A Hunger for Finer Fare

Guest Post by Jennifer Rose


"Once I met a young servant in North Burgundy who was almost frighteningly fanatical about food, like a medieval woman possessed by the devil." - MFK Fisher, I Was Really Very Hungry

It is spring in Brooklyn Heights, where Chef Tim Oltmans and Micki Schubert opened Jack the Horse Tavern in 2006. Friday night the buzzing bar crowd is relaxing into their weekend freedom, which makes a good match to the tavern's origins. Oltmans was once a mechanical engineer, and followed his love of good food to a "first in class" graduation from the French Culinary Institute.

It is fitting that the entrance is by the bar. We would not be here were it not for the bar. Urban Gastronomy's Absinthe post inspired in us an unexpected cocktail curiosity. The invitation to guest blog set the stage for a rare foray into the ethereal world of gastronomical delights, and a co-occurring article in the April Atlantic Monthly defined our quest: "the lavender hued liqueur, with the fleeting, elusive taste and aroma of spring violets, from which it's made."

The reservation secured earlier that day ensured that we would be escorted through the many people who are waiting for tables. A pillowed bench against the back wall gives one of us a view of several old clocks against exposed brick, all showing different times. Not long after we are seated, our waiter arrives. Fair to say, we are both touched by his youthful handsomeness. He presents himself with an earnest demeanor, and surprises us with a precocious grace and sophistication in the art of the cocktail. He recognizes us--having been behind the bar Thursday night when we made our inquiring call--by our interest in Creme de Violette. Suddenly, we find ourselves on intimate terms, sharing an interest in something vintage and rare.

Ernest (we never did find out his real name) recommends the expected "Aviation," (1.5 ounces dry gin, 1/2 ounce Creme de Violette, 1/2 ounce fresh lemon juice, 1 tsp maraschino liqueur). Then he surprises us with a "Marianne at Midnight" (1.5 ounces blended scotch, 1 ounce Creme de Violette, 1/4 ounce Tuaca). He takes our cocktail wishes away to the barman, and there we sit in the middle of life.

We take in the ambiance of the tavern, (clean, friendly, rough-hewn, and warmly lit) and lean across the table making observations about the diners and the dinners--an older gentleman, who carries himself with the relaxed, self-congratulatory countenance of someone famous, eating a chicken breast; a large party, laughing loudly in the front, eating pizzettas; assorted dates and their rich desserts; a woman with a young man eating tasty looking ribs. Along with our cocktails we had ordered: gold and red beet salad with watercress, blood orange, shaved fennel and Cabernet vinaigrette; spinach and arugula salad with dried cherries, apricots, and pecans with strawberry vinaigrette and fresh goat cheese; seared diver scallops with pasta, fava beans, and grape tomatoes; and sides of braised greens, asparagus, and potato gratin.

The salads arrive before the cocktails. Considering that we dearly wish to savor our cocktails and not to be rushed, there is a twinge of melancholy in the anticipation that our meal will pile up before us as if nothing matters. We so rarely indulge ourselves in finer fare, and had stumbled into a hidden dimension of hunger. We decide to let the salads sit, and allow the cocktails their proper place at the head of the meal.

Ernest is lithe, and bearded, and gently heroic in his presentation of our liquid bouquets. Our eyes drink in the yellow and violet hues of the cocktails, then, we sip... ah. It is good. The Aviation is deceptively simple, at first a stout, lemony gin, then a slow reversal with the mellow sweetness of the violet advancing as the lemon recedes and the gin holds. A Marianne at Midnight starts by asserting its scotch, mellows into its vanilla, and in the aftertaste, with the air of the breath, the delicate bloom.

We savor every sip of our cocktails, and then linger over our salads. We needn't have worried over the timing of the meal. Ernest keeps us under his protective watch, and our main courses arrive having just left the pan. Each is arranged delicately on rectangular white china, and our attention shifts to braised greens, scallops. Cutting the scallops and the tightly wound pasta spirals in half, there are just enough tomato, fava bean, and other delights laid out to compose more or less 20 unique mouthfuls. The greens and potato gratin were light, yet savory and robust. During our main course, the chef makes one or two passes through the dining room with a satisfied expression, conveying his knowledge that he has given all of us that evening something very good.

We are not seduced by the dessert menu, but are properly courted by it. We consider. On the back of the menu are the ports. We choose two 20 year tawny ports, a Cockburns and a Fonseca. We honestly do not know whether port is properly enjoyed before, with, or after dessert. Ernest's kind and welcoming disposition makes it easy enough to ask. He assures us that it is according to our preference, then adds that, as for him, after dinner he would say, "Well, I am done now, bring me my port!" We leave the sequencing in his hands, and order port, pear upside-down cake, and strawberry gelato. Our port is presented well ahead of the dessert--again displaying Ernest's considerable insight into gastronomical appreciation--giving us plenty of time to breathe in between the two. The strawberry gelato is refreshing, close to perfect. The cake is revelatory.

We leave Jack the Horse humming from a meal imbued with care and thoughtfulness. The violet cocktail hues fading slowly in our memories, burnt rum-caramel lingers on our tongues, and the satisfaction of one perfect meal will fade, like spring, like youth, but not yet.

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