And This Little Piggy Went to Mercantile...

Last week Doug, Kendra and I went out to dinner. It was kind of spontaneous as I thought I was going to just throw together something from my kitchen and had pretty much planned to do so in my sweats. But, at the Eleventh hour, we decided to go out. Something chill.

Our go-to in this situation is Cheebo. I have an affinity for their chopped salad. But their bar doesn’t cater well to three (it doesn’t have a corner) and I am not wild about the dining room experience there. I threw out a few suggestions and we ended up settling on Mercantile. I had a really nice lunch there a couple of weeks prior (excellent chestnut apple soup, celery root soup and the Frenchy sandwich) and a few glasses of wine (specifically a rosé I was particularly fond of) back closer to when they first opened - these two visits left me curious for a dinner. Plus, they have a corner at the bar.

I think Mercantile is very cute. It’s rustic with wood ceilings, antique wallpaper and jelly jar glasses. It’s both a café and a gourmet market, selling everything from small tins of mustard seeds to wine. It is also the latest addition to George Abou-Daoud’s Hollywood imperium (the Bowery, Delancey, the Mission Cantina). Unbelievably, chef Kevin Napier serves up his international comfort dishes in one of the smallest, most pared down kitchens I’ve seen in a while. I’m talking about two hot plates and a salamander. In his gnomic kitchen he manages to pump out brunch, lunch and dinner, serving up omelettes, biscuits and gravy, lovely soups, foie gras terrine, a badass duck confit salad, a yummy Cuban sandwich, beef shortrib and mac n’cheese.

In addition to a simple and well-priced wine list (sold by the glass, carafe and bottle), they also offer beer and liquor.

This recent evening we split a bottle of red and started things off with a cheese plate ($14 for three cheeses). I appreciate the descriptions of the cheeses with words like stinky and gooey, or earthy and hard, or musty and semi-hard. We went with one of each; a couple of sheep’s milk cheeses and the third with sheep, cow and goat’s milk.

We ate every ounce of our cheeses – we even had to request more bread on which to smear them.

We followed this with a salad of broccoli, burrata and pine nuts. I really fancied the flavors and temperature of this warm salad. I would have preferred a slightly charred broccolini to the steamed broccoli – but that’s just me.

Doug opted for the BLT for his main course. This was bacon, lettuce and tomatillo jam with charred jalapeño goat cheese and pickled red onion on toasty sourdough bread with an accompaniment of mixed greens ($11.50). Although Doug seemed a little thrown by the lack of the traditional T, he thought it was a cool twist.

Kendra ordered the salad of Fennel-Crusted Albacore with potato salad, haricot vert, soft-cooked quail egg, olive tapenade and arugula ($13). All three of us found this dish to be superlative. The tuna was seared to perfection with just the right amount of dressing, the potato salad was surprising and a great touch and the quail egg was beautiful.

I went for the Mushroom Soup ($6); a dairy-free puree topped with a dollop of crème fraiche and chives. I found the soup delicate and rounded. I was actually surprised it wasn’t finished with cream. I also had the Roasted Chicken Salad: butter lettuce, avocado, bacon, cherry tomatoes, chicken crispies, onion rings and tobasco ranch ($13.50). I’ll be honest, I ordered it solely because they used the words chicken crispies in the description. I liked my salad just fine. But I can leave it at that. It was just fine. It was slightly under-dressed with an enormous amount of the lettuce. The crispies were a little overly fried – a little overly crispied. 

During the course of our meal, we were entertained by both the music and our bartender/server (whose iPod was playing said music). After Kendra and Doug left I lingered for a while to try a few other wines and chatted with our DJ/bartender/server, Kyle. Good man.

I was also pleased to discover that they remain open until midnight. I also suggest checking out the cheeses, charcuterie, fresh pastries and ice cream in the case.

Ghost Meets Manchurian Candidate. With a Heart. In the Right Spot.

When I was in college I studied – among other things – film theory and production. And, until a disastrous Summer co-op in LA in 1994, that’s what I thought I wanted to DO with my life. I’ll expound on that in a bit.

I actually made some pretty cool films, if not technically wondrous. Bear in mind, this was pre-Avid. I was also every man: writer, story boarder, camera loader, director, grip, audio, editor. I was literally cutting the celluloid and taping it back together using either a Moviola or a Steenbeck. So I guess it looked a little Frankenstein-y. But conceptually I had some great stuff. My senior project was, perhaps, my coup de grace. It was a multi-media installation involving 16mm film, video and a dj (my boyfriend at the time). All of the elements were synced together and were supposed to be an autobiography, of sorts. The event took place in the “dance space” on campus (a dilapidated, graffiti covered, shithole) where I recreated my bedroom from home. It was entitled Play Pretties and was a "hit" (amongst the tiny population of my school). It saddens me that it will never see the light of day again – but also sort of lovely in the same sense.

 That's me setting it all up, checking the sync.

One of the other films I made was about accidentally overhearing random parts of other people's conversations. I can’t recall the title. I filmed it in a diner in Xenia, Ohio, starring Paz as the girl who is overly affected by hearing the audio clips and two girls that lived in the dorm room next to me as the “offenders”. All shots with Paz were in color and everything shot with the other girls was in black and white.

The dialogue was actual random stuff I had overheard and found compelling in some way. Things like “…that I wasn’t in that fucking car when it went down.” Or “You know old men are dirty.” There was some line about a bathtub or something, but I can’t remember much else.

I used the diner order tickets for my credits.

I thought I was terribly clever.

My Friday ritual of late is to spend hours on end at The Chateau Marmont and write. For some reason I have found it increasingly difficult to accomplish much in that department at home. The Chateau is usually quiet, serene, comfortable, and I’ve always felt at home with camping out here. This Friday, however, I was unaware that it is Golden Globe weekend. The Chateau is packed. I’m sitting a few feet away from that dude from Dazed and Confused who is now on Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew (oops) Brendan Fraser, staring through the window at Matt Dillon and overhearing parts of conversation that is reminiscent of any number of scenes from The Player. “Oh, you mean THE Barry Levinson?” “No, LARRY Levinson.” “Oh, right, LARRY.”

WHAT?!?! Actually, wasn't there a JOEL Levinson in The Player?

It all reminds me of that film I made. But here’s the thing – this all also reminds me of that maelstrom of a Summer back in 1994. Right when I was so excited and in love with movies and film. What better place to do my required internship than Hollywood? I even had a good college friend, Emma, already out here doing an internship of her own. She told me she’d help me find a job and had a friend’s place I could stay. I can’t recall if that was supposed to be temporary sofa surfing or if it was cool if I stayed the entire Summer. Obviously I stayed on that sofa the entire Summer. I also never really found a job.

I was also living in Brentwood. Without a car. Hardly knew a soul. No job.

Then, one day, one of the girls I was crashing with did me a solid. I guess she was working with Tarantino and Bender’s company A Band Apart in some capacity. Or maybe the other girl I that lived there was working for Oliver Stone’s company, Ixtlan. Honestly, I can’t recall the details, but I got a gig reading scripts for Stone’s company and writing coverages. For no pay.

The thing was, I came from unusual schooling and a wild, hippie college where I was studying 16mm film production, underground, independent films, modern jazz, juggling, how to pull a massive bong hit and irreverence. So reading scripts called Surfing the Himalayas and all the other Hollywood shite I was handed was literally obscene to me. In addition to that I didn’t know how to write in a non overly verbose and non-academic way. I didn’t know or understand Hollywood. Nor did I want to. I waited with bated breath to leave this town of evil. And I was never to return.

Hey, I was also an extra in Nixon. I played a "sleeping hippie" in the Lincoln Memorial scene. Look for a blonde girl, wearing brown, so rudely interrupted by Anthony Hopkins and James Woods walking down the steps of the memorial and kicking a beer bottle towards her head. That was pretty neat. But I still hated what I saw that that Summer: This machine that makes movies - Hollywood.

That was then This is now. Fifteen plus years later. Now I live in Hollywood, I work in Hollywood, I eat in Hollywood, I drink in Hollywood and I love Hollywood. I AM a Southern Californian.

I remember at the beginning of that Summer, whenever I would walk into a café or store or what have you, I thought everyone was looking at me, checking me out, because I was so cool. Then I realized – everyone checks out everyone to see if they’re someone.

Now, here I sit, at the famed Chateau Marmont, with a glass of iced tea, lillet, and now merlot – on the Friday before the Golden Globes, surrounded by celebrities, agents, and everyone who is supposed to be someone, writing for my little food blog.

Funny how life works.

Anyway, one other thing that happened that ill-fated (or not so ill-fated) Summer, was - in my melancholy, when I wasn't reading, writing, drinking wine or watching Looking for Mr. Goodbar, I was cooking. Nothing fancy, mind you. But even when just making pasta sauces I made a point to chop as many things as possible, stir as much as possible, create food that required as much preparation and tedium as possible. It was like knitting or yoga for some. It was my Zen.

So, in the spirit of that time and this time, and my slightly more advanced kitchen capability, I share with you a dish that requires both knife skills and constant attention. It also seems very Hollywood.

Cremini Mushroom and Meyer Lemon Risotto

Serves 4 

Ingredients 

2 1/4 cups boiling-hot water
3 cups chicken stock
1/2 stick (1/4 cup) unsalted butter
3/4 lb small cremini mushrooms, quartered
1 small onion, finely chopped
1 cup plus 2 tablespoons Arborio rice (8 oz)
1/2 cup dry white wine
1 teaspoon finely grated fresh Meyer lemon zest
1/2 cup finely grated Parmesan

Directions

Bring stock and 2 cups hot water to a simmer. Keep at a bare simmer, covered. 

Heat 1 tablespoon butter in a heavy skillet over moderately high heat until foam subsides, then sauté cremini, stirring, until browned, about 7 minutes. Remove from heat. 

Cook onion in 1 1/2 tablespoons butter in a 3-quart heavy saucepan over moderate heat, stirring occasionally, until softened, 3 to 4 minutes. 

Add rice and cook, stirring constantly, 1 minute. Add wine and simmer, stirring constantly, until absorbed. 

Stir in 1/2 cup simmering stock mixture and cook at a strong simmer, stirring frequently, until broth is absorbed. Continue simmering and adding stock 1/2 cup at a time, stirring frequently and letting each addition become absorbed before adding the next, until rice is tender but still al dente and creamy (it should be the consistency of a thick soup), 18 minutes. (There will be leftover broth.) 

Stir in zest, mushrooms, remaining 1 1/2 tablespoons butter, Parmesan and pepper to taste. (If necessary, thin risotto with some of remaining broth.) Serve immediately.

  

I'm okay, you're okay. That there's where it's at.

 

I can't complain. 

I have heard that phrase uttered by countless people, countless times, and never really given it much weight. Until I realized, very recently, what it meant.

I have spent the majority of my teens and all of my adult life struggling, wanting, striving, fighting, trying, pushing and stressing. I have been moving toward something that I have not yet attained or obtained. It has been any combination of money, love, comfort, stability, community, and calm. And expectations – both my own and others’ of me.

I think we all do this.

I’ve searched for the job that is what-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up. What I am. What I will be. What I am supposed to be. I strive for the apartment/house that is my home. Where I can drop anchor. I want my friends to be my forever friends, the friends like the friends from Friends, friends. I wonder if whichever guy that I’m with is the guy. Or will the next guy be him? I should really have a nest egg by now, right? Wait – am I financially stable? I’ve never known what that feels like, so I’m not sure. When am I allowed to stop – or at least pause – and inhale?

The answer for many of us in this country, in this time, is probably never. But, guess what? Very recently I stopped. I took inventory, as it were. I inhaled. You know what I realized? I’m okay. I love my friends. I love my house. My relationships with my family are solid. We are all healthy. I am inspired. I am creative. I have the-job-that-is-my-job-when-I-grow-up-job. And even though I don’t have a nest egg, I am financially stable. I’m comfortable.

I get it now. I can’t complain. Though I often do.

No, I’m not married with two point five kids in a big house and a droopy dog lounging on the front porch. No, I’m not even in a relationship. No, my life at thirty-six is not the one I thought I would have when I was a young girl. It’s also not the life my parents would have predicted for me. But, regardless, I have landed and I am here. Where is here? Right where I am.

I am not nearly done with struggling, wanting, striving, fighting, trying, pushing and stressing. I am still moving toward something that I have not yet attained or obtained. Otherwise life would be boring. But I am pleased with where I am, what I have and the trajectory of how it all came to pass.

This is what I have realized while the end of 2010 became the beginning of 2011. This is what I realized as I saw some things end and others either begin or grow bigger at the stroke of midnight last Friday. Ever since that moment I have enjoyed a relaxing week and I have felt calm.

Last night, while trying to cultivate a fabulous and ornate dish to usher in the new year with this post, I realized all I really wanted to eat was something healthy and simple. I wanted the dinner that the me in my alter life, the one that’s married, with two point five kids and a droopy dog lounging on the porch, would have for dinner. I wanted chicken, rice and a green veggie. Hell, I didn’t even have a glass of wine – just water. The meal was very good, if not decorated with truffles, fennel pollen or the like. And as I ate my dinner I thought to myself and smiled: I really can’t complain.

Happy New Year, and here’s to a beautiful and inspired 2011!

Vinegar-Braised Chicken with Garlic and Celery Leaves

Serves 2

1 tablespoon olive oil oil 

1 pound (2 breasts) skinless boneless chicken breasts
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
Celery leaves from 1 large bunch
1/2 cup chicken stock
1/4 cup red wine vinegar 

1/4 cup white wine vinegar
1 tablespoon chopped flat-leaf parsley 

In a large skillet, heat the oil until shimmering. Season the chicken with salt and pepper; add it to the pan in a single layer. Cook over high heat, turning once, until well browned, 8 minutes. 

Stir in the garlic and cook over moderate heat just until fragrant, 1 minute. Add most of the celery leaves and stir just until wilted, 30 seconds. Add the stock and vinegar and cook, scraping up any bits from the bottom of the pan, until the sauce is reduced to a few tablespoons, 5 to 6 minutes. 

Add the parsley and the remaining celery leaves and serve over jasmine rice.

Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.

What a couple of weeks. What a month. 

Without really even recovering from that which was Thanksgiving, I caught a cold, and had some pretty big stuff going on in both work and home worlds. Although I had lined up dinner commitments for a good many of the nights, I also planned to spend all of my home-times meals concentrating on continuing to clear out and utilize all of the ingredients still left in the fridge from that which was Thanksgiving. There were no more leftovers, mind you, but a lot of ingredients that simply didn’t get used as I went a little haywire on that which was Thanksgiving and made enough food to feed greater Los Angeles. 

Since then, in my kitchen, there has been -– peppered between dining out on anything from an entire pig’s head (I ate the eyeball!) to beautiful, simple food, done right -- oyster stew, roasted heirloom carrots, a couple of filets, sausage over lentils, sausage biscuits, beef bourguignon, any number of pastas, some throw-together hors d'oeuvres for a small holiday soiree last week, and a roast chicken over white beans, leeks and garlic with sautéed rapini.

It doesn’t feel like it, but looking at that last paragraph I guess I’ve been pretty busy.
 
So now, I’ve got my tree up and decorated, wrapped gifts spilling out from underneath (Christmas shopping = done), the house is all holiday-y and lovely looking and smelling, it’s rainy and blustery outside, I’ve got a fire in the fireplace, a pot of chili stewing on the stove, a glass of Chilean Cabernet in my hand, my sweet dog lying next to me, and Christmas cookies baking in the oven (my first ever by myself). So what am I missing?
 
Sam.
 
I came home the other night after a decadent and extravagant holiday dinner with Uncle Dougertons, put on my jammies, clicked on the TV to find some completely banal movie on whatever channel it had been left on, which completely absorbed me. When the final credits rolled, the accompanying song was Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head. I didn’t see it coming. I was completely blindsided. I didn’t know why for a moment.
 
I was bawling.
 
Then I realized: this was one of Sam’s favorite songs. He even put it on a mix cd for me ages ago. That cd was stolen from my car in Atlanta about a decade ago. It was also the only thing stolen from my car that day that I cared even remotely about. Ironically, also the thing that probably got tossed in the trash almost immediately by whomever broke into that old Jetta.
 
So what did I do? I ran to my room and grabbed a bunch of my old photo albums to pore through, and even put a framed picture of Sam wearing a Santa hat on my mantle.
 
I was still bawling.
 
It was very late – too late to call anyone – so I texted Paz, Heather and Emma. I just wrote that I was overwhelmingly sad about Sam (they all knew him as well). I think I just wanted to talk about him to someone. Good things. I thought it would make me feel better. But everyone was asleep (I assume).
 
That moment has passed and I feel better now. I don’t feel like bawling. But I realized that that which occurred the other night was a really good thing. No, I could not touch, smell or hear Sam – and I desperately wanted to. But I felt him. I remembered him. I thought about him. And I realized, again, how fortunate I am to even have that. I’m not very good at crying or emoting in certain ways and moments like that night only occur randomly (and very rarely), when some obscure visceral trigger is hit. Then, wham-o.

I’ve written about Sam before – a little over a year ago. I’ll probably write about him again. I want you all to know about him, too. He was pretty great – and has had an enormous impact on my life, and very likely had a lot to do with who I’ve been and am, and will be.

Considering that it's now Christmas I was going to share a recipe for Christmas cookies. But considering A) I can't bake, B) My cookies looked ridiculous, C) everyone has a Christmas cookie recipe anyway (or one can just turn to Martha), and D) did Sam even care about Christmas cookies that much? I sure don't..., I decided to go a different route.

Sam ate oddly. He grazed a lot. Small nibbles throughout the day. He also seemed to prefer really basic foods. My strongest recollection was from college: the most common "meal" he would prepare for himself was spaghetti with a ton of butter, salt and maybe pepper. Well, clearly I am not going to - nor do I have any need to - share that recipe with you. So, I thought I'd do it up my own way. And I think Sam would dig this dish.
 
Happy Holidays and a beautiful New Year to Sam, where ever and however he may be, to Mary (and Jerry) Trice, and to all of my beautiful friends and family. I know how truly blessed I am to have each and every one of you touch my life.

Linguine with Pancetta Mushroom Cream Sauce

Serves 2

Ingredients
  


8 oz
 dry linguine
 
1 tablespoon
 olive oil
 
3 tablespoons
 Pancetta, cut in ¼-inch dice
 
1/2 cup
 1/4-inch thick slices of cremini mushrooms
 
1/2 cup
 Chardonnay
 
1/2 cup
 heavy cream
 
2 teaspoon
 freshly grated Parmesan cheese
 
2 teaspoon
 chopped flat-leaf parsley
 
Small pinch
 minced garlic
 
Salt and pepper to taste
1/2 teaspoon
 freshly grated Meyer lemon zest moistened in 1 teaspoon lemon juice
 
*Fresh lemon zest added at the last minute brings out the lemony nuances of a nice white wine, such as a Sancerre or Puilly Fume. I also suggest adding a pinch of minced fresh garlic just before tossing the sauce and pasta together.



Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Salt generously. Add the pasta and cook 8-10 minutes just until al dente.
 
While the pasta is cooking, sauté pancetta in olive oil in a large sauté pan over medium heat.
 
As the pancetta begins to brown, add the mushrooms and continue to cook, stirring occasionally, until mushrooms are golden brown and dry. Stir in wine. Cook until wine is reduced by half. Add cream. When sauce comes to a boil, remove from the heat and stir in cheese and parsley. Add garlic and salt to taste. Toss sauce and pasta together. Garnish with lemon zest and serve immediately.

 

Salt's Cure: The Little Kitchen That Could (And Does) - Parts 1 & 2

Part 1:

I am a saltaholic. I always crave salty over sweet. I salt everything. I carry my own salt in my bag so I don’t feel like a jerk asking for it in most restaurants. Almost no one can share my popcorn at the movies because of the almost comical abundance of the stuff.

I also like snackables. I love to graze. So you can imagine my delight upon hearing about the opening of Salt’s Cure this past August. Owners, Chris Phelps and Zak Walters, formerly of Hungry Cat, have created a simple, neighborhood café with a simple menu concentrating – but not limited to -  local, in-house cured meats, pates, rilletes, terrines and an assortment of pickled items. They are open for brunch, lunch and dinner, offering a compact and ever rotating menu of smalls to ginormous entrees that upon hitting the palate are anything but simple.

Finally, last Sunday, a mere five months after their opening, I had my first experience at Salt’s Cure over brunch with Brandon and his friend, Jeffrey. Interestingly I had been driving and walking past this building forever and never really noticed it. It’s an old, white garage-y looking space occupying the corner of  Santa Monica and Vista. And their signage is so small (and so very cute: a salt shaker!) that I had doubly missed it. But there Brandon and Jeffrey were, sitting at the table right by the large, almost floor to ceiling front window (not at the bar, sniff).

The room is small, modest, warm and welcoming. There are only a handful of tables and a bar that looks over their little kitchen. I’m guessing they can seat about 35 folks in the whole place (perfect). And always in that kitchen you will be sure to see Chris and/or Zac, cooking away.

Chris P., working away...

After the French press arrived ($5) and my mimosa, served just the way I like it: with one eye droplet of juice ($9), all three of us ordered the same thing for brunch that day. And how could one not? The 2X2X2 – bases loaded - two eggs; sunny side up, two homemade sausage patties (lamb when we went), a biscuit and two slices of thick-cut beef bacon, a ramekin of fresh plum preserves, and a couple of chunks of heirloom tomatoes in a bit of oil and vinegar ($13). We also ordered a plate of roasted potatoes for the table ($4). 

Delicious. Fantastic. Titanic in flavor. This was a perfect plate of brunch-ness. Even the tomatoes were reminiscent of the Hanover variety I vividly remember from Virginia – unparalleled. The biscuit was delicate and creamy, the eggs (Schaner Farms) were bold and nutty with a beautifully bright orange yolk, the house-made sausage was rustic and fresh, and the bacon… oh the bacon. *Swoon*. The potatoes were nice, but not as crunchy, smushy, crazy as I usually prefer them. I loved that they used a medley of different types yellow, red and purple. I will say that the caramelized onions accompanying those potatoes were outstanding. Brandon kept going on about them while spooning little bites of them onto my plate.

Plus, looking around the room, I kept thinking to myself (and saying aloud to Brandon and Jeffrey) that, not only the staff and owners (cute, cute, cute), but the clientele, all looked like my kind-of peoples. The ones who go to the farmer’s markets, the ones who read, the creative ones, the ones with genuinely slightly mussed hair (not cultivated), and big, kooky accessories (or none at all). I felt at home and knew it would be a very short time before my return.

Part 2: 

Less than a week ago, last Friday night, I met my friend Emma back at Salt's Cure at 7pm (told you so!) for dinner before she was meeting a first date at 10pm. And when I said this place was welcoming earlier, I was not just whistling Dixie. Zac literally opened the door for me when I arrived. He did the same for Emma and every other customer that night.

This go ‘round, I had my druthers and sat at the bar. Luckily, we secured my favorite two seats at any bar: the corner. Zac was to the left of me, greeting folks, quality control and whatnot and Chris was right in front of me, cooking epic portions of red meat. The room was warm and lively and smelled delicious. I was happy. I started everything off with a glass of champagne and Emma, a glass of sauvignon blanc.

While we caught up, we decided to order some cheese. Our server helpfully informed us that the cheese selection ranged from soft to hard (insert joke here (which I did that night)). The cheeses are $5 each or $13 for three. We ordered three: the Red Hawk (cow), the Winchester Sharp Gouda (cow) and the Pepato (sheep). The plate was served with some candied pecans, honey and a pair of oat biscuits. I was hesitant to order the gouda because I thought it would be too pedestrian. It was anything but. All of our cheeses were sublime, actually. This was followed by a plate of the pork shoulder ($8) served with walnuts and large, flat-leaf parsley, lightly blotted with a delicate olive oil. The meat was chiffony, tender, and almost melted on one’s tongue. I could have eaten mounds of it (I guess I did eat a mound of it).

This was around when Emma and I (round two or three on our glasses of wine) started obsessing about the enormous slabs of meat Chris was working on the grill. And Emma really started fixating on the Pork Shoulder-n-Beans ($18). Every time she saw it being plated (just about under her nose) she would squeal with delight about how amazing it looked and smelled. Then the two men seated next to us were served one of the gargantuan steaks ($62, serves two people). I asked if I could take a picture – they obliged – and we all ended up tasting each other’s food (the chocolate cake bite I had was outstanding) and laughing and chatting for a while: reason 2849606 I like to sit at bars.

Then Emma decided she had to have the pickle plate ($5) with foie gras pudding ($18) and grey snapper. Don’t get me wrong, no one was twisting my arm either. That foie gras was so light and airy and delicate, it was like a foie gras cloud. I actually screwed the lid back on to save it to take home and, of course, forgot and left it there (wine + karma = sucks). Emma was so blown away by the pickled onions, she ordered another plate of them (good move prior to a first date). It was all beautiful, elegant, yet bucolic. 

 

And then, Emma looked down in front of her, and lo and behold, Chris had placed a half plate of the Pork -n-Beans there, just for her! He had overheard her oohing and ahhing all night (how could one not), and obliged her with a treat of treats.

And this treat, my good people, was dazzling. Emma asked for a knife but immediately realized that it was unnecessary: this meat literally fell off the bone. It was simply prepared yet clearly tended to and thought about for hours and hours, if not days. As Emma was (still) going on about the dish, she offered a bite to the gentleman sitting to the right of her – he partook. Turned out he works there!

Oh, those crazy kitchen guys…

Listen – don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, this spot is so much, and then so much more. I hope they don’t get sick of me, because my eatin'-drinkin' self plan to make me part of the atmosphere more often than not.