The Perfect Gastronomic Gift
It was late afternoon the day before Halloween as a Tarrytown taxi pulled up a long drive to a stone building swathed in that sharp amber light which seems only to exist on perfect fall days. Pastures stretched like painted swatches of green on either side of the building on the hill, and cows and sheep could be seen far off. The building was Blue Hill at Stone Barns, a restaurant on a farm which serves a menu supplied almost fully by the farm's livestock and harvests.
The day had been spent taking photos at the cemetery in nearby Sleepy Hollow, the town made famous by Washington Irving and his raging legendary headless horseman. The experience was a gift to celebrate my birthday and an anniversary, and there in the backseat of the taxi, before even having seen the menu or the inside of the restaurant, I almost began to cry. It was the ideal gift, both for my birthday and to celebrate the relationship which had been so intertwined with drinking and dining. I was terribly in love and felt not only loved but understood in return.
Our dinner reservation was at 5:00, and since there was still a half hour of sunlight, we asked the hostess for time to explore the farm. During the brief walk, we admired the stone structure of the old buildings, communed with a group of curious turkeys and watched three large sows and a piglet root through the mud for goodies. I sighed and thought again about reverting to vegetarianism. At least they seemed content.
The dining experience began with a pickled ramp martini. Well, it actually began with the waiter asking if we would like to start with a cocktail, perhaps a glass of champagne? Being the lush that I am, I asked for a drinks menu. I wanted something more interesting than bubbly. The waiter recommended a black currant cosmo, which was too sweet for my taste. As with any good bar or restaurant, they graciously offered me a choice of something else.
A ramp, for those of you not in know, is a wild leek. They are usually available fresh in New York in the spring. Pickled, they infused the martini with their delicious commingled flavor of onion and garlic.
After we had a chance to relax and sip, the waiter stopped by to explain that the menu is only a list of ingredients. Based on our preferences or dietary restrictions, the chef would create a tailored meal. (This wasn't quite the case, but the chef's nightly selections were modified to suit diners as needed.) My only request was no shell fish. Simple enough. If it had been any other time over my last nine and a half years in New York, the answer could have been one of several: "no meat please," or "anything but white flour and white sugar," or "meat is okay, but no legumes, soy, flour or dairy and limit the grains." I have had a long complicated relationship with food and dietary restrictions.
Eight courses, a glass of wine and four hours followed. I could type away several virtual pages describing each dish in detail, but dining is more than the culinary details. The company, the space, the food, the preparation, the service... an intricate event in which each nuance creates a moment where the base necessity of eating intertwines with the creative mind and, sometimes, the vulnerable heart.
The courses at Blue Hill were served either on earth-hewn servers or broad white china. The first delivery to the table was a wood tower with two beet chips and two potato chips stuck in four of the many slots carved into the sides. Purple, yellow and white cauliflower florets skewered on spikes coming from a horizontal wood block followed. Homemade vegetable juice arrived in simple shot glasses. Thin slices of prosciutto appeared on a stone slab. Two different types of butter and three flavored salts were also served on stone as an accompaniment to fresh bread.
During a pause between courses, the waiter appeared with a wood rectangle which displayed red and gold beets, still dirty with the greens attached. He explained that they were two different varieties, and they would be part of our next course. (Unfortunately I misplaced the detailed notes from dinner and can't recall the names.) One variety, we were told, is particularly delicious when harvested just after the first frost of the year. The beets were served with mache, cherries marcona almond butter, and if I recall correctly, goat cheese.
I looked at my companion and grinned, feeling slightly buzzed from the ramp martini but also high on the fact that I was just given a lesson about beets and was able to see the harvested food as is before it appeared prepared and pretty on my plate. For at least the third time that evening, I thought about applying for a job at the farm. Would they look at my application and laugh at the city girl who used to be a vegetarian? More importantly, would I be able to adjust to waking at 4:00 every morning and not being able to go out for cocktails any night of the week?
The waiters were not only knowledgeable, they were coordinated. The soup course was the pinnacle of the choreographed serving which reflected the same care for detail and style as the presentation. Two waiters came to the table, placing large bowls on the table with two potato gnocchi and a marcona almond. My companion had an oyster as well, and I wished I had not ruled out all shell fish. The waiters poured a creamy tomato concotion into the bowls with precision synchronistic timing. We saw the same ritual for a table of four, and it was a perfect performance.
Pasta, fish and beef were served after the initial courses, and sometime during those courses we ordered two glasses of wine, which was fabulous. Just after round seven, the waiter asked if we would like the traditional cheese plate, which is typically enjoyed between the last two courses. Sadly, we had to decline or there would be no space for dessert. The highlights of the last course were the chocolate truffles, the pumpkin seed brittle and the homemade yogurt marshmallows. (Store bought marshmallows eaten as a kid led me to believe that all marshmallows are fabricated unpleasant objects that should only be eaten when roasted and accompanied by half melted chocolate. The marshmallows served at Blue Hill have altered my marshmallow perception, perhaps permanently.)
Although every dish was not the ultimate, the sum became the most opulent and enjoyable night of dining we had both ever experienced. The check confirmed what we both already knew--eight courses and four hours of striking presentation and excellent service have an extravagant price. It was an occasion, a celebration of life and love, and the money was worth it.
I had been pondering the creation of a blog about food before Blue Hill. I am, after all, obsessed with eating and drinking. I can talk for hours about vegetables for gosh sake. How many people do you know can say the like? If you were a reader of Digital Girl, you already know this about me. How many date stories involved detailed descriptions of food?
Unfortunately, events in the following weeks prevented the launch--I interviewed for and accepted a new job, dealt with a major pest extermination in my apartment, and was, to be frank, dumped by the giver of the perfect gift. (Yes, this would be Lost Artist for any Digital Girl readers still with me who are trying to determine whether this blog will contain fun dating stories).
The prospective new job and the pest issues were mild deterrents, sapping time and mental energy. The end of the relationship, however, caused an unexpected side effect. I lost my appetite. Yes, it's true! A horrifying experience for anyone obsessed with food. For weeks, I didn't want to eat, talk about food or write about it. I ate only enough to get by without much care in what I ate or enjoyment of taste. Alcohol was, of course, less of a problem. A true lush is never deterred by heartbreak, rather inspired by it.
The day after my last discussion with the Lost Artist, I started the new job. Two of my co-workers and my first-day office buddy took me out for lunch at Kellari's Parea, a Greek Bistro on 20th Street. I ordered an arugula salad and a smoked eggplant dip, took two bites and put my fork down. The food was tasty, but my heart was already in my stomach so their wasn't much room for anything else. It's a bit embarrassing to be taken to lunch on the first day of a new job and not be able to eat.
Someone asked me if my food was okay, and I blurted, "My boyfriend broke up with me this past weekend." Stunned silence pervaded the table for the briefest moment, and was quickly followed with sympathy. I felt like an ass, but at least they don't think I have an eating disorder. So much for my plans to keep my personal emotional crisis to myself.
So, here we are at the beginning of a new year. I survived my first two weeks at the new job and was rewarded with nearly two weeks off for the holidays. The bugs are gone, and my apartment is almost back in order with a few improvements. My heart is mostly out of my stomach, though not completely. And, my online dating profile has been updated and reactivated.
This year will be the year of food and drink in the vast city of New York, and I'm sure at some point, beyond into the bigger world. The next few months are also about reclaiming the victuals following a relationship whose fibers were so interwoven with eating and drinking. First reclamation mission: brunch! I enjoyed a good brunch before the Lost Artist, but it became a ritual of the relationship... similar to going to church every Sunday, but without the guilt if you happen to miss a week (which was rare).
So readers, if you are still wondering... to answer a question with a question... how can a blog about food and drink in New York written by a swingingly single digital girl not include some tales of dating? Dining and drinking are, after all, not just about the sustenance or indulgence, but about the moments that surround them. And, believe it or not a few random moments ala Digital Girl have already happened. So stay tuned!
______________
Photos from the trip:
It was late afternoon the day before Halloween as a Tarrytown taxi pulled up a long drive to a stone building swathed in that sharp amber light which seems only to exist on perfect fall days. Pastures stretched like painted swatches of green on either side of the building on the hill, and cows and sheep could be seen far off. The building was Blue Hill at Stone Barns, a restaurant on a farm which serves a menu supplied almost fully by the farm's livestock and harvests.
The day had been spent taking photos at the cemetery in nearby Sleepy Hollow, the town made famous by Washington Irving and his raging legendary headless horseman. The experience was a gift to celebrate my birthday and an anniversary, and there in the backseat of the taxi, before even having seen the menu or the inside of the restaurant, I almost began to cry. It was the ideal gift, both for my birthday and to celebrate the relationship which had been so intertwined with drinking and dining. I was terribly in love and felt not only loved but understood in return.
Our dinner reservation was at 5:00, and since there was still a half hour of sunlight, we asked the hostess for time to explore the farm. During the brief walk, we admired the stone structure of the old buildings, communed with a group of curious turkeys and watched three large sows and a piglet root through the mud for goodies. I sighed and thought again about reverting to vegetarianism. At least they seemed content.
The dining experience began with a pickled ramp martini. Well, it actually began with the waiter asking if we would like to start with a cocktail, perhaps a glass of champagne? Being the lush that I am, I asked for a drinks menu. I wanted something more interesting than bubbly. The waiter recommended a black currant cosmo, which was too sweet for my taste. As with any good bar or restaurant, they graciously offered me a choice of something else.
A ramp, for those of you not in know, is a wild leek. They are usually available fresh in New York in the spring. Pickled, they infused the martini with their delicious commingled flavor of onion and garlic.
After we had a chance to relax and sip, the waiter stopped by to explain that the menu is only a list of ingredients. Based on our preferences or dietary restrictions, the chef would create a tailored meal. (This wasn't quite the case, but the chef's nightly selections were modified to suit diners as needed.) My only request was no shell fish. Simple enough. If it had been any other time over my last nine and a half years in New York, the answer could have been one of several: "no meat please," or "anything but white flour and white sugar," or "meat is okay, but no legumes, soy, flour or dairy and limit the grains." I have had a long complicated relationship with food and dietary restrictions.
Eight courses, a glass of wine and four hours followed. I could type away several virtual pages describing each dish in detail, but dining is more than the culinary details. The company, the space, the food, the preparation, the service... an intricate event in which each nuance creates a moment where the base necessity of eating intertwines with the creative mind and, sometimes, the vulnerable heart.
The courses at Blue Hill were served either on earth-hewn servers or broad white china. The first delivery to the table was a wood tower with two beet chips and two potato chips stuck in four of the many slots carved into the sides. Purple, yellow and white cauliflower florets skewered on spikes coming from a horizontal wood block followed. Homemade vegetable juice arrived in simple shot glasses. Thin slices of prosciutto appeared on a stone slab. Two different types of butter and three flavored salts were also served on stone as an accompaniment to fresh bread.
During a pause between courses, the waiter appeared with a wood rectangle which displayed red and gold beets, still dirty with the greens attached. He explained that they were two different varieties, and they would be part of our next course. (Unfortunately I misplaced the detailed notes from dinner and can't recall the names.) One variety, we were told, is particularly delicious when harvested just after the first frost of the year. The beets were served with mache, cherries marcona almond butter, and if I recall correctly, goat cheese.
I looked at my companion and grinned, feeling slightly buzzed from the ramp martini but also high on the fact that I was just given a lesson about beets and was able to see the harvested food as is before it appeared prepared and pretty on my plate. For at least the third time that evening, I thought about applying for a job at the farm. Would they look at my application and laugh at the city girl who used to be a vegetarian? More importantly, would I be able to adjust to waking at 4:00 every morning and not being able to go out for cocktails any night of the week?
The waiters were not only knowledgeable, they were coordinated. The soup course was the pinnacle of the choreographed serving which reflected the same care for detail and style as the presentation. Two waiters came to the table, placing large bowls on the table with two potato gnocchi and a marcona almond. My companion had an oyster as well, and I wished I had not ruled out all shell fish. The waiters poured a creamy tomato concotion into the bowls with precision synchronistic timing. We saw the same ritual for a table of four, and it was a perfect performance.
Pasta, fish and beef were served after the initial courses, and sometime during those courses we ordered two glasses of wine, which was fabulous. Just after round seven, the waiter asked if we would like the traditional cheese plate, which is typically enjoyed between the last two courses. Sadly, we had to decline or there would be no space for dessert. The highlights of the last course were the chocolate truffles, the pumpkin seed brittle and the homemade yogurt marshmallows. (Store bought marshmallows eaten as a kid led me to believe that all marshmallows are fabricated unpleasant objects that should only be eaten when roasted and accompanied by half melted chocolate. The marshmallows served at Blue Hill have altered my marshmallow perception, perhaps permanently.)
Although every dish was not the ultimate, the sum became the most opulent and enjoyable night of dining we had both ever experienced. The check confirmed what we both already knew--eight courses and four hours of striking presentation and excellent service have an extravagant price. It was an occasion, a celebration of life and love, and the money was worth it.
I had been pondering the creation of a blog about food before Blue Hill. I am, after all, obsessed with eating and drinking. I can talk for hours about vegetables for gosh sake. How many people do you know can say the like? If you were a reader of Digital Girl, you already know this about me. How many date stories involved detailed descriptions of food?
Unfortunately, events in the following weeks prevented the launch--I interviewed for and accepted a new job, dealt with a major pest extermination in my apartment, and was, to be frank, dumped by the giver of the perfect gift. (Yes, this would be Lost Artist for any Digital Girl readers still with me who are trying to determine whether this blog will contain fun dating stories).
The prospective new job and the pest issues were mild deterrents, sapping time and mental energy. The end of the relationship, however, caused an unexpected side effect. I lost my appetite. Yes, it's true! A horrifying experience for anyone obsessed with food. For weeks, I didn't want to eat, talk about food or write about it. I ate only enough to get by without much care in what I ate or enjoyment of taste. Alcohol was, of course, less of a problem. A true lush is never deterred by heartbreak, rather inspired by it.
The day after my last discussion with the Lost Artist, I started the new job. Two of my co-workers and my first-day office buddy took me out for lunch at Kellari's Parea, a Greek Bistro on 20th Street. I ordered an arugula salad and a smoked eggplant dip, took two bites and put my fork down. The food was tasty, but my heart was already in my stomach so their wasn't much room for anything else. It's a bit embarrassing to be taken to lunch on the first day of a new job and not be able to eat.
Someone asked me if my food was okay, and I blurted, "My boyfriend broke up with me this past weekend." Stunned silence pervaded the table for the briefest moment, and was quickly followed with sympathy. I felt like an ass, but at least they don't think I have an eating disorder. So much for my plans to keep my personal emotional crisis to myself.
So, here we are at the beginning of a new year. I survived my first two weeks at the new job and was rewarded with nearly two weeks off for the holidays. The bugs are gone, and my apartment is almost back in order with a few improvements. My heart is mostly out of my stomach, though not completely. And, my online dating profile has been updated and reactivated.
This year will be the year of food and drink in the vast city of New York, and I'm sure at some point, beyond into the bigger world. The next few months are also about reclaiming the victuals following a relationship whose fibers were so interwoven with eating and drinking. First reclamation mission: brunch! I enjoyed a good brunch before the Lost Artist, but it became a ritual of the relationship... similar to going to church every Sunday, but without the guilt if you happen to miss a week (which was rare).
So readers, if you are still wondering... to answer a question with a question... how can a blog about food and drink in New York written by a swingingly single digital girl not include some tales of dating? Dining and drinking are, after all, not just about the sustenance or indulgence, but about the moments that surround them. And, believe it or not a few random moments ala Digital Girl have already happened. So stay tuned!
______________
Photos from the trip:
Title makes me wonder if you've ever read The Gastronomical Me by MFK Fisher, one of my all time favorite reads. -Jennifer
ReplyDeleteWe linked to you on our blog http://jerseypie.blogspot.com ready to remove at your request.
ReplyDeleteGreat! I'll add a link to jersey pie as well!
ReplyDeleteI'm so happy that I can get my dinner AND dessert reviewed with just a couple of easy links. Sigh! (This is Mia, but I can't figure out how to come up as Mia).
ReplyDeleteHey, suddenly I'm me again.
ReplyDelete