pretty EATS: The Kitchen at Grove Station

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“Two?”

“Two,” she says, certain, looking behind her at his weary eyes.

A blur of blue and white winding ahead of them leads them to a table.  They want to take it all in, but they arrive at their table in an instant, covering much of the restaurant’s floor. It’s grey, white and wood, a rustic kind of glam imbues the details— grey plush tall booths hugging granite tabletops, long wooden harvest tables, typical white subway tile, heavy curtains draped with deep folds, a wall unit warm with trinkets, and glittery candelabras emanating a brighter light than expected. It’s eclectic and synchronized, homey and yet, trendy.

The menu is a quick read with four wide columns, the words tickling their taste-buds and strumming their appetite. She wants everything; he is indifferent, rubbing the unexpected workday from his eyes. She orders with her usual authority. Slight hesitation. She orders more. She’s taking him out, and she wants everything.

The sky darkens outside and the light becomes warmer, edges soften, even his lips give way to a smile. What was once cold and sharp is now subdued as night sets in. A rosy moment passes too quickly and interiors reflect in the windows against the blackening backdrop. Like in the sky, sweeps of color whisper across the plates at The Kitchen at Grove Station.

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Towering and jade, the watercress salad burns, bitter, relief only in salty-sweet bacon wrapped peach slices and thick ribbons of raw zucchini. It’s crisp and raw, incongruent and hard to eat, foliage directly to the mouth. Watercress overwhelms, staining the juicy peach and pungent cheese.

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Arranged like flowers opening in sunlight, the fluke crudo is mild, studded with lively pomegranate seeds and floral mandarin oranges. The dish embellished with curls of celery is light, like eating air from the sea. Slick textures create stark contrast with the crunch of the gemlike seeds, providing bravado to muted flavors.

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He pours the temperate soup in the shallow bowl lined with thinly sliced shrimp curled up on a thick stripe of parmesan frico. The salt of the cheese clashes with the sweetness of the fresh kernels of the summer corn and briny shrimp. However, it brings out the salty sourness of the thick dirty golden soup. Complexity and layers are misaligned and misguided but visually stunning.

 

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An elaborate crescent rests on a perfect round, a conglomeration of textures and colors dimmed by a thick dark sauce spiked with red pepper flakes. The delicate pasta gushes with soft potato filling contrasting with the crisp sparkle of summer corn and spicy radish and green-tasting cilantro. Salty bacon moments create a familiarity feeling mixing with the soft starch.

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Slippery, doughy dumplings filled to brimming with raucous seafood blends with the succulent and sensuous coconut broth. It coats their tongues, heavy, rich and sweet, overbearing, but laced with the bitterness of a few watercress stems. Popping orange-red tobiko and translucent radishes float at the broth’s surface.

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Their eyes lower, content but wanting more, and there is. A beautiful slab of duck is perched on dark oaty quinoa and earthy charred spinach. Its skin and fat gleam in the light, begging to be both devoured and savored. The pink of the meat mimics the dark tone of the refreshingly sweet and tart beet and apple puree. Each element comes together seamlessly, giving part of itself to fill the needs of its counterparts, a balance of decadence.

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It’s almost over, they think. The savory has been deconstructed, reconstructed and devoured; the smiles have deepened and the laughs have resonated; and things have quieted. But there is always dessert to reignite the flame of satiation.

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And it is beautiful, like summer delicately transplanted into a shallow bowl. Dessert is a collection of warm weather memories blended with past and present through the expression of fresh fruit hardly touched but amplified. Buttery sweet crumble and melting ice cream sink into the fruit of the re-imagined cobbler, evoking home and happiness.

They leave holding hands, not sure what happened, if dinner even happened, but smiling with a certain secret satisfaction.  She took him out, and she wants everything.

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LONDON calling: The Pantechnicon Rooms

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This is just a wee bit more than your typical pub. So we had a wee bit more than your typical lunch at Pantechnicon. With a pitcher of summery Pimms on deck, it was a veritable feast in celebration of our arrival in London after many years away and old friends.

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The starters were mixed: some stronger than others, some memorable and some lost. Four miniscule Scottish scallops were surrounded by wisps of fennel and peas and dribbles of chorizo dressing. It had a little bit of everything from spicy fatty chorizo to sweet earthy peas and tender scallops, just not enough. Fried calamari came in a basket, crisp, hot and fresh with just enough cooling lime dressing and spicy chilli sauce. It was typical, familiar and tasty. The sharing plate trio was much less appealing— the short rib pastrami was dry and burnt, the pulled pork croquette was flavorless, and the pork ribs were dull.

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What possessed me to get a salad is beyond me. Maybe it was that crispy duck egg that hypnotized me. Sometimes salads are your favorite, but this “salad” was missing what makes a salad. The base of the “salad” was a thick bed of chewy, stiff, dark wild rice, which was mostly inedible in my book. The crispy duck egg, figs, zucchini and almonds, however, were tasty on their own. There was so much crunch from the egg and a creaminess from its soft yolky center that added richness to the merlot dressing and summery ingredients. Good thing my friend and sister are much lighter eaters than I am.

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Both mains were hearty, not extremely creative nor memorable, but solid and satiating. The flanks of pork rib eye were tender and juicy, topped with a chunky apple chutney to complete the classic pair. The sweetness of the round sweet potato contrasted the earthy mushy peas, highlighting the salt of the meat and long crunchy chicarron. Even the spicy baby chicken was well executed but just chicken with a fat scoop of mashed potatoes. The bone marrow and Madeira jus and mushroom sauces added oomph but were unnecessary in the end.

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Yes, lunch was necessary and nourishing, but it was just a backdrop for memories, laughter, catching up and the essential Pimms. It was more than just a meal; it was the start of a great trip with great friends.

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passport to PARIS: Pirouette

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There was something almost chronological about the three-course meal at Pirouette. Each dish grew on the one presented before and served as a foundation for the dish following it. Even the colors swelled and fell as the meal progressed, introducing a wave of feelings and connotations.

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The cold corn soup was sweet and summery, silky and creamy with floating basil oil and succulent chunks of lobster. Pretty bright green nasturtium leaves enlivened the golden yellow soup, bringing summer to life with the most vivid of hues. Every element was soft and stringy, smooth and luxurious, but light enough for warm weather.

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A sculpture of freshness interwoven with snappy pea shoots, crunchy gomasio wings and crisp fried onions grew from a base of a fat dull red-orange tomato. Tiny wild strawberries dotted the vertical salad, bringing sweetness to the mix, while the creamy mascarpone cooled and heightened refreshment. The combination was inimitable, a chorus of closely monitored textures and bold flavors that melded into one.

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Although, embellished with greenery continuing in the season vein, the veal main sang a heartier note, laden with chickpea panisse and earthy swiss chard. The meat remained tender and juicy, but it submitted to the grainy fried panisse, which crumbled and mystified. Bitter tart lemon confit brightened and balanced, bringing the dish full circle.

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Even heavier and darker, the Neapolitan of duck and foie gras, succumbed to decadence. The fatty duck, chewy and meaty, countered the buttery and velvety foie gras, creating a tug of war on the palate with seemingly compatible playmates. Black garlic richened the sumptuousness of the dish, while the dark cherries added a necessary sweet tanginess and acidity for balance.

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Dessert had recognizable moments, but further twists crafted something different. The rice pudding was reminiscent of home, creamy, sweet and soft, while the ribbons of salted caramel and the imperceptible caramelized hazelnuts added dimension. White peach pieces and dark blackberries danced under a boule of spicy rich clove ice cream, while sweet meringue and fragrant speculoos gave crunch to the varied dessert.

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Less warm and more hip, Pirouette brings together seasonal, high-end and quality ingredients  to create a building harmonious meal which is hearty and satisfying.

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passport to PARIS: Verjus

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Indulgence can be overrated, and in fact, moderately pretentious, demolishing modesty and humility. Luxury can be over-drawn, where extravagant elements intertwine disharmoniously.

This, however, is not Verjus. The Parisian restaurant is unassuming with light rushing in like a sunroom off of a kitchen. Technique, ingredients and assembly speak to indulgence minus the bad connotations. The warmth of the orange-pink evening light is reflected in the atmosphere— the staff, the pacing, even the familiar foods refined to elegance.

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Each amuse bouche was constructed to be savored and ephemeral, catering to both texture and flavor. The crispy chicken skin swathed with creamy meaty chicken liver or the crunchy sourdough crostini topped with fera and popping orbs of pickled mustard are prime examples. The four bites melted in the mouth, leaving the residue of freshness and a quiet innovation.

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Some of the courses were confusing in a mysterious and magical way, in that they almost combined the unimaginable. The way different varieties and stages of tomatoes played together with the green purslane and the house-made toasted fresh milk cheese, dusted with a powder of dehydrated tomato, evoked the feelings of salad, unconnected but willing to converge. Two silvery sardines topped with tiny cubes of summery zucchini and new potato effortlessly brought together the briny with the mild, embellished with herbal dill and scientific dehydrated egg yolk.

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Others looked familiar but guaranteed an inexplicable flourish of decadence. Plump yellow cappelletti nestled with nutty chanterelles evoked memories, but middles made of studded ricotta and cervelle created new ones.  A polite pile of sirloin tartare exuded fineness, but the crisp nature and bite of the cucumbers and beans toned down the decadence while elevating the appeal to the tongue.

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Dessert, too, only looked disjointed and unprepared: common oat moments and fresh peaches and pretty wild blueberries, spun into dreams with a sweet and creamy white chocolate mousse.

The insightful courses compounded expectations and anticipation with surprise and whimsy, manifestations of profound flavor profiles, thoughtful layered texture and attentive aesthetics. Verjus presented a deep knowledge of the complexities and simplicities of food and experience, resulting in more than just a meal.

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starring SALAD: Park & Sixth Restaurant and Drinkery

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It’s funny when a salad is your favorite dish of the meal, especially when you’re gorging on gastropub fare. It happens, and it happened at Park& Sixth Restaurant and Drinkery. You never would’ve guessed that a beet salad would be the star of your show when cheesy pulled pork mac and cheese, succulent scallops with dense risotto, and garlicky oil-drenched chorizo and scrimp sidled up to your table.

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But it was. It was fresh and it was last. And it was beautiful. Sweet ruby beets, velvety in texture and in color, resting on emerald mesculin lettuce, provided a cool kind of warmth with a royal delicacy. Pale pink rings of pickled onion and herbed goat cheese shone like diamonds against the darker richer hues, while the salad glimmered, sparkling with cayenne candied almonds. This was just a salad, but the combination of the flavors from the sweet beets, the spicy nuts and aromatic cheese was magic, only rivaled by the raucous textures and crunch.

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Everything looked just as scrumptious as that broach of a salad, but flavors fell flat, textures were off, and execution was a shadow. The pulled pork mac and cheese, a special for the evening, was hot and melty, just like you like it, but the meat was so sparse in the sea of fluctuating cheese.

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But the two scallops had promise, the sweetness of the sea and salt with a healthy dose of pepper. It was the truffled risotto dotted with wild mushrooms that held back the small starter. The rice was not cooked enough, with dry chewy centers, and the risotto was lacking the creaminess you were expecting.

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Shrimp and chorizo go together, forever, but the oil became spicy almost until you could not bare it. The crunchy bread dulled the heat and softened with the oil, enabling the shrimp and fatty chorizo.

Park & Sixth’s (gastropub) refined renegade menu offers classics with a twist to amp up “dive bar bites,” but the lovely beet salad wove into your memory as those gem tones emanated in the night.

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