Ruth Tobias

Shame, shame, shame on me. I’m embarrassed that it took me years to get around to a meal at Black Cat Bistro, embarrassed that it’s taken me weeks to post about the extraordinary multicourse tasting I finally experienced—long enough for the details to be lost in the haze of general appreciation for chef-owner Eric Skokan’s style, eclectic in scope yet laser-precise in execution, & the graciousness & intelligence of the floor staff. Among them was the young wine gun Dev; if it weren’t for the menu he handwrote for me, I’d be embarrassed about the number of delicacies I could no longer identify—which, granted, is partly Dev’s fault, given the copious amounts of N.V. René Geoffroy premier cru rosé & Castelfeder Lagrein Riserva 2006 he kept pouring.

What I’ll never forget, however, is the tiny, scrumptious slice of heirloom carrot-chèvre terrine peeking out there next to the salt-&-vinegar turnip chips on an appetizer sampler that also included white radish soup with black truffle & heritage pork head cheese in a dried-tomato shell.

It was followed by a sturgeon duo: 1st, creamed & pickled sturgeon on a buckwheat blini with chopped egg & winter herb purée,

& 2nd, roast sturgeon with black garbanzo beans and black garlic.

A pasta duo included nutmeg-tinged farro with chanterelles & cherry tomatoes

& another strikingly funky dish I won’t soon forget—farmer’s cheese gnocchi with grilled chicken livers & mustard.

Meat courses took the elegant form of chicken ballantine with a lentil fritter, apple chutney & raita

& celery crêpes stuffed with duck ragôut, accompanied by squash gratin & sumac jus.

Yet another unforgettable tidbit: the warm apple-thyme tisane that came with a simple green salad. You use the spoon to stir it up before sipping—so pure, so refreshing.

Finally, I’m embarrassed to admit that I snapped a pic neither of the cheese course—a pungent, cold pairing of crumbled gorgonzola with beet gratinée—nor the palate cleanser we received in lieu of the dessert we just couldn’t hack: Asian pear with grapefruit & bruléed figs.

From start to finish, the tasting was accomplished, suave, balletic (& I say that as someone who hates the use of dancing metaphors in food writing). This post doesn’t do it justice; may it, in all that it lacks, inspire you to strike forth to Black Cat & judge for yourself.

Thought about titling this post “Trillium in Manillium,” decided it was a stretch. But Ryan Leinonen’s new homage to the cookery of Scandinavia and its immigrant American offshoot is a thrilla, right here in Five Points instead of the Philippines. Leinonen’s repertoire is intelligent, inspired & just plain fun to explore.

If you’re anti-anchovy or sardine, boo on you, but even so, don’t mistake smelts for either. These tiny freshwater fishies are white-fleshed & cod-like rather than salty & oily, & Leinonen does the Midwestern tradition of the fish fry proud with his mini-version; sourced from Lake Michigan, marinated in buttermilk & deep-fried in cornmeal batter, they’re ultra-fresh, light & crunchy right down to the tiny bones, gaining creamy tang to boot from the lemon-vodka tartar sauce.

The balls on the below dish, if you’ll excuse the expression, smacked my mouth off at the media opening I got to attend, warranting a last-minute nod as one of the top 10 dishes I tasted over the course of my season-spanning guidebook-research marathon. The second time was no less a charm: it’s a boldly multifaceted juxtaposition of velvety, subtly funky foie-gras mousse, sharp pickled chanterelles, cloudberry preserves & the whole-wheat biscuit-like flatbread called rieska.

I wasn’t as fond of the trout terrine, a bit bland by comparison; pretty as the central dot of herbs is, the recipe would benefit from a more rustic approach, I think, with the herbs incorporated throughout a fish-heavier mixture.

I was also not as enamored with the portobello fries, a tad thick & clunky, as I thought I’d be; by contrast, I wouldn’t have ordered the salad pal @MO_242 picked, but wound up being delighted she did. Bearing some similarity to the insalata russa so common in the delis of Italy, but gesturing toward the MItteleuropean penchant for sweet-&-sour, it’s a chopped mélange of beets, apples, potatoes, boiled eggs & pickles over greens in just enough sour cream–mayo dressing.

Though grilled beef tenderloin with roasted root veggies is grilled beef tenderloin with roasted root veggies, Leinonen makes it his with the addition of bacon whipped cream & black pepper–brandy caramel—all ingredients used in classic steak preparations, but reconfigured anew.

Better still was the beautifully crusted, juicy pan-roasted chicken over fresh egg noodles in bacon-mustard vinaigrette; IMO, the old adage that chicken is for the birds—specifically the early birds & the bland of palate—is too easily disproven to count for much. Sure, there are a lot of duds out there, but there are also a lot of standouts. This is one of them.

And the carrot cake is truly one of the best I’ve ever had, dense, moist & heavy on the carrots, served with maple ice cream over carrot caramel.

Though the space isn’t to my taste—a little bare & glaring—the staff is lovely (that Linda’s a fittingly-named charmer) &, most important, Leinonen’s food is so winning—& so unlike anything else in town—that I see many visits in my future. 2011′s been a doozy in terms of debuts, but the opening of Trillium marks one of the most solid by far, IMO.

That’s the trademarked motto of the legendary Broadmoor in Colorado Springs, & while it’s pretty meaningless from a literal standpoint—if you’ve been to a crack house, you know what that’s like too—the ultra-elite implications are clear, not least with respect to the historic 5-star resort’s most celebrated restaurant, The Penrose Room. Come to think of it, though, the motto still doesn’t make much sense, since even if you haven’t been here, I bet you can make a fairly accurate guess as to the experience. Posh. Elegant. Lavish. Formal. Twinkling lights & tinkling crystal. Prix-fixe & multi-course. Extravagant from the bread basket service & the amuses bouches I wrote of earlier to the take-home gift bag bearing a block-sized marshmallow—compliments of head pastry chef Rémy Fünfrock, who with exec chef Bertrand Bouquin boasts a sparkling résumé dotted with names like Daniel Boulud & Alain Ducasse & the Coupe du Monde de la Pâtisserie.

Here’s what I, having been there, definitely know: it’s really not my kind of place. The whole VIP rigmarole with all its bells & whistles tends to make me nervous, in direct opposition to its intended effect. I feel too closely watched & kinda trapped, & in short I’ve never found fine dining terribly sensuous. Heck, I was far more attuned to & comfy in my environment yesterday at the Drunken Fry in OKC, where I sat in near-darkness surrounded by, among other things, retro votives & real live ashtrays, headless spattered mannequins & paintings of PBR-pounding dinosaurs & the ever-spooky sounds of Roy Orbison, while knocking back a Dubbel & a shitload of Belgian-style frites with cheeseburger sauce & curried mayo.

That said, if you are indeed into pure luxury & penthouse views & all that jazz, then The Penrose Room will bowl you right over.

I & my companions—whom, it should be said, were from the hotel’s PR department, as I was on assignment, but who did not pay for my meal—opted for the 4-course tasting menu, which gets you 2 appetizers, a favorite being the lone signature dish on the otherwise seasonal menu: good old Caesar salad prepared tableside.

The value’s all in the entertainment, of course—otherwise there’s not much point in ordering the perfectly well-made but perfectly common concoction. You’re here to luxuriate, so you may as well delve into the delicacies. You can even (for a supplement) order an appetizer tasting, which might look a little like this:

That pristine slab of foie speaks for itself, but my favorites were 1) the frothy cream of white asparagus soup with watercress coulis & a dab of caviar & 2) the lobster carpaccio with horseradish-caviar cream—the one classic, the other inspired. Lobster doesn’t get played with enough; I’m actually not sure I’ve ever seen it thin-sliced before.

Between the amuses & the appetizers, it seemed soup is one of Bouquin’s fortes: I also loved the blue crab bisque, ultra-smooth with an inxplicable, almost hazelnutty savor.

But my own pick, the wine-braised calamari, was terrific too. Over favas & chunks of bacon, the little pouches were as thin as cellophane & nearly as translucent; I don’t even recall what they were stuffed with, so enamored was I of the texture.

Overall, it was clear Bouquin favors a light touch in summer, which failed him only with respect to my entrée. “Ravioli” that were actually scallops sliced & filled with a dollop of American caviar, arranged over a sauté of diced purple artichoke & sunchoke in tomato consommé, & topped with basil foam sounded extraordinarily inventive, but lacking any sort of anchor—a rich ingredient or even a bit more seasoning for counterbalance—were so light they were nearly flavorless. (Supposedly there were capers too but I didn’t encounter any.) I don’t even mean the dish was bland, quite—more like ghostly, there but not there. Which is kind of fascinating in & of itself, but still.

Ultimately, though, a meal like this inheres in its lovely little flourishes—coffee service being a prime example, coming complete with a full dish of chocolate-covered espresso beans.

Finally, Fünfrock’s dessert selection, as the display in the foyer suggested,

changes even more frequently than the main menu, but it too is a study in refreshment & refinement more than comfort & decadence. Pineapple charlotte, for instance, wasn’t exactly what I expected, being mostly fruit topped with a small slice of coconut-lime dacquoise. But after all those coffee beans, I hardly needed a chocolate bomb.

As for the wine list, it’s far deeper than it is broad—the emphasis is firmly on the Old World rather than emerging regions, châteaux more than boutiques. But again, that’s to be expected at a place whose 50-year reputation is built on royal splurges. Why come but to succumb? (Now there’s an apt motto.)

As one ex-TAG employee starts to make his mark on Row 14, another’s taking his leave—I’m really sorry to see the talented & totally gracious Tyler French go. But he’s headed east, & tonight’s his grand exit, so stop by to bid adieu—& while you’re at it, order up a plate or 2 of these babies.

I hate it when the word “tempura” is used in glorified lieu of “batter-fried”; they aren’t automatically the same thing. But if anybody would have an excuse to appropriate the term (though he doesn’t), it’d be new chef Jensen D. Cummings; the coating on his fried-avocado appetizer is every bit as light & delicate as its traditional Japanese equivalent, melding right into the ultra-creamy yet herbally tinged flesh of the fruit—which is in turn complemented by the sweet-chili crema; a julienne of lightly pickled carrot & green papaya adds the requisite sharp edge (actually, I could’ve used more of it, but that’s my acrid-toothed dealio; a garnish is a garnish).

As for strawberry–cream cheese gyoza, they’re nothing if not fun fun fun, so long as you bite down with care, because they do squirt hotly. Actually, my favorite part was the silky, bay leaf-tinged crème anglaise sprinkled with Cocoa Pebbles; I could’ve downed a bowl. And speaking of Cocoa Pebbles, if you think anything in the previous 2 sentences sounds obscene, you should read this.

A striking amuse bouche is tops among the mood-setting stuff fine dining’s made of; like bread-basket service or a champagne cart, it’s an indication that the experience will be no mere transaction of ordering & receiving but a far more intimate & complex (even wordless) matter of call-&-response. (It’s almost unnerving: Is this a flattering & gracious edible gift or an almost eerie insinuation that you are not entirely in control of your desires &/or how they’ll be gratified? Surrender, whispers the mouth-entertainer. Accept that we are not just addressing but correctly anticipating your every wish as our command. I sort of wonder if there are statistics on whether recommendation queries increase after amuses bouches are served; I bet so. You just sort of lusciously slump & say, Okay, you tell me what to do.) Last night at The Broadmoor’s famed Penrose Room, the amuses were as exquisite as anything on the printed menu. Hence this mid-week shout-out: odds are slim I’ll eat anything more memorable before Monday.

On the left is Rocky Ford cantaloupe soup with a bit of chopped shrimp & microherbs, which intriguingly evoked savory-sweet ice cream melted to room temp; on the right, fennel pannacotta, aromatic & pure satin; in the middle, a tiny cracker with an even tinier, salt-walloped dollop of tapenade made with 3 types of olive, including new-to-me Meski.

After that came 3 courses, la di da, of which more later, & then a pre-dessert amuse that I didn’t snap but that may have been my single favorite bite of the evening, a honey-saffron pannacotta that was almost obscenely gelatinous, tartly fruity & richly sugared at the same time. As in sigh.

The Corner Office & I have a funny, on-again, off-again relationship (chronicled here). We flirt, we have a good time, then we hit a sour note, then I avoid it for awhile, then I ease back in one day on a whim & the cycle continues.

Or so it did before the arrival of exec chef Will Cisa. With a solid talent like him on board I feel so safe & warm inside…But never so excited as when I bit into the Downward Dog.

Here’s what it is: 2 snappy, juicy New York dogs; a spunky combo of spicy mustard, sweet soy & Kewpie mayo; plus nori, pork fu & housemade tsukemono on a buttered, toasted, split top bun. I’m not a frank fiend, I suppose because the range of variations is generally so limited, beginning & ending with some sort of tangy sauce &/or some form of chili or chile. But this here’s a whole different ballgame with its Japanese flavors & array of textures, from the feathery, flaky fu to the poppy pickles.

By the way, here’s what else usually bores me: fish tacos.

And here’s why Cisa’s didn’t, aside from the smooth, fritter-like crunchy batter on the healthy chunk of mahi mahi: lots & lots of condiments that blended together into a vibrant, squirting, dribbling mess: excellent, smoky red salsa, guacamole & what some (not me for sure) might deem too much crema, plus citrusy slaw.

The Corner Office, like Second Home, is part of the multi-state Sage Restaurant Group, which has a flair for realizing visions that feel organic, not corporate. So I was psyched to discover that they’re working on a new concept, slated to open this fall: Kachina Bar, a neo-Southwestern eatery in the Westin Westminster. Bring on the sopaipillas.

Not to brag—okay, maybe a little—but I have a knack for picking winners, which I should really take to the track sometime. From Boston to Denver I’ve called many an emerging talent, so mark these here words: Will Nolan, chef de cuisine at Eight K—the stunning signature restaurant of the Viceroy Snowmass (whose name refers to the altitude but also approximates the number of calories I consumed there)—is one to watch. Under exec chef Rob Zack, the Louisiana native is bringing downhome, Deep South influences to bear on the contemporary repertoire that defines fine dining in the ski resorts of the Rockies as elsewhere—with exuberant results. Through the standard narrative of urbane delicacies made with local/seasonal ingredients, he’s weaving a thread that’s borderline idiosyncratic.

Having sampled nearly the entire selection of small plates & starters, I’ll single out a few for special mention:

Crispy pork confit crêpe with sweet soy, kimchi, watermelon & arugula

Intricately balanced between the delicate & the finger-licking, tender smoky pork & bright fruit & veggies; the kimchi was only lightly fermented, almost a spicy slaw.

Truffled gnocchi with crab fondue, baby shiitakes & peas

Perfect little puffs of velvet bathed in a warm, thick cream turned deeply sweet with lumb crabmeat.

Crawfish hush puppies with remoulade

Crunchy, chunky, yielding, corny, salty, tangy—yet still juicy with shellfish savor. (Boudin balls weren’t quite as successful, being a little too much ball & not enough boudin.)

Pancetta-wrapped rabbit loin with carrot puree & mustard jus

Striking as it was, the sweet-sharp combo of buttery carrot & spiced mustard didn’t overwhelm the gentle medallions.

Shrimp with BBQ vinaigrette, sweet corn puree, green beans & chanterelles

Zippy vinaigrette in lieu of sticky barbecue sauce was a smart move, keeping the fat, firm shrimp & almost mousse-like corn purée afloat.

Grilled asparagus & crispy poached egg with prosciutto, preserved lemon & frisée in creamy parmesan dressing

Foie gras torchon atop crunchy cinnamon toast with cherry mostarda

Deviled eggs with ham

Word to the waiflike: Nolan’s salads eat like a meal.

8K Salad with crispy prosciutto, white cheddar, cashews & spiced apple puree in balsamic vinaigrette

Cheese, meat, fruit, nuts—it’s like an antipasto platter over lettuce. The prosciutto’s transformed into chips…

Baby romaine with lobster & radishes in mustard vinaigrette

…an idea so satisfying it’s repeated here with capicola. I especially liked the use of ingredients as sharp as mustard & radishes in atypical contrast to lobster, which is usually coddled in complementary flavors. Carefully incorporated, they give it a little zing of a boost.

Heirloom tomato salad with camembert, plums, Marcona almonds & frisée in plum wine vinaigrette

Fruit, cheese & nuts meet again under lighter circumstances; this reminded me of 2 of my favorite salads in Denver, Izakaya Den’s grilled panzanella & Lala PIzzeria + Wine Bar’s Insalata Susina.

Choosing an entrée should’ve been hard: molasses-cured duck confit with dirty farro, agrodolce & garlic kale? Glazed, double-cut Berkshire pork chop with black-eyed peas, grilled savoy cabbage & debris gravy? Seared scallops with crispy pork belly, fried green tomatoes, charred shishito peppers & romesco vinaigrette? The sheer fun Nolan’s clearly having as he richochets from haute to country & back again was, for me, totally infectious.

Still, I knew what I wanted the second I laid eyes on the words “chicken oysters.”

Fresh cavatelli with chicken oysters, morels & microbasil in brandied cream

These little nodes of dark meat on the back of the bird—which do share something of the texture of Rocky Mountain oysters, though they’re named for their shape—are something you almost never see on restaurant menus, & they gave the softly luscious dish a funky backbone (so to speak).

As for dessert, pastry chef Ashley Jenkins absolutely followed Nolan’s hard act.

L to R: vanilla cream-filled doughnuts; malted chocolate layer cake with graham-cracker crumbs, hot fudge & caramelized cocoa puffs; chèvre cheesecake with salted graham crust, pistachio brittle & blueberry fritters

The latter showed particular panache, with its mix of textures & vibrant bursts of flavor.

And now for a giant disclaimer. All of the above was served at a press dinner. That should raise two suspicions in your mind. One, that my opinion was bought & paid for. To that, I’ll say what I always say in these cases: as a media guest rather than an anonymous diner, I don’t bite the hand that feeds me; I just keep my mouth shut if I’m unimpressed by the meal. If I do say something, I mean it. Which still doesn’t mean you should take my word for it, especially given suspicion number two: that the staff, both front & back of the house, was on its very best behavior toward us. To that, I’ll say: undoubtedly. As is true with any review—but especially in these circumstances—there’s only one way to tell if it’s accurate: by judging for yourself.

For what it’s worth, I did return the next night for a light meal al fresco on my own dime. My server, who was not among our servers the previous night & so wouldn’t have recognized me, was lovely—a little slower on the ball, but then, she was busy in a packed house; her attentions had to be evenly spread. Even so she managed to find me 2 cans of soda in a hotel with no vending machines. So no complaints there, & none for the complimentary happy-hour nut mix—warm, tossed with rosemary & brown sugar, olive oil & sea salt.

The flatbread I took back to my room, however, was overbaked, the crust a stale brown cracker. Too bad not least because the topping combo of duck confit, sherried onions, roasted grapes, chèvre & saba (a grape syrup) was great—almost like a modern deconstructed mincemeat.

What does the disappointment reveal? Hard to say, since I’d come straight from the 2nd Annual Snowmass Culinary & Arts Festival up on the mall—where Chefs Zack & Nolan were still manning a booth. Weighing a single miss in the chefs’ absence against a slew of hits in their presence is weighing apples & oranges. It might say something about the line cooks’ level of experience. Or it might simply have been a fluke. Granted, that’s what a mistake had better be at a restaurant this posh. But it doesn’t change the fact that creativity can’t be faked. Nolan’s got it, which means that as long as he’s around Eight K’s got it—something special.

D Bar Desserts is not, frankly, my kind of place. Having a taste neither for sweets nor for the generally girlie aesthetic of specialists thereof—as exemplified here by baby-blue walls that match the frosting of the signature cupcake—

I just never bothered to put this Uptown favorite anywhere near the top of my list, Keegan Gerhard or no Keegan Gerhard.

My chocolate-crazed pal Beth, however, feels otherwise. And on the eve of her departure for a 12-month tour of as many US cities, a girl gets what a girl wants. As for me, I got far more out of the bargain than I ever dreamed.

Including my pick for Dish of the Week. Unlike Crave’s notorious Luther Burger, D Bar’s take on the doughnut sandwich is startlingly savory right down to the unsweetened yeast dough of the bomboloni (Italian-style doughnuts)—no glaze here. Instead they’re stuffed with beef tartare, topped with tomatillo jam & a serrano-chile sliver, & set atop a schmear of ultra-garlicky ”decret sauce,” much like Lebanese toum. (Whether “decret” sauce is a portmanteau of “D Bar” & “secret sauce” or just a typo, seeing as how “D” is next to “S” on the keyboard, is hard to figure. Cutesy names are a hallmark of the menu for better or worse; in the case of the apricot créme brulèe someone saw fit to call “crapricot,” I’d have to say worse.) Execution lacked a little; the pastry was too dry, the tartare underseasoned & therefore unable to stand up to the pungent sauces. But the concept tickled me enough to warrant the nod.

The pizza salad sandwich, however, knocked me out. D Bar makes, of all things, a mean salad, crisp & slicked with strong vinaigrette. It makes a pizza dough like a pastry shop (as opposed to a pie parlor) should—tender & buttery—as well as excellent, unctuous yet tangy pesto. And it doesn’t skimp on the nicely textured cheese, both gooey mozzarella & crumbled goat.

An equally good mix of four cheeses, plus meaty, spiced pepperoni & cherry tomatoes that were warm but still uncooked enough to pop, meant that Beth practically couldn’t get a bite of her own pizza in edgewise. (Sorry about that, B, sorta.)

Said mean salad—sprinkled with toasted pinenuts & shaved parmesan & flanked with lusciously, perfectly ripe sliced avocado—is a keeper as well.

I didn’t try Mo’s mac & cheese, but the fact that it comes gratinéed with panko crumbs &, right on, Cheese Nips, bodes well (maybe she’ll weigh in). I did try the lobster tempura (offered as a supplemental special), & though the breading was thick enough that aragosta fritta might have been a more accurate moniker, it wasn’t too heavy—a judicious combo of salty crunch & sea-sweet flesh.

Rebecca’s steak frites was lovely too, not least for the fact that the beef topped the fries rather than sitting beneath or next to them (as is more common). So all those umami juices mingled with the shreds of parmesan to soak the spud sticks in a way that caused joyous flashbacks to Chilean chorrillana.

Finally, yeah. I may not actively crave dessert, but that doesn’t mean I don’t rise to the freaking occasion. My chocolate-cheesecake brownie, topped with a quenelle of pure chocolate, was dense & intense & the very stuff of teen romance novels. To this day I remember the description of a kiss in one I read when I was 12, before I’d had a real kiss of my own, so it stuck: “like chocolate, slow & warm & sweet & good.”

As for Rebecca’s signature cake & shake,

Beth’s special—wherein bananas Foster collided with French toast—

& Mo’s chocolate-caramel tart with caramel ice cream & Godiva affogato—

they were all, needless to say, comme il faut, so far as my overwhelmed palate could tell. Same goes for that moist cupcake—neither the génoise nor the buttercream sugary but just sweet enough—which I snarfed the second I got home. Damn you, D Bar! You’ll give me a sweet tooth yet.

P.S. Did I mention the terrific selection of wines by the glass, including this kickass, earthy Pinot Meunier? Consider it mentioned.

Yeah, you have to, to paraphrase that annoying old Cranberries song. You have to come prepared to stay awhile & soak it all up, every last retro & surreal detail. The gold-streaked mirror lining the back bar upstairs & the Lite Brite bulbs (what a sight, makin’ things with Lite Brite!) lining the bartop. The bright swirls & paisleys of wallpaper, evoking the foyer of a mortuary whose owners made a misguided attempt to brighten things up circa 1973. The fact that you are, indeed, in a former mortuary—which owner Justin Cucci, to his credit, clearly took pains to downplay. (In his place, I think I’d have gone cuckoo with morbid, gross-out decor, forgetting all about the fact that people are trying to eat here.) The inexplicable moat of billiard balls you pass on the way to the bathrooms. The way, way hipper-than-thou servers with their porkpie hats, vintage eyeglasses & loafers, looking for all the world like long-lost members of The Untouchables. Etc. And then there’s the spectacular view of downtown from the picture windows that make Linger, for all its quirks, so light & airy & perfectly comfy. (Its spaciousness helps too; despite the Saturday night mob, it didn’t feel like a madhouse, since there was plenty of room to sprawl.)

In short, I instantly liked the place—every bit as much as I instantly didn’t like its sibling, Root Down, upon its equally ballyhooed opening (although I’ve since come around somewhat). Though I didn’t try the cocktails, I know Anika Zappe’s work well enough (ahem) to know I would like the cocktails. Instead, I drank one of the weirdest wines ever—Casalfarneto Rosae Lacrima di Morro d’Alba—the 1st, Xtreeeemely juicy sip of which made me cringe, while the 2nd made me wonder, & by the 3rd glass I was hooked. Pals L & Mo, meanwhile, stopped at the cringing stage. It takes guts to put a wine like this, sure to appeal only to a fringe element with a taste for pain (Mo proclaimed it ”like falling down in a field of lavender and being stung by 1,000 angry bees”), on a by-the-glass list; for that reason alone, I’ll be back to see what other oenologic wonders await.

And the food? I liked that too. Did I love it? Not yet—but the promise of summer lovin’ is already there in spades. The globally influenced small plates menu is fun-filled from soup to nuts—sometimes in the same bowl, as with the cucumber gazpacho garnished with almonds, green grapes, & shaved radish.

That scoop of tomato sorbet in the center was what made the dish, adding a swirl of icy tart-sweet zing to its coolly creamy surroundings.

I’ve had the likes of corn-poblano soup with crab & avocado many a time, & this rendition was as good as any, falling somewhere between palatable & memorable.

Neither the steamed Mongolian duck buns with miso-pickled cucumbers

nor the beer-braised short rib tacos

stood out in my mind; they were fine, but the problem with moving street food indoors is that street food is, by definition, meant to be eaten on the street, current high-end trend notwithstanding. What one savors is its cheap, messy, on-the-fly qualities; it loses something in the translation to sit-down fare—& so do the more expensive ingredients meant to improve it. That’s my story, anyway, & I’m sticking to it.

By comparison, the spring-green, fresh & bright fava bean-sweet pea ”hummus” absolutely benefited from such chefly touches as the row of mix-ins—grated egg, paprika, crumbled feta, & reserved lemon—on the rim of the bowl, making for a sort of impressionistic paint-by-numbers bread spread.

Same goes for the transformation of the fresh Indian cheese called paneer into “fries”; much like tofu, this stuff is generally so mild it’s as much a textural canvas for other ingredients as it is an ingredient in itself, & as a vehicle for warm-spiced spinach puree & heady rhubarb ketchup, the firm, lightly fried sticks held up nicely.

The patty on the left was listed as b’stilla, but it went down far more like a cake of chicken hash than a carefully layered, Moroccan-style phyllo-dough pie (c.f. the real deal at Palais Casablanca). A misnomer isn’t necessarily a culinary mistake, though; this was dense, moist, & bold-flavored through & through—& if you ask me, they should slide that shit into a steamed bun or onto a tortilla for a twist on street food. Meanwhile, much to my surprise, the goat cheese & watermelon salad on the right was nearly my favorite dish.

Watermelon being one of world’s only foods I’ve never cared much for, & watermelon–goat cheese salads being 10 cents for 12, I’d not have thought to order it. One of my pals did, however—& good on her, because I loved it. In part, the simple fact that the melon was perfectly ripe & the cheese especially salty yet creamy made all the difference. But so did a drizzle of pomegranate molasses & a sprinkle of Aleppo pepper (crushed dried chilies used in Turkish cooking, with a sumac-like tartness but more heat). Turns out a little extra zest was what this combination needed all along. In which case it serves as a fine rejoinder to all those chefs who talk about “taking quality ingredients & not fucking them up.” Sometimes, kids, you gotta fuck ‘em up.

Which brings me to my favorite dish—the raw “samosas” with curried cashew “yogurt” & cranberry-mint jam.

Okay, they look a little—how do I put this—poopy. And my pals insisted they didn’t taste much better. But, as with the wine, I found something in them to love—namely that they tasted exactly like buckwheat cookie dough (or maybe pumpernickel). What they were actually made of, I don’t know—traditional samosa pastry just contains your basic flour mix—& though I could attempt to find out, I kind of like preserving the mystery for now. Taste ‘em for yourself, & tell me what you think.

In fact, taste everything for yourself, & let me know what you think. (Especially the mussels, because I don’t even remember eating ‘em, though this picture suggests that happened.)

If you don’t agree that this place has got it, that magical nameless thing that’s more than the sum of its parts, I’ll eat my hat. Or better still, one of the server’s porkpie hats. Because, mmm, pork pie.

The Jew in me has a deep & abiding suspicion of golf clubs, so it almost came as a surprise to me when my ethnic credentials weren’t checked at the door of the Inverness Hotel & Conference Center when I arrived there last month for a Rodney Strong wine seminar. But not only did I not get dragged out, I was treated to a lovely presentation in a private room off Baca, the Inverness’s sprawling, sunny, colorfully pretty restaurant & sunken lounge overlooking the fairway—in which, it seemed, even I could get comfy.

Fast-forward to May, where I may actually have gotten a little too comfy at a press dinner that was intriguing to say the least.

First & foremost, press dinners are usually highly orchestrated events with limited menus featuring chef’s signatures, paired with complementary wines. At Baca, our server just handed us the new early summer menu from exec chef Rodney Herwerth & asked for our order. I was confused. “You mean we can just order anything?” I asked. She said yes, seemingly confused at my confusion. I was tempted to order everything, just to test their commitment. I didn’t, but having had a crummy day I did encourage her to refill my wine glass at every turn, which meant I probably went through a good bottle & a half by myself, & apologies may well have been in order.

Still, I wasn’t in such a state that I failed to pay attention to the eats, starting with 2 cheeses—Petit Basque & Boschetto al Tartufo, listed as a blend of cow’s & sheep’s milk studded with white truffle, but actually containing black truffle; no matter, it was nice anyway—& an order of confit duck taquitos.

They made for a fine start indeed, flaky on the outside, filled with rich, tender meat, roasted apple & corn, & I think a little cabbage; the dipping sauce was a bit on the thick side, & neither as spicy or plummy as the description suggested; in fact, interestingly enough (& it was), it evoked nothing so much as vodka sauce.

When it comes to salads, I don’t expect wild originality in general; when I find it—as with the Dickens Salad at WaterCourse Foods & Racine’s Nutty Cheese Salad—I’m thrilled. Otherwise, simple refreshment’s a worthy enough goal, & the house salad my +1 & I split offered plenty, combining mesclun, chopped candied pecans, dried cranberries & crumbled chèvre in a notable, almost frothy, tarragon-flecked buttermilk dressing.

But there were 2 dishes that totally wowed me—enough to score a tie for Dish of the Week. The first was my entree, a vibrant play on pork & beans: a generous portion of lightly breaded, greaselessly fried pork tenderloin over a medley of sauteed favas, cannellini & green beans, topped with a sauce based on roasted black olives that I thought would be overkill but instead added a pungent depth. Rather, it was the mac & cheese on the side that was probably unnecessary—but no less welcome for that, being a suave combination of al dente orecchiette, gruyère & fontina in perfect proportion, lightly browned for a bit of crunch on top.

The second was Sarah’s Banana Split, named for pastry chef Sarah Scriver but otherwise a totally misleading moniker—all to the better. Nothing like a banana split, it was instead a whimsical, multilayered arrangement of tender brown-sugar pound cake topped with fresh banana & a candied cherry, then ringed round with honeyed roasted pineapple as well as banana pannacotta with walnut ganache, a quenelle of vanilla ice cream & a sugar tuile. Part homey, part tropical, it was impressively balanced, not a hair out of place.

Though not quite as brilliant as that one, the other desserts we tried were satisfying in their own right: in front, a squat cylinder of cheesecake with blueberry compote & lemon sorbet, behind it a sort of fluffy crêpe with more vanilla ice cream & pistachios. Having gotten a glimpse of the young, pretty Scriver, I’m predicting a bright future. You heard it here first.

All in all, I was impressed by the Inverness’s efforts to exceed the surf-&-turf expectations of a Tech Center conference hotel. Tucked away behind the The Shops at Vallagio, it’s something to keep in mind as a dark-horse alternative to the likes of Street Kitchen Asian Bistro (not that it needs one).