Monday, 23 February 2009

I don't know how to continue without talking about my meal at Blue Hill Farm Restaurant, but at the same time, how can I? How do you talk about a beautiful meal, that goes beyond all expectations and keeps you at the table for over three hours, smiling after every little bite?
Even if I talked about what we ate, it wouldn't come across, it couldn't.
The pork fat butter, the arugula salt, the celeriac salt, the crusty batons of french bread, this was just the beginning. But when you aren't in the moment, sitting close to those around you as if in a tiny Parisian restaurant, being poured a thin glass of pink bubbly wine that tastes of strawberries and grapefruit, it somehow loses its magic.
This breaks my heart. I want to dive back in and lick all the plates that passed in front of us. I want to re-enter that fairytale place where every morsel of food put in front of us was cared for from seed to pot to plate, tenderly grown and caressed into its full potential of flavor. Siiiigh.

What I can say is this: there was lettuce foam on top of "this morning's egg" (yellow yolk melting into perfectly cooked lentils scooped up with crispy nuggets of pork belly), there was grass fed venison (the texture of seared ahi tuna - tender with a delicate chew that yielded flavors unlike any meat I've had before), there was chocolate cake (with a perfectly formed teaspoon of peanut butter ice cream and drizzles of salted caramel), and there was pear brandy (from oregon, heady and rich with autumnal scents).

I only snuck one photo of the beautiful little vegetables we were served in the beginning:

I hate to tease you with things that can never be reproduced, much less in my or your own kitchen.
But hot damn was it good.

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