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Last Dispatch from Boston 2010: Bin 26 Enoteca, Brasserie Jo, & a few words about Poe’s Kitchen & Erbaluce

The definition of enoteca appears to be expanding even in Italy to cover a range of wine shops and bars, but as I’ve experienced them in Venice, Rome, Orvieto, Bologna, Parma & a few other cities & towns here & there, enoteche are predominantly rustic, woody neighborhood joints, serving local wines from barrels as well as by the bottle, plus simple, hearty snacks (which may be called cicchetti, spuntini, stuzzichini or various other names depending on the region).

Beacon Hill’s chic, streamlined boutique Bin 26 isn’t one of those. Though the menu’s indeed comprised of Italian small plates, it emphasizes modern elegance, while the ambitious wine list spans the globe—& both are priced accordingly. But they’re also a treat: interesting, smart & executed with more sprezzatura than self-seriousness. In fact, the latter isn’t just a list—it’s a veritable primer, packed with clever, user-frieindly tidbits like the following (click to enlarge):

Nice, right? Equally user-friendly from a tasting standpoint are a terrific range of offerings by the glass, quartino, half-bottle & bottle (granted, that very structure tends to facilitate an inflated price point), laden with underappreciated varietals like Insolia & Brachetto. And you can expect the same combination of warmth & precision from the food (although that doesn’t come as such a surprise to anyone who knows it’s owned by siblings Azita Bina-Seibel & Babak Bina of long-standing Persian rose Lala Rokh; I imagine, not having been there, the same is true of their latest, Bina Osteria, although again, the name is misleading, an osteria being by definition a humble place serving simple fare, not a gleaming Ritz-Carlton outlet where $30 lamb loin millefoglie is what’s for dinner).

Not that white anchovies need much caretaking—just a little quality olive oil & plenty of lemon juice to underscore their refreshing but mild sour tang, a revelation if your experience is limited to tins of tiny bones & salt.


More elaborate was the timbale of chilled crab & squid salad—light & clean on its own, a nifty surprise when combined with a bite of the warm polenta. The juxtaposition of cold & hot ingredients on the same plate is, I think, underrated—perhaps because it’s as often as not a mistake as a choice. But when it’s the latter—fresh chips & guacamole, pie à la mode—the effect is startlingly appealing.

Generous as it was, the portion of bruschetta with sauteed mushrooms, fontina & garlic I received was the the slightly unwieldy exception to the rule of precision here; at about half their thickness, the very crusty slices of bread would’ve been easier to chew, especially as the mushroom juices & cheese penetrated them a bit more deeply.


But the signature cocoa tagliatelle with porcini ragù was just as I remembered it from my first taste a few years ago: wonderful, less rich & more subtle than it looks, the bittersweetly earthy overtones of the pasta enhanced by a bare hint of nepitella, which tastes something like a hybrid of mint & sage.

If memory serves fairly well, then, I can also wholeheartedly recommend the carpaccio—traditional with aged parm, arugula & a lemon vinaigrette (sorry, “tarragon citronelle”)—as well as the spaghetti con frutti di mare in a light, spicy tomato sauce. But for lunch, just the pictured plates washed down with a couple of glasses of Brachetto d’Acqui—the irresistible strawberry soda pop of Italian wines—while seated at the bar on a sunny Tuesday afternoon overlooking Beacon St.

felt about as good & right &, hey, classy as I ever feel.

Bin 26 Enoteca on Urbanspoon

As compared, say, to how I felt when the Director, a crew of old Chowhound buddies & I stumbled into Brasserie Jo late 1 night, having already been chowing & hounding for, I lie not, 7 hours straight (more on that anon). But then, this stalwart in the Colonnade Hotel always was 1 of my favorite shelters in a shitstorm. Or in a literal one, for that matter. Or in a lull, for that matter; blowing from out of a raw chill into

Brasseriejorest18 here

to loll around at the warmly lit Art Deco bar (preferably unoccupied by lovey-dovey yuppie scum!)

& nibble on croque monsieurs & oysters in the off-hours—mid-afternoon, late night—had a way of making everything okay.

But nothing could right 7 hours’ worth of wrongs—unless it was doing so much more wrong we’d come out the other side into the bright light of rightness again. Worth a try, am I right (or wrong)?

So we tried, starting with what every meal at Brasserie Jo starts with—a warm, crusty baguette in a paper bag (so nice when that’s not just a travelogue cliché), served with butter & a mysterious but always welcome plate of crisply marinated, herbed carrots—
BJbaguette BJcarrots

plus what my every meal here starts with: steak tartare.


I like my tartare either/or. Either it should be very pure—the barest amount of binder & seasoning to provide almost undetectable support to the raw beef in all its beefy rawness—or very tarted up, with lots & lots of mustard & egg yolk & capers & spices into which the meat can just about melt. B. Jo’s occupies the latter end of the spectrum—in fact, for the 1st time, I thought it overshot the mark, losing the raw savor altogether.

The rest mostly went by in a blur, from the standard-issue tarte flambée w/ onions, bacon & herbs

to the generously varied charcuterie plate (click to enlarge)—I vaguely recall a suprisingly piquant chicken liver pâté—& fries served in classic fashion, upright.


But again, the gist of this place has long, for me, inhered in nonchalance: you breeze in on a whim; you sip some Belgian ale or other; you graze on something impérative—escargots en cocotte, onion soupe gratinée, steak frites, salade niçoise, what have you—while soaking up the retro-Euro vibe; you breeze out casually contented, et voilà.

That we did. But we still failed. Turns out you *can’t* add 2 hours of debauchery to 7 hours of debauchery & come out smelling like anything close to a rose. In the immortal words of (to use her Chowhound moniker) yumyum the next morning: “I blame you.”

Brasserie Jo at the Colonnade Hotel on Urbanspoon

Me, I blame various others, including Brian Poe, chef of Poe’s Kitchen at The Rattlesnake, where those 1st 7 hours were frittered away. Because Poe & I have a working relationship that has turned into a friendship, & because those -ships meant that the food was on the house, it would be improper of me to review it in the usual manner. But it’s totally appropriate, I think, for me to praise the tireless charm & good nature of the gentleman himself, while assuring any Bostonian who still associates The ‘Snake with cut-rate culinary afterthoughts that Poe is hell-bent on winning (heh, I just typed “sinning”—that too) hearts & minds via a rip-roaring repertoire that, like nature itself, abhors a vacuum—chock-full of crunchies, creamies, chilies & other gut-gripping delights such as

PKcornbreadthe signature grilled cornbread with Hatch chilies, queso fresco & Guadalajara butter (which you will polish off with a spoon despite your better judgment)
chilled lobster with grilled avocado in black pepper–lavender crema

PKdessertnachos&, groan-grin-groan, dessert nachos: cinnamon sugar–dusted chips, with cheesecake, berries, chocolate sauce & whipped cream.

So don’t let the naysayers, who may be speaking from the experience of a collegiate margarita whirl-&-hurl 10 years ago, sway you—or me sway you, for that matter. Decide for yourself what you think of Poe’s ambitious doings (venison-brie tacos! burgers with lobster, foie gras & whiskey-cured bacon! grilled doughnuts with champagne foam!)—& do report back.

Rattlesnake Bar & Grill on Urbanspoon

As for Erbaluce: it was one of those once-in-a-moon-made-of-green-cheese meals that I chose in advance to savor sans camera or critical-thinking cap—in part because the lovely-but-personal circumstances thereof were such that I didn’t want to skew them with my own agenda, in part because the chorus of raves about Charles Draghi’s handsomely intimate contemporary Italian spot in Bay Village is so sonorous that I knew there’d be little point in adding my own goofy pipsqueak (never mind the fact that Draghi has spoken for himself so intelligently right here on this blog).

Suffice it to say the food lives up to its renown—from lobster broth with whelks to an incroyable caul-&-speck-wrapped shad roe with roasted red pepper–pink peppercorn sugo to the signature rack of wild boar, roasted over walnut shells & served with Concord grape mosto—while Draghi lives up to his own reputation as a warm, smart, generous, deeply engaged chef-restaurateur. Kudos e basta.

Chile Photo Essay 7: The Really, Really Good Life—Lunching in Wine Country (Viñas Haras de Pirque, Montes, Estampa)

What, then, is the meaning of life, besides 42? The answer to that question, my friends, is not to be found in philosophy class (especially not if it’s a Walter Benjamin seminar) or at Sunday mass or blowing in the wind. It is to be savored leisurely over lunch in the vineyards of Chile.

Perhaps you will make your way to Maipo Valley winery & stud farm Haras de Pirque,

where you’ll nibble on estate-grown walnuts between sips of Syrah in the gorgeous skylit tasting room

before repairing to the farmhouse for a wine-paired repast of local cheeses,

ensalada de camarones,

lamb chops with fava bean mash

& mixed berry mousse.


Or maybe you’ll while away the afternoon with the affable Dennis Murray of Colchagaua Valley’s Montes Winery, discussing something like a dozen wines in full view of the Apalta foothills,


then joining him on the patio of the estate’s own eatery, Café Alfredo, for more domestic cheeses—

which I heartily wish were more easily available in the States; they’re lovely, generally mild & creamy, buttery on 1 end & nutty on the other—as well as fine luncheon-style stuff like the salad with mixed lettuces, turkey, cream cheese & chive rolls, dried tomatoes, avocado & quail eggs plus honey-mustard dressing or the baguette with serrano ham, camembert, mushrooms & dried tomatoes,

delivered on adorable trays

in which you can see the reflection of your own glass of rosé, getting a tweak from a cherub.

Or maybe, just maybe, you & your cohorts—Wines of Chile‘s Sam Kass on the far left; Ariel Lacayo of New York’s Havana Alma de Cuba & master sommelier Alpana Singh on the right—will be joined in a Colchagua Valley grove by your hosts from Estampa,


who will proceed to furnish a soul-warming spread

of yet more local cheeses—these made by a group of nearby townswomen—along with crackers & nuts & salads,

smoked salmon & bread,

all centered around a pie of pork, corn & peppers

& followed by a platter of bananas, pears, kiwi & pepino melon with dulce de leche for dipping.

Now that’s what I call 42.

Dispatch from Boston 2010: No. 9 Park—Confession & Luxurious Penance

***Note to readers: After my epic jaunts to Chile & Boston this spring, I’ve got loads to show & tell—but rest assured I haven’t abandoned Denver! New posts on the local dining scene to come too.***

I have a confession to make that may ring scandalous to those who knew me back in Boston: in all my years of covering the dining scene there, I never ate a meal in the dining room at Barbara Lynch’s French-Italian institution No. 9 Park. Sure, I scarfed my share of eats at the bar, being among the early aficionados of the cocktail program started by then–bar manager John Gertsen (now running Drink, a more recent outpost of the Lynch empire). But I’d never had the full No. 9 experience until just a couple of weeks ago.

And what an experience it is.

Due to the ever-changing nature of the business, the tip-top tier of dining in Boston—as in most cities—includes only a handful of destinations that have been there for more than a few years: L’Espalier, Hamersley’s Bistro & Ken Oringer’s Clio all come to mind. And so does this subdued gem at the edge of the Common & the foot of the State House. How Lynch, like Oringer, manages to spread herself so frankly thin between a number of properties yet maintain such extraordinary quality at her flagship is anybody’s guess—her one-time boss Todd English couldn’t do it, that’s for sure—but I suspect it requires some combination of the knack for nurturing talent & tough, tight oversight.

In any case, the difference between running by rote & running smoothly is made clear here. No one at No. 9, FOH or BOH, seems to be operating on autopilot, no matter how long-established their routines may be; dedication to service & sharp attention to culinary detail are invariable. It’s incumbent upon the diner to dedicate him- or herself to attentiveness in kind; the critique most often leveled at this restaurant & many like it—that you pay out the nose for portions that barely pass your lips before they gone—is thus, I think, way off-base. If you’re using all 5 senses to take them in to the extent the food itself asks you to, you won’t leave wanting, physically or psychically. (Then again, if you must leave groaning to feel you got your wallet’s worth, just keep tearing into the French country rolls; the bread guy will wordlessly keep them coming—with excellent room-temp European butter, of course.)

Take the salade jardinière, artichoke en barigoule & nairagi (striped marlin) sashimi (not to mention the signature prune-stuffed gnocchi, already covered here).


Now, I’m really no firm believer in the idea that less is more (see: TAG); if there’s anything this blog as a whole goes to show, it’s that I can & all-too-often do put it away with reckless abandon. And at $19 a pop, the above appetizers indeed constitute a whole lot less for a whole lot more in the most mundane sense. But just look at them. There isn’t a tendril out of place, not a single ingredient that hasn’t been presented with the utmost care—from the radish slices so thin they’re translucent & the fresh green peas returned to their pod to the sculpted artichoke heart to the light-golden slivers of garlic. Of course, all that precision down to the last granule wouldn’t matter a whit if the granules themselves didn’t approach similar perfection in flavor. But they do. And when something’s near-perfect, 1 bite is enough—if, again, you’re taking it in complete consciousness & with all your heart. If, say, you spear that quail egg to watch the yolk spill out over the scraping of Green Goddess dressing, then swirl the single fiddlehead into the mixture before biting crisply into it. Or if you follow a morsel of the tender-as-butter heart with another of the carciofo fritto (creamily batter-fried artichoke) with a dip in the punchy salsa verde, comparing, contrasting. Or if you let that raw marlin (see here for another superb marlin crudo) just melt on your tongue for a moment, appreciating how its clean tang is only highlighted by just the tiniest touch of truffle vinaigrette & green garlic.

Not every dish warrants quite that much concentration. The pan-roasted tautog (a local white-fleshed wrasse), for instance,

though a lovely piece of fish, might actually—I never thought I’d say this—have been cut a little smaller to pinpoint its sea-delicacy, played against by earthy accompaniments—a spoonful of veal jus, thick fingerling coins & meaty porcini. A couple of bites in, I “got” it—criminy, was the kitchen at No. 9 Park actually teaching me, gimme gimme me, a lesson in the value of appreciation in the now over anticipation of the next? For the duration of the meal, at least, yes.

On the other end of the spectrum from the simply prepared tautog were the complex, rich guinea hen with foie en crépinette (essentially a liver sausage), cauliflower & black trumpets

& the (badly photographed; mea culpa) grilled pork belly with curls of fried skin, escargots & parsnips.

So much (but never too much) going on in both cases: the crisped, the glazed & the unctuous; the sweet & the pungent; the root & the flesh. For all the thrilling bells & whistles (that’s right, pork rinds!), it was the actually the meat of the hen that most caught my tongue: if I said it tasted pink, would I be understood in the deeply contented way intended—not, obviously, undercooked but rather rosy, spunkier than chicken, exactly like that of a fowl that scratches around in thickets & scrub?

I’d been sure I was going to end with a cheese plate—enthralled as I was whenever the cart rolled past us with all those wedges of blue-green & wheels of old gold & cylinders of wrinkled silver-gray from, no exaggeration, 1 of the world’s greatest cheese retailers in Cambridge—until the last moment, when the thought of black olive clafoutis with vanilla ice cream & Meyer lemon sorbet suddenly sounded so soul-soothing & palate-cleansing all at once.

And so it was; the fruit (which olives are, don’t forget—probably candied vanilla-poached here) adding a darker tang to the still warm, crunch-lidded custard than the more traditional cherries would have, enhanced by the garnish of port reduction but lightened by the scoops, especially of lemon.

Throughout it all, our server, Abby, young as she was, was a true pro—not just well-trained in terms of timing & graciousness but showing real talent in her ease with & enthusiasm about wine pairings.
The bill comes with gelatine di frutta & bite-size chocolate sandwich cookies.

Look, in the end, I’m not saying anything new about No. 9 Park here—just once more, with feeling. But that the place should inspire such feeling 12 years after opening its doors, in someone whose personal preferences & prejudices lead her to come-what-may places far more than gourmet landmarks, hopefully says a whole lot, unexpected or not.

No. 9 Park on Urbanspoon

Chile Photo Essay 6: Roadside Empanada Stand, somewhere in the Maipo Valley

Couldn’t tell you its name—maybe it didn’t have one—or its exact location if my life depended on it;

then again, there’d be worse ways to die than with visions of this ramshackle little roadside before my eyes. Check out those adobe ovens—front

& back—

& you begin to get an inkling of the marvels that were these typically giant empanadas de pino (beef, onion, egg & olives)

& these flat, flaky, charred yet still so soft dobladitas—a Google search for which yields mainly recipes using butter, but as long as I’m at it I’d bet my life yet again that these contained lard—
Roadside4 Roadside7

made all the more marvelous by a squirt of the vinegary hot sauce set at every table. Baguettes & croissants can suck it; Chilean baking’s where it’s at.

Dish of the Week: Prune-Stuffed Gnocchi, No. 9 Park

Last week, for the 1st time since the series launched in the fall, I didn’t name a Dish of the Week. It wasn’t for lack of nominees, believe you me. On the contrary, the embarrassment if not downright mortification of riches we encountered during the Bacchanalia that was our jaunt to Boston left me feeling all but helpless to choose. The same goes for this week, really; I could close my eyes & throw a dart at this post on Russell House Tavern or this one on Neptune Oyster, for instance, & come up with a winning candidate.

So I’ve decided to beg the question a bit by featuring not a new dish but a true classic. There isn’t a serious diner in the city who isn’t familiar with this longtime signature of Barbara Lynch’s powerhouse dining destination No. 9 Park (of which more to come)—& who, I wager, wouldn’t include it on a list of Boston’s all-time greatest dishes (along, perhaps, with pizza from the original Pizzeria Regina, Clio’s lobster & sea urchin cassolette, Oleana’s fried mussels with hot peppers & tarator sauce, oysters in black bean sauce at Peach Farm & so on).

And on May 3, 2010, the prune-stuffed gnocchi with foie gras, vin santo & toasted almonds proved every bit as extraordinary as it did the 1st time I tried it some 8 or 9 years ago,

as impossibly luscious in flavor as it is uncannily silken, almost delicate, texturally.

Famous as this luxury item is, however, not a lot of people seem to know it’s actually inspired by a humble snack from Fruili–Venezia Giulia: gnocchi di prugne can be found throughout the streets of Trieste, the cuisine & architecture of which strikingly reflects its Austro-Hungarian legacy. Pulling one out of a paper bag from a bakery & biting into it in a sunny piazza one morning a decade ago in that remarkable city remains among my dearest & most revelatory (not to mention stickiest) culinary experiences—so the chance to relive it, albeit in decidedly more extravagant fashion, at No. 9 Park is always a thrill.

Dispatch from Boston 2010: Neptune Oyster’s Michael Serpa Is David Nevins’ & My Love Child

The Director & I have an understanding that the Chowhound part of my heart belongs to David Nevins. The original chef of Neptune Oyster left Boston at roughly the same time I did to open Osetra Sono in Connecticut, leaving in turn a void for the place I’d call my own that no place since has ever filled.

Upon our first return to my old stomping (sometimes slurping, sometimes lurching) grounds in the North End a couple of years ago, I feared Neptune itself couldn’t quite fill it anymore; Nevins replacement Nate Nagy’s cooking, though technically every bit as proficient, just wasn’t, well, Nevins’ cooking. Upon our second a year later, Nagy’d come into his intelligent own, & Neptune felt exactly like home again.

And yet with the installment of Michael Serpa in the kitchen still another year hence, I suddenly got the weird magical sense that Nevins was back home where he belonged, at Neptune with me, in the form of our spiritual love child. Serpa may have “parents” & “a life” & his own way of doing things, but he’s got our twinned soul. I could see it, feel it, taste it in every bite I took on our, er, 3rd & 4th back-to-back return visits.

And there were a whole, whole, whole lot of bites.

Like the grandaddy of all New England oysters, Wellfleets, at 1 o’clock, followed clockwise by Summersides & Kusshis (which are hot these days, though I have to admit I prefer the similar but sweeter Kumamotos), plus the oyster crackers I can never stop popping no matter how much grub lies ahead.

Or the incredible welcome home I got in the form of diced scallops atop cornbread so dense & honeyed it was almost blondie-like, along with rhubarb mostarda & caviar—a dish in the classic Neptune style, composed of startling, intensely luscious juxtapositions.

Lighter & less classically Neptunian but no less satisfying was another off-menu amuse derived from an on-menu appetizer: generous slices of hamachi with bright mint kimchi, cucumber, lime & spiced sea salt,

which we liked so much we tried it in the form of tartare upon our return.

Crudo specials change constantly, but if you hurry, you might yet catch the blue marlin tartare with sweet pea yogurt, mint & olive oil. Raw marlin tastes raw in the figurative as much as the literal sense: raw, deep & elemental. It’s eye-opening.

To say that the PEI mussels in red curry broth didn’t trump my all-time favorite mussel preparation at Neptune—basically an extravagant robiola-shellfish soup from 3 years back—isn’t to say it isn’t delicious, with cashews adding an unexpected flourish.


Many a meal here with the Director has been entirely & happily composed of appetizers. But when I found out he was a softshell crab virgin, there was no way I was going to let the opportunity to pop that particular crustacaean-based cherry & turn him into an ooh softshell crab lovah pass.

Sure enough, he should’ve gotten a room with what was basically an insane crab sandwich, thickly stuffed with tuna tartare & in turn sandwiched between mounds of avocado salad. The 1 bite I managed to swipe practically from between his lips was pure creamy-crunchy luxury, though. Take that, Double Down.


And as long as he was going all the way, I figured I might as well indulge in roasted striped bass over suckling pig hash & sauteed squid. Again, classic Neptune, the wildly original combination of fish & meat, the smart balance between creamy elements & fresh herbs—undeniably rich but never merely rich.

Which, speaking of calamari, brings me to another atypically simple special: grilled calamari salad. In less capable hands it might have been boring; in Serpa’s, the squid, tossed in black olive vinaigrette, just melted with complex flavor.

Much as the menu changes, there are a few signatures without a taste of which no trip to Neptune—hell, no trip to Boston—is complete. This time I had to revisit the vitello tonnato sandwich.


On the one hand, every time I have the two-hander composed of brioche piled high with roast veal, tuna tartare, cucumber salad & spicy mustard—accompanied by mwah! perfect crispy fries—I kinda can’t help but wonder what it would be like slathered with the traditional sauce, essentially a tuna-anchovy-caper mayo; on the other hand, I appreciate how damned inspired the modern update is. I just happen to be slavishly fond of creamy shit.

Like the highly pickled housemade tartar sauce that comes with the fried Ipswich clams. Of the 20 or so orders I’ve had over the course of Neptune’s 5 years in business, they’ve never been anything but expert, equal parts greaseless, well-seasoned breading to funky-sweet clam.

Looking at the photos, I’m practically tearing up. I already can’t wait to go back to see what my boy Serpa will come up with next! Couldn’t be a prouder imaginary mama.

Neptune Oyster on Urbanspoon

Dispatch from Boston 2010: The Makings of a Neo-Classic—Russell House Tavern

Diamond in the rough: that’s been the position of chef Michael Scelfo for years. From the North Street Grille to The Good Life to Temple Bar, he was the bright—& occasionally, if circumstances allowed, downright brilliant—spot against some rather dull backdrops.

At Russell House Tavern, he’s finally landed in the showease setting he deserves. Open only a few weeks, the subterranean dining room already feels like the right place at the right time—urbane yet convivial with its high ceilings, low warm lighting, clean lines, & sleek gleaming wood & marble surfaces. And the menu is just the right thing for the right place at the right time: running from New England raw bar to wine bar to gastropub & back again, the spectrum as a whole is characteristically Scelfo’s: as playful, colorful, & robust as contemporary American cuisine can get without sacrificing refinement.

Cases in point: the chilled lobster pot

& the butcher’s choice pizza.


We were advised to thoroughly mix the contents of the former to get the full effect: not only fresh lobster meat but also brunoise diced potatoes, chorizo aioli & crunchy cornbread crumbs. I’m one of those weirdos who considers lobster overrated as an in-the-shell delicacy & underrated as a team player, & this dish proves my point deliciously, the crustacean’s creamy sea-sweetness combining so well with the salty & earthy aspects of the rest. If you think about it—shellfish, corn, potatoes, sausage—it’s essentially an inspired mini–lobster bake.

As for the pizza—oh, the pizza. Atop an unusual, almost layered & flaky crust—less like classic pizza dough & more like a pâte brisée or something—were fontina, mushrooms (cremini? porcini?), & crispy chunks of, be still my engorged heart, smoked, cured lamb belly. Irresistibly bold, the smoky tinges kept it from seeming overly rich.

And that’s really the key to the style of all my favorite chefs ever, from David Nevins, José Duarte, Ana Sortun & Jamie Bissonnette back east to Frank Bonanno, Scott Parker & Pete List in Denver (to name just a few)—no one would call their cooking subtle, but no one can deny how carefully they balance the strong flavors they favor.

So the serrano ham—grilled, I think—is accented with pickled pears & manchego bruléed with honey.

And so the charcuterie board smartly varies from salami & house-cured duck ham to a distinctly spicy, prosciutto-wrapped pâté de campagne, pork rillettes & some of the best chicken liver spread, sweetened with marsala, I’ve ever had. Put it on toast with the honeyed fig jam (top left),



& it all goes down like a PB&J.

A round of brioche surrounded by pecorino aioli & topped with a breaded, perfectly poached egg & bits of pancetta

might well have been too luscious for more than a bite or two if not for the chiffonade of greens that gave the dish a refreshing, bitter edge.

Ditto the fresh peas & grilled ramps in the hearth-baked pasta (conchiglie with fontina & breadcrumbs).

It was great to see so much Colorado lamb on Boston menus; the Director’s slow-braised shank with smoked lamb breast & stewed black lentils was great, period. As dark as it looks in the photo, that’s how it tasted—deep, dark & soulful.

Scelfo’s take on Chinese salt-&-pepper shrimp was also terrific—heavier than the standard, but rightly, IMO, given that he uses especially sweet, plump Laughing Birds & pairs them with Tabasco aioli.

I was too painfully full to even try the short rib Wellington,
RHshrimp RHwellington

but somehow managed to shove down a bite of the highly textured, nicely tart semolina-yogurt cake with basil.

As an early proponent of Scelfo’s, I’m just so damn glad to see him making his mark so with such confidence, grace & pizzazz.

Russell House Tavern on Urbanspoon

Dirty Laundry List Con’t.: Every Other Single Thing I Tasted on My Trip to Boston (+ a Shout Out to the Chefs I Missed on This Merry-Go-Round)

Of course I’ll be flashing some photos & spilling my guts out (almost literally at this point) to provide specifics in the next few weeks—but just to finish the really rather appallingly gluttonous nonsense that started here:


aged edam…
…w/ crackers
horseradish-leek cheese spread w/ French bread
grilled cipolline & mushrooms
marinated cucumber salad
oysters on the half-shell (again)
oyster crackers (again)
fried clams w/ tartar sauce
hamachi tartare w/ mint kimchi, cucumber & lime (again)
grilled calamari salad
vitello tonnato sandwich w/ fries
braised baby octopus w/ acini di pepe
charcuterie board
serrano ham on toasts w/ honey-torched manchego
chilled lobster pot w/ potato-chorizo aioli & crushed corn crumbs
crispy soft poached egg on brioche w/ pancetta
pizza w/ smoked lamb belly, fontina & mushrooms
salt & pepper shrimp w/ Tabasco aioli
baked pasta w fontina, peas & grilled ramps
braised lamb shank w/ smoked lamb breast & black lentils
carmenere x2
Gran Sasso Pecorino Terre di Chieti (a totally new-to-me Italian white) x2
brut rosé
vinho verde x2
sauvignon blanc
Westport Rivers rosé
meritage x2
cappuccino x2

Thanks for the above to Deluca’s Market, Neptune Oyster, Poe’s Kitchen & Russell House Tavern—& to all who make me feel so loved & appreciated in Boston. You know who you are, family/friends/chefs/bartenders/servers; you’re already missed.

And as for you, Myers + Chang, Jamie Bissonnette of Coppa, & dear José Duarte of Taranta—I’ll see you, or at least your food, next time.

Dirty Laundry List: Every Single Thing I’ve Tasted in Boston Since My Arrival on Saturday

In case my people back in Denver were wondering where I’ve been at:

oyster crackers
oysters on the 1/2 shell
cornbread w/ scallops, rhubarb mostarda & caviar
hamachi w/ mint kimchi, cucumber & lime
blue marlin crudo
mussels in red curry
striped bass with suckling pig hash & sauteed squid
softshell crabs with tuna tartare
bread w/ white bean spread
mixed greens w/ shaved grana padano
lobster broth w/ whelks
morels sauteed w/ ramps
spaghi w/ sea urchin & bottarga
fettuccine w/ rabbit
gnocchi all’amatriciana
wild boar w/ Concord grape mosto
fig-apricot gelato
wildflower honey panna cotta
lobster spoons w/ avocado & black pepper-lavender essence
grilled cornbread w/ Guadalajara butter & Hatch chiles
grilled artichokes w/ freeze-dried corn-crab dip
baked brie empanada w/ morel vinaigrette
scallop tacos
chicken tacos
fish tacos
dessert nachos w/ cheesecake & berries
steak tartare
french fries
French bread w/ butter
pickled carrots
tarte flambée
Caesar salad w/ shrimp
salad jardinière w/quail egg & green goddess
artichoke en barigoule
prune gnocchi w/foie gras
nairagi sashimi w/green garlic & truffle vinaigrette
tautog w/ fingerlings & cepes
guinea hen w/ foie en crepinette & black trumpets
black olive clafoutis w/ vanilla ice cream & Meyer lemon sorbet
marinated white anchovies
crab-squid salad w/ polenta
cocoa tagliatelle w/ porcini
mushroom, garlic & fontina bruschetta
prosecco x2
vinho verde x2
lambrusco rosso
soave x3
amari x3
Campari x4
sauvignon blanc x3
rosé x2
fino sherry
Veuve Cliquot demi-sec
insolia-grecanico blend
pinot noir
brachetto d’acqui

…& I’ve still got a day & a half to go. Thanks, Neptune Oyster, Erbaluce, Poe’s Kitchen, Brasserie Jo, Russell House Tavern, No. 9 Park, Bin 26 & places yet to be foreseen!

UPDATE: List continues & concludes here.

Call it Itale, call it Chily: Pasta e Vino, Valparaiso

Occupying a sliver of coastline & the hillside beyond, all bar-lined beaches & rickety funiculars, ultracolorful Valparaiso reminded me a lot of the funkier villages along the Mediterranean coast of Italy—your Positanos, your Camoglis—only a little more urban & a little more rural at the same time, what with a downtown strip on the 1 hand &, on the other, a cacaphony of stray dogs barking & roosters crowing all the livelong day.


So the fact that one of the city’s best-loved restaurants, Pasta e Vino, happens to be Italian—but for the all-Chilean wine list, that is—seems fully well & good.

Minimalist as the tiny space is, constantly packed from the dining room


to the kitchen itself,

the vibrant, luscious food is anything but, starting with an excellent bread basket filled with herbed ciabatta & carta di musica–like flatbread

& an amuse of sesame-honey chorizo.

Each dish being beyond critique, the captioned pics thereof should say it all:

gorgeous salmon & reineta carpaccio with capers, cress & lemon juice

shrimp with merquén (smoked ground chiles) & crostini

cream-sauced phyllo stuffed with red peppers,

in turn stuffed with shrimp & goat cheese

fettuccine with smoked ham & lemon-Sauvignon Blanc cream

fettuccine with crudo ham, walnuts & honey in a parmesan sauce

squid-ink pappardelle with frutti di mare in white wine

& what was probably my favorite, the strikingly innovative squid-ink ravioli over spinach & cream, stuffed with smoked salmon, & topped with queso fresco & curry, of all things,

cooked until it was almost dry—more a heady spice mash than a sauce.

I was so stuffed I couldn’t see straight, & even so I kept lusting after all my group of 5 had neither table space nor gut room for: gnocchi with king crab, shrimp & caviar; fettuccine with mozzarella, roquefort & mushrooms; ravioli with parmesan, wedge clams & white wine…sigh. There’s my review: just sigh.