It’s hard to write about good food without sounding like a manifestly pretentious jackass. But, I am going to do it anyway.
Yesterday, I had lunch at a restaurant called Blue Hill at Stone Barns. Picturesquely situated on an 88-acre organic farm, the restaurant—a series of carefully renovated stone barns—looks like it’s been plucked off a hillside in southern France, and serenely nestled in rural New York.
There was something distinctly Jurassic Park-like about the whole scene. A controlled, self-sustaining habitat with exotic animals and vegetation, complete with restaurant and gift shop, uniformed staff, logo-emblazoned golf carts, and electric fences (albeit with slightly less voltage.) And although it was missing hotties like Jeff Goldblum (yeah, I think he’s sexy) and Sam Neil, there was no shortage of tan, tank-top-clad men raking and weeding and generally looking like they were cast as “Brawny Farmhand 1 and 2.”
I think I was the only one who found the calculated calm a little eerie. But on the flip side, that same near-meditative consideration was given to the meal I had there—which, I think, will remain one of the most thoughtful of my life.
We were seated in a private room overlooking the fields (where chefs in white jackets were harvesting their selections for dinner). Our glasses were filled with an ice tea made from fresh herbs—chamomile and three kinds of mint: pineapple, orange, and lemon. It tasted heady and aromatic, simultaneously homey and yet vaguely exotic.
I could have peaced after the tea and been a pretty happy camper, it was that good. But, lunch was served. In elegant synchronization (perhaps too much so for a farmhouse), large, square white plates were placed in front of us, each with a meticulously arranged dish in the four corners.
On the bottom right was a cracked wheat and quinoa salad with corn, cherry tomatoes, and pistachios crowned with sautéed green and yellow summer beans. To the right of the salad were four pieces of handmade charcuterie: chorizo, mortadella, bresaola, and bologna (I don’t know what Oscar Meyer thinks he’s doing, but it ain’t this.)
In the upper right corner of the plate was a chilled corn soup—smooth, creamy, sweet, refreshing, and unsettlingly perfumey—whose only ingredient, we were told, was corn. I couldn’t reconcile the complexity of flavor I was experiencing with what I have on file in my brain as “corn.” And the more I ate it, the more unnamable it became. So deliciously maddening and alluring, this soup was the pinnacle of the meal.
Finally, in the upper left hand corner of the plate was a trio of cheeses from Vermont with a single dollop of honeycomb and a candied pecan. Eaten together with the warm, crusty, whole-grain bread on the table—the flavors didn’t just marry well together, they were about ready to run off to a polygamist compound in Utah. I also consumed an inappropriate amount of the same warm bread slathered with fresh butter, which was, of course, served at the perfect temperature on rustic slate coasters—the aesthetics of which I was immediately obsessed with. (Too bad the coasters were 50 bucks in the gift shop.)
For dessert, I sunk my spoon into grilled corn ice cream with peaches and blueberries situated on a homemade graham cracker and drizzled with a vanilla-olive oil sauce. It was so good that I spent approximately 10 minutes politely running my spoon over the melty remnants of it and licking it over and over again, trying so hard to maintain some sense of decorum and refrain from sticking my face into the bowl and tonguing it clean. The meal ended on the simplest of notes with impeccable pieces of ripe, sweet nectarines impaled on nails sticking out of a board—like the heads of Louis XIII’s ill-fated enemies.
The meal, like parts of the farm, felt a little fussy in its presentation, but the food itself was actually rather simple. It was like a culinary jazz band—great together, but it’s success, it’s wow-factor, lay in letting the best ingredients take turns having their solo.
As I read this, I’m literally drooling on the keys of my laptop. I just finished breakfast. We had a couple pieces of dry white bread and some overripe bananas, the leftovers of which are now in a plastic bag hanging from a nail in our hut so the ants and lake flies don’t get to it. Well at least there’s one similarity between these meals – things impaled on nails!
Last night, we had our first dinner out in town. We went to a local place down the street, recommended by some Malawian friends. I was a little apprehensive – the place they suggested was attached to a family-owned grocery store and the fluorescent light gleaming off the mirrored walls was quite literally blinding. We ignored the warnings
of the English guest house owner who jokingly told us we only had ourselves to blame if we became ill. I took this as a challenge.
The faces of the restaurant owner, the waiter and the cook positively lit up when we entered the restaurant. “You are most welcome!” they said and genuinely meant it (A+ for customer service). We had a look at the laminated menu, the options were few. I like that. I can’t stand eight-page diner menus – how on earth are you supposed to decide? We perused for a moment, but ultimately decided on ¼ chicken, beans and rice for Andy and chicken stew and rice for me. We sat outside on plastic lawn chairs under a little umbrella while we waited for our food to arrive. Our waiter came out with fruit-themed plastic placemats circa 1987. I thought this was sweet.
Andy’s food arrived first. A chargrilled ¼ chicken (plump and juicy), a perfectly cooked, generous portion of white rice, a bowl of well-seasoned kideny beans and a cabbage based salad, bonus! My chicken looked equally appetising. The piece of chicken was small but it had clearly been simmered for many hours in a tomato based sauce, more like a liquid – it shimmered. Liquid gold. I poured this over my rice and tucked into the chicken with my bare hands! Andy marveled over the perfection of his chicken – far superior, he said, to peri-peri type chicken he’d had at home. We left feeling incredibly full and completely satisfied. We passed our compliments to the chef who was grinning from ear to ear.
Needless to say, we’ll be going back. Oh, and did I mention the price? About three bucks.
I appreciate the occasional multi-coursed food-as-entertainment/food-as-statement meal. Much like high fashion, it surely serves a purpose. We know that what starts at the top often trickles down. In the beginning, for example, the Molten Chocolate Cake made a splash on dessert menus like Jean George. Eventually it erupted onto the mainstream restaurant scene. It’s finally puddled at Sonic in the form of a molten-fudge bundt cake sundae. Fortunately some food fashion stays on the rack. At least I don’t think I’ve seen a foam-napped fish fillet sandwich.
Still, I like these kinds of restaurants in the same way I enjoy our yearly summer trek to Hershey Park. I appreciate the vision, the organization, the inspiration, the spectacle, the charisma of the place. But at the end of the day (usually much sooner than our planned departure time), I’m ready to go.
Even though I’m usually sharing the experience with people I know, in the end I find myself feeling strangely alone. Because the food rightfully demands to be analyzed, rhapsodized, and deconstructed, we’re in relationship with it instead of one another. Disjointed conversation between courses, it’s like a cocktail party where one talks and never connects. By day’s end I’m ready to head home, share a meal, and really talk about the experience.
Although you know it’s true: I’d follow anybody just about anywhere for a taste of those Vermont cheeses, whole grain bread, and honeycomb. Now that’s a ménage a trios I could get into.
Sharon, I literally laughed out loud reading your post. Somehow, the idea of polygamist food is giggle-worthy.
This food sounds absolutely fantastic. And honestly, I think the eerieness you felt is instigated by far too many Hollywood scary movie screenings. Hollywood teaches us we should fear the tranquil!
Take me to this place some day, please? We’ll have a girly day out when Maggy gets home!
The site is looking amazing, my fabulous friends!
I solemnly admit genuine disappointment regarding the failed acquisition of the slate coasters. Next time try a 5 finger discount. The ostensibly ‘experiemental’ nature of this eating establishment left me hollow, hoping for delectable creations involving braised 3 eyed creatures, their steamed organic ray guns, perhaps even a cosmic flower drizzled with rare invisible fluids, availble only on intergalactic black markets.
I’ll take Farmhand #1 over Jeff Goldblum any day.
Loving the site! Congrats guys!
Grilled corn ice cream?! Bizarre, but John came to visit a few weeks back and brought homemade corn ice cream… which everyone but him declared pretty much gross. I still have most of a pint left. How did they make theirs good?
This restaurant apparently also uses local potatoes — http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/14/dining/14spuds.html — created at Cornell, grown in New York State.