ve
not been to Per Se, but I find it hard to believe that people persist
in complaining about leaving hungry). And I’m not a dainty eater
by any stretch of the imagination. The young-ish (late 20s to early 30s,
as opposed to our early to mid 30s appearance) couple next to us actually
asked for a doggie bag, which seemed a bit off the cuff to me (speaking
of, the female wished her husband happy birthday. He thanked her for the
nice meal. Then when the bill came he paid). And I think they were just
doing the four course menu.
So, the venison trio, which would normally be very appealing, pushed
us over the edge. The rib, chop and sausage were too heavy to enjoy by
this point. Of course, that didn’t stop me from cleaning my plate.
I’m no fan of the molten cake canon, so the heavy filled sweet
masquerading as a soufflé killed me. It’s just way too sweet
and chocolately to cap off a large meal. But the hazelnut ice cream (gelato?)
was refreshing.
The candied quince rectangles were almost sharp and sour enough to counterbalance
the rich cake. Kind of like a tart gumdrop.
James stuffed a bunch of cocoa covered almonds in his pockets and I was
just relieved to have them out of my line of vision. It was only yesterday
that I remembered them and wished I had a few to nibble on. Too late,
of course. What kind of sad souvenir is that? (2/19/06)
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