February 6, 2012 § Leave a comment
Some time after the valet graciously took our broken down camry and we headed into the chateau-like stone barn… after we were taken through half a dozen plates of a truly inspired take on simple winter fruits and vegetables: raw and speared on toothpicks, with maybe a misting of seasoned water; battered and delicately fried, hanged from tree branches; colorfully arranged as a mosaic-salad along a gentle gradient of just cooked to barely touched, and dotted with a flavor-bursting gel vinaigrette; fundamentally altered as swiss chard was into marmalade or carrot was into salt, to accompany a toasted brioche and warm ricotta, strained table-side… and some time after we were led outside by our vigilant, informed, but relaxed waiter, in the cool winter night, dressed with soft Blue Hill scarves and introduced to Michael Gallina, who was rotating a blackened savoy cabbage that he had been turning every hour or so since the morning, self-steaming over a fire fueled by carbonized pork bone charcoal (served quartered, next to a swoosh of crème fraîche dotted with american caviar, I’m still tasting this dish weeks later)… after the mystical bowl of ham hock infused broth, with shelly beans, sliced duck heart, a slow cooked egg, and an unidentified foam which I’ll just call umami-foam… but before the three dessert courses, which included a perfect celery ice cream… and before I received the following menu (by post, no less), which I had anticipated all week, I knew I was having the meal of my life.
Melodramatic, much? I don’t care.
And of course there’s a lot missing here, but I don’t want to ruin it all with words.
Thanks for the unforgettable gift, Malc. And thank you, Blue Hill.