OpenTable: the end of the reservation dance

I like to plan. For better or worse, I feel more comfortable about a situation if I know some of the variables are taken care of. Maybe it's fear of the unknown. Maybe my three months of Girl Scout involvement left an indelible "be prepared"-ness on my psyche.

Luckily, when it comes to food, I have help.

We've been signed up for OpenTable since early 2004, and it's our first reference for any dining-out decision. This browser-based system allows the user to check out restaurants in advance and make reservations online.

For us, this is heaven: we can decide what time we want to eat, see which restos have availability, view their menus, and--click!--reserve a two-top.

How perfect is that? No trying to remember the name of that Cambodian place, you know, with the great lime-chicken soup. No falling back on the same restaurants over and over because you can't think of anywhere new. And best of all, no need to call half a dozen restos and do the reservation dance: "So do you have anything for 8:30 instead? Well, how about 9? 9:30?"

The system generates an email with confirmation, directions and parking details. You can send an invitation to others in your party. You can even arrange for flowers to await your date on the evening, if you're into that kind of thing.

When you show up for your meal, you're automatically awarded dining points (100 is the usual amount, though some places offer 1,000 if you book an off-peak time) that add to an overall total you exchange for a gift certificate ($10 per thousand points) redeemable at any resto on the system. A small incentive, but a nice one.

And OT's international scope means we can see what's going on in other cities. So if we're planning a trip to NYC, or Montreal, or London, we can scope out the options and book ahead. It pleases me to know there's a table at Union Square Cafe with my name on it.

Of course, OpenTable isn't a one-way street; it would be crazy to have all that customer data floating around uncorralled and unused. For the restaurants themselves, OT is a great business management system. It allows them to track the flow of traffic, create marketing campaigns and--big savings--have the diners themselves, rather than an employee, take care of the reservations.

Another feature of the system is its function as a customer relationship management tool.

Apparently.

Both the OT website and a piece in April's Boston Magazine note that the wealth of diner data allows restaurants to keep track of what customers have ordered on past visits; whether they're regulars; when they celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. This info can then be used to provide (according to BoMag) "exceptional customer service," making people feel welcome, remembered, special.

Apparently.

Maybe most restaurants don't yet feel the need to employ this aspect of the system. Maybe we're not eating at the kinds of places that include personalization in their philosophy of the customer experience. Or maybe maitre d's take one look at us and assume we're not worth the bother (always a possibility).

But in three years of booking through OT, we have yet to meet the waiter who acknowledges our return, offers us the cocktail we ordered last time, comments on the availability of the dessert we enjoyed so much.

The BoMag piece especially concerns me, as it gives the impression that a high level of CRM happens as a matter of course at every resto. Will this lead to a flurry of frustration, as people who sign up for the system with visions of VIP treatment find themselves handled like any other anonymous diner? And how will that affect their perception of the (blissfully unaware) restaurant?

For us, at least, there is a place where the waitstaff know us; where the owner will come over and discuss the origins of the week's special; where they ask when we'll next be coming in for breakfast.

But that's Tu y Yo. We walk over there every other week. And they don't even take reservations.

Beard Papa's: you can't eat just one

How have I gone this long without mentioning the bestest sweet pastry in the entire world?

(Okay, maybe that's hyperbole, in which case I'm prepared to be fed alternatives until I recant. Bring it.)

We first heard about Beard Papa's from Richard and Heather, whose enjoyment of all things edible (and enviable location in Manhattan) mean they're excellent heralds for new food discoveries. While visiting them a few years ago, they mentioned their latest find.

"It's this little storefront in Astor Place," said Richard. "You go in and the whole store is bright yellow. It's like a Japanese cartoon. And they have these cream puffs ... they're amazing. Real vanilla cream, and they fill them to order. I've never tasted anything like it."

"Sounds worth a trip," said The Boy. "Maybe we'll stop by tomorrow and get one."

Heather laughed. "One? One? No. You can't just get one. You need at least two. Trust me."

So the next day, after an almost-authentic, overpriced fish 'n' chips lunch at A Salt and Battery in Greenwich Village, we wandered toward Broadway and almost walked past our destination; luckily, the Captain Birdseye logo caught my attention, and we hustled inside.

The selection of treats is quite varied: everything from the puffs (filled with strawberry, chocolate, green tea or earl grey cream, as well as vanilla) to molten chocolate cakes to mango shaved ice. But we'd been instructed to go straight for the original. So we did. Two each, of course.



Real flavor indeed!

The puffs are baked ahead, and then filled while you wait, so there's no time for the choux pastry to get soggy; it's incredibly light and delicate, yet strong enough to hold the filling without falling apart.

And the filling ... ('scuse me while I pause reverently) ... creamy, smooth and thick, but not overly rich or heavy. It's sweet without being overpowering, just enough vanilla to define the flavor withough being strident, and the dusting of powdered sugar on top of the pastry adds an extra edge of sweetness.

As it turns out, Heather was right: it's very important to get two. The first one is so damn good that the only thing to do is cram it into your mouth and revel in the experience. (Be aware that you will roll your eyes heavenward and make noises considered inappropriate in public.)

Once the heady decadence has subsided, the second puff gets more careful scrutiny, with closer inspection of the filling with its tiny black flecks of vanilla bean. And then it quickly disappears the way of the first.

I assume the name comes from the French barbe à papa, which translates as "father's beard" but means cotton candy (which translates to English as "candy floss"), rather than from the French children's series about an amorphous shapeshifting family.

But where, I hear you asking, where oh where can I experience this for myself? If you're in California, Manhattan or Hawaii, you have the choice of numerous locations.

If you live in Massachusetts, there's only one location: the Faneuil Hall food court.

Go now. Go! Run! Hurry!

Spring has sprung

Two years ago in fall, we planted some 100 spring bulbs: tulips and daffs in the borders and a heapin' helpin' of crocuseseses in the lawn.

This week, the first of the crocs showed their happy yellow heads. And even though we haven't had a particularly brutal winter, I still can't help but feel a sense of relief that it's almost over.

Panic! At the cheeseshop

After lunch, the plan was to wander through the back streets of Soho and end up somewhere near Seven Dials (where, I was convinced, I'd find some lovely little thing to wear, which I didn't).

Unfortunately, my sense of direction was slightly off (uncalibrated by too many noodles, no doubt), and we ended up on streets I didn't recognize until suddenly we were on Piccadilly, perfectly positioned to dip into Fortnum and Masons.

We probably would have been more impressed had we not already been dazzled by Selfridges (on top of which, most visitors were evidently tourists picking up souvenir teabags and elaborately decorated Easter candy). And while there's an extensive produce/charcuterie department in the basement (goose eggs, entire sides of jamon serrano, mangoes bigger and more aromatic than any found at WholeFoods), there weren't many customers; one had to wonder how often the contents of the olive bar were refreshed.

From FoMa we strolled through Picadilly Circus and Leicester Square (where people were already gathering for the exciting premiere of The 300), down St Martin's Lane and through Covent Garden to Neal's Yard Dairy.

I'd been wanting to check this out for a while; but somehow I'd assumed it was more like a supermarket cheese department, with stuff you can pick up and stuff you can smell. Instead, it's a dark, narrow store, half taken up by a long counter piled high with wheels and wedges, behind which stand a half-dozen white-coated cheesemongers ready to answer all manner of rennet-related questions.

As I'd been hoping to browse, and as the line moved quickly (despite the fact that everyone was being offered multiple samples of whatever the cheese guys had on the end of their knife), I wasn't quite ready to order when it came to our turn. So I kind of panicked and said, "Ummm ... give me something I've never tasted before," hoping to buy some time.

Without hesitation, Cheeseman bent over and took a generous slice from a pale wedge. "Unpasteurized goat's milk," he said, holding out the knife, "thickened with thistle, rather than rennet."

It was creamy, mild, with a delicate caramel note. We took a quarter-pound (and then had to hurriedly figure out how to translate £37 a kilo into old-school weights and measures). Our chunk o' cheez turned out to be just over £3 (or $6, which we'd hesitate over only momentarily in WholeFoods).

The only problem is, I cannot for the life of me remember what it was called. Cardo? Crodo? Corolla? Extensive Googling(™) has yielded no clues. So if anyone can help out, please do!

Wagamama

Exploring the Selfridge's food court made us hungry. Luckily, we were just around the corner from the Wagamama on Wigmore Street.

The look and feel of this Japanese restaurant chain is sleek, clean, modern: open, airy and well-lit, with white walls and beechwood tables and a stainless-steel open kitchen running the length of the space. Dining is communal, which means you're seated family-style wherever there is space at the long tables.

You know, of course, how I feel about being unnecessarily close to my fellow diners; I prefer my food to come without a side-dish of unavoidable eavesdropping. Luckily, the overall noise level in the place is so high that we could hardly hear what our waitron was saying, never mind the people next to us.

As a rule, there's enough space for everyone--unless, as was The Boy's experience, your neighbor decides to dump all her shopping on the bench between you, thereby leaving you with just enough space for half yer bum.

Oh, yeah, the food. The menu (PDF) is big on freshness and value, with interesting choices like duck-and-leek gyoza and grilled asparagus with chili garlic salt. Big bowls of noodles and soup and rice dishes with lots of color and texture.

When I lived in London and was a Wagamama regular, I always went for the cha han (stir-fried rice topped with chicken breast) but this time I eschewed nostalgia for the yasai yaki soba, an oversized helping of wholewheat noodles with crunchy fresh peppers, scallions, beansprouts and butternut squash topped with pickled ginger. The Boy chose the chicken katsu curry, which involved panko-breaded chicken breast with a generous scoop of sticky rice and a sweet, mild curry sauce (plated with the rice on top of the chicken, rather than the other way around).

Wagamama is due to open its first US franchise on April 23 in Faneuil Hall (in the space that used to be Rustic Kitchen), with another branch in Harvard Square later in the year.



I don't doubt they'll do well.

Exploring Selfridges

Thursday was supposed to be the day we stumbled back to Julie's laden down with shopping bags and hat-boxes, having conquered the West End's retail cornucopia. But on that front we were unsuccessful; a combination of the horribly weak dollar (which meant I had to double the price of everything to convert it to US currency--yikes!) and the terribly '80s-revival fashions (which meant the racks were full of loose tunics, baggy sweaters and a-line dresses--eep!).

So apart from the lovely cropped jacket my mom had insisted on buying me from M&S ("put your purse away"/"no, I'll get this"), I didn't come home with a wearable souvenir this time.

Of course, that's not to say we didn't have fun wandering around Selfridges (oh, the kitchen department with its Andy Warhol tea cosies! Oh, the Agent Provocateur concession with its tiny lacy confections and its platinum-blonde salesgirl in tiny nurse's uniform! Oh, oh, the food court with its homemade merguez and whole rabbits and smoked eel! And its Yo! Sushi conveyor-belt counter and its pie bar, among other dining options!).



Oh look, it's lunchtime ...

The world is turning to brick

Just had to share this: while looking for info about Gilbert and George, I found a section of Liverpool's Walker Art Gallery site in which modern art (and modern artists) are recreated in Lego.

Especially of note are Dali's Lobster Telephone and Damien Hirst's Shark Tank.

A nice alternative to the Lego Bible ...

Gilbert and George and me

As much fun as the slides were, playtime wasn't our only reason for visiting the Tate Modern; we wanted to check out the Gilbert and George retrospective.

The exhibit is ... encyclopaedic. Apparently it's only about one fifth of their entire catalog, and features works from various stages of their 40-year career, including the invitation to watch them (together with David Hockney) being served dinner by a butler; their group portraits of teenage boys in very '80s fashions; their discovery of the wonders of computer imaging (which allows them to manipulate their photographs to dramatic effect); and their multiple works in response to the London bombings.

And while their oversized creations are vivid and bold, almost yelling for attention, they're also (to this untrained art critic, at least) largely devoid of emotion. Each piece, even the latter group, seems so carefully planned, so meticulously executed, that it feels static, clinical, distant.

Yes, their works have Christian symbolism, bodily fluids, nudity, but none of these (even in combination) provoke visceral reactions; if they were intended to wake up the viewer, shock them into consciousness, they miss the mark. And because there's no sense of humor or irony in most of the works, there's nothing universal with which to connect; no sense of recognition that G&G live in the same world as the viewer.

Maybe this is understandable. G&G's brand is largely based on an almost outmoded sense of formality and repetition--they rarely appear in public in anything other than suits; they dine at the same restaurant every day--and that almost mechanical, rote approach, applied to their work, seems to allow no room for essential humanity.

Maybe I just don't understand how one could live in London and not explore the enormous variety of places to eat.

Or maybe my reaction was the result of seeing so much of their output in one place (the exhibit covered the entire fourth floor of the museum). An hour of oversized frames filled with faces/roses/crosses/penises (while G&G, in suits/tightie-whities/nothing at all, look on in fear/lust/reverence/silent admonition) was enough. Maybe too much.

By comparison, it wasn't until we went to the Minimalism exhibition at the Guggenheim a couple of years ago that I began to understand the form; seeing so much minimalist art in one place brought it into context. Ironic, really.

Modern art: wheeeee!

Wednesday was Tate Modern day. We walked from Julie's house down to the Thames and took a boat upriver.

The TM used to be a power plant, which explains why the main hall is 115 feet high and 500 feet long (and is known as Turbine Hall). That's a tough space to fill; there are few pieces of art that could live comfortably in such an area without being overwhelmed by the building itself.

So what better than a whole bunch of slides?

Carsten Höller's installation, Test Site, is exactly the kind of art you could never hope to find in the US, as it involves encouraging people to send themselves hurtling through enclosed steel-and-plastic tubes.



We elected not to try the tallest version, which started up on the fifth floor (partly because you needed tickets, but mostly because of the almost-vertical drop after the first turn), and instead opted for the shortest slide (which was a relatively safe twenty-foot drop).

Check out video of the slides--it's just like being there! Except safer!

Two hours in London

On Tuesday morning, we hopped a flight from Teesside down to London, to stay with my bestest and oldest friend Julie. As we had a couple of hours to spare before meeting up with her, we took the Tube into the city and went straight to the British Museum, where we could store our luggage and take a leisurely stroll around the collections.

I used to live and work right next door, in Russell Square, so the BM was a regular haunt, but I'd only been back once since they moved the British Library out and added the new atrium around the Reading Room.



One of the nicest discoveries was that they've kept the original shelves and display cabinets of the King's Library, and are now using them to exhibit items other than books. It's not always the most graceful use of the space--plates and artwork and miniature gamelan instruments on dark wood, behind glass--but it feels more random and fun, like the collection of some eccentric aristocrat (or, as is the case, of many eccentric aristocrats).

As we were entering the building, a Ghanian Agbekor drum ensemble was setting up their instruments. When we heard them start up later, we went back outside to check out their performance (thunderous, complex and rockin') and found policemen holding back the crowd of onlookers. "How strange," we thought, "and anyway, why would they set up in a place that's guaranteed to make people stop and block the entrance?"

Um, maybe because they weren't playing for the crowd, but to welcome a large group of dignitaries who'd arrived to check out an exhibit of Ghanian textiles. The obvious focus of attention was a broad-shouldered man in military dress uniform: scarlet jacket with gold tassels. The words "benevolent dictator" kept coming to mind. Still haven't figured out who he was.

But it reminded me that this sort of stuff is always happening in London, and you can stumble across it without even meaning to.

Sunday breakfast, Sunday lunch

Necessity dictated a big ol' fry-up for breakast and my dad came through with the real deal: bacon, fried potato, thick wedges of peppery black pudding, grilled tomato, and double-yolker fried eggs.



And as it was Sunday, we went out for pub lunch to the Sutton Arms in Elton. The Arms has one of the largest menus I've seen, and while too many options generally means none of them are above average (it's really not possible to offer more than 150 entrees and expect everything to be made from scratch with fresh ingredients), they do a pretty good job.

Especially worthwhile are the game-related dishes: the casserole of local game with port and bacon; the rabbit pie; the roast duck confit with butter-bean sauce.

Somewhat intriguing (but probably best avoided) is the 200-oz rump steak (which costs £85 and requires a day's notice).

We opted for the straightforward Sunday lunch: my parents and The Boy had roast lamb, so I went for roast pork.



Thick slices of meat, reasonably moist, with whipped potato, roast potato, Yorkshire puddings, stuffing and a rich, salty gravy.

Oh, and veggies on the side: a steamed selection (turnip, carrot, slightly brown broccoli, slightly gray cabbage) and a big bowl of mushy peas:



(Do not adjust your set.)

Parmo!

Teesside has a secret. A culinary creation dreamed and realized right here. It's not available anywhere else. It's largely unknown, unheard of, by anyone outside the area.

It's parmo.

Think poutine, think curry, think gyros (aka doner kebabs), think pizza. Think of the food with which one traditionally soaks up booze after a long night on the town. And now add parmo to that list.

"It's great," enthused my cousin Andrew. "It's the perfect thing after about four pints. But I'm pretty sure if someone put it in front of me when I was sober, I'd think they were mad."

So what is it?

Take a chicken breast or pork escalope. Pound it thin, then dip it in egg and coat in breadcrumbs and deep-fry it.

Then top it with bechamel sauce.

Then top that with cheddar cheese (it was originally parmesan, which explains the name).

Then throw under the grill until the cheese melts.

The result:



Of course, this is the plain, unadorned version; the local takeout restaurant offers further toppings:

• The Hot Shot (pepperoni, garlic, onion and chili)



• Bolognese (white with cheddar bolognese)



• Mexicano (topped with pepperoni, of course)



• Espresso (pepperoni, ham, mushroom, onion)

This is usually served with french fries and shredded cabbage.

Naturally, The Boy and I had to be in the correct frame of mind to appreciate the experience. So after a night of open bar at The Swan, we walked, with resonable steadiness, down to Mr. Mimo's (famously known as the workplace for a female delivery driver whose 1989 murder--or rather the non-prosecution of her assailant--led to the overturning of England's 800-year-old double jeopardy law).

But I digress.

After a night of dancing in high heels, the stroll down Station Road (across the train tracks, past the gas station) seemed longer and more uncomfortable than it should have been. So in stockinged feet, across cold pavement and gravel, I made the parmo pilgrimage.

And was it all I had been led to believe?

Oh yeah. Ohhhh yeah.

[want more on parmo?]

A family do

Last night was the big "do" to celebrate both my mom's retirement and my parents' respective birthdays. The whole family was invited, as well as my mom's former work colleagues and the neighbors on their street (who, from all accounts, are party animals).

My dad had rented the function room at The Swan, a pub a five-minute walk from the house, and we spent the afternoon decorating it with balloons and banners (and trying to figure out how the duct-taped-together audio system worked).

The evening was a lot of fun; it was good to see so much of the family in one place, especially the cousins of my generation (perhaps predictably, we gathered at one table and passed our time insulting each other).

The food was typical Northern buffet of triangular tuna-cucumber sandwiches, sausage rolls, fried sausages, pickled onions, pork pie, open-faced egg salad sandwiches, potato chips.

And a cake.

A lovely real proper fruit cake--not the painfully dense American version with green cherries--light and buttery, with a nice fruit-to-cake ratio and a good thick crust of royal icing. My cousin Deborah's friend had made it, and (based solely on the knowledge that my mom has dark hair and my dad has a beard) decorated it with parental figurines:





See the resemblance?

Oh, and there was drinking, of course.

Of course. Because there was an open bar.

I asked the bartender if he knew how to make a martini. No, he said, he'd never made a cocktail before. (In Teesside, the drink of choice is beer (or wine, but it has to be either "sweet" or "dry white.")

So, I said, put four parts gin and one part vermouth in a glass.

"This one?" he asked, pointing at the sweet vermouth.

"No, the other one," I said .... but it was too late.

Anyway. Let's continue.

I asked whether he had a shaker. No, no he didn't. So fill the glass with ice, I said (which he did), and then strain it into another glass ... do you have a strainer?

"Umm ... I have orange wedges."

????

"No, to strain the ice out of the drink."

"Oh, right. No, I don't." He started looking around the bar for a suitable alternative--and came up with a beer mat.

Good enough. He placed it over the top of the glass, leaving just a narrow opening, and deftly poured the drink into another glass.

He pushed it across the bar to me and watched as I took the first sip.

Ecchhhhh.

"Mmmm ... this is really great," I said. "Just like James Bond would drink."

He beamed with pride.

For the rest of the night, I drank dry white wine.

It's good to be home

Being with my parents is very relaxing; they're laid-back and unruffled, and happiest with a good movie and a nice cup of tea.

They've also recently upgraded to a good laptop and a high-speed connection, so my dad spends time reading random websites ("I'm just looking at some stuff about vomiting," he said when I walked in the room this morning. "Apparently New Zealand is the vomit capital of the world") and exploring Second Life (he spent three days stuck on an island because his boat drifted away; lately he's been trying to set free the lions at the Coliseum in Roma).

My mom, who just retired last week, has her sights set on redesigning the garden. Her work colleagues gave her a generous donation towards a wooden garden bench (and a brass plaque to go on it) and a bird table that would support an ostrich.

Much of today has been spent eating, it seems: coffee and fresh fruit smoothies and pastries for breakfast; salmon and salad and homemade chocolate-chocolate-chip cake for lunch; and now (oh, happy day!) fish and chips, from the corner chippie, for dinner. With salt and vinegar and white bread and butter. One of the few foods that I occasionally have pregnancy-like cravings for.

It's good to be home.

Observations at 30,000 feet

For Your Consideration is a pretty good movie--sweet, with moments of tragedy and laugh-out-loud humor--though of course nothing compares to Guffman or Best in Show. But it's worth seeing for Fred Willard's hair alone.

Casino Royale has some jaw-dropping moments, especially the parkour sequence at the beginning. Unfortunately, the stews switched off the video system halfway through the climactic action sequence, despite our attempts to get the captain to circle a couple extra times.

Amsterdam's Schiphol Airport looks like any other airport, except that they have vending machines selling Crocky.

Schiphol also seems to have some kind of Bermuda Triangle effect. In the half-hour we were waiting for our connecting flight, there were a half-dozen announcements for passengers who had apparently disappeared somewhere between check-in and the gate. Unlike the passive, polite American messages, this was both threatening and guilt-inducing:

"Would passengers Smith and Jones please go to their plane now, as you are delaying the flight, and we will have to offload your luggage."

The Dutch accent is mostly clear and understandable, but we're both pretty sure we heard announcements for "Passenger Malzombie" and "Passenger Daffy Duck."

My first realization that my nationality had changed: on the flight to Teesside, we had to fill out landing cards because we were coming in from a non-EU country. So I fill out my name, date of birth, gender, etc--and then I got to "nationality."

My instinct (and reasoning) was to put "UK"; that's what I've always been, and that's how I think of myself. So I asked The Boy for verification, and he said, yes, I should say I'm a US citizen.

Very strange: like having to start saying my eyes are no longer green; they're blue.

Blighty ahoy!

This week we're off to England to visit my parents: they both celebrate milestone birthdays this month (turning 60, though to me they'll always be 30, climbing trees and building model airplanes--yes, that's at 30).

We'll have almost a week in Teesside, which is becoming more gentrified by the moment--Middlesbrough has a modern art museum! Billingham has a tapas bar!--and then a couple of days in London, staying with my oldest and bestest friend and her family.

Don't worry; I'll keep writing!

It's not easy being (in) green (mole sauce)

Every time we eat at Tu y Yo, I give thanks that we're a five-minute walk from excellent Mexican food. The restaurant makes a concerted, sincere effort to create dishes that are not just damn delicious, but also inventive and unusual.

Their menu includes a special that changes out weekly. February's dishes included chicken breast in a sauce of garlic, guajillo chiles, cumin and melon; and sautéed red snapper, shrimp, crab and octopus in a broth of fish, rice, jalapeño and tomatoes.

(I almost always get the special; it's invariably interesting and saves having to make decisions.)

The standard side dish is rice and beans, the latter having a deep, intense, chocolatey flavor.

A couple of weeks ago, they changed their menu, dropping some dishes and adding others. Thankfully the chicken tinga and the cochinita pibil are still listed--standbys for when the special doesn't appeal. And so, interestingly, are the tacos de chapulines (deep-fried tacos stuffed with crickets and served with avocado sauce); either they're really really popular or they're just too damn curious to be discontinued.

So what's new?

How about "pork cakes in a prehispanic sauce of cactus fruit"?

Or "chopped chayote squash in a pipian of pumpkin seeds, peanuts, cilantro, herbs, ancho and guajillo peppers"?

Or "chicken breast in a red mole made with chocolate, almonds, peanuts, sesame seeds, pumpkin seeds and ancho, pasilla, mulato and chipotle peppers"?

Good as they all sound, none of these were our final choices. The Boy opted for nopales con longaniza en salsa verde y amaranto (Mexican sausage and chopped cactus smothered in tomatillo sauce and amaranth seeds). I ordered the ancas de rana.

The frogs' legs tasted, of course, like chicken, but more tender (and requiring extra work to dissect meat from teeny tiny tibiofibular bone).

They came in an appropriately Kermit-green sauce of pumpkin seeds, poblano peppers, tomatillos and amaranth. The sauce was complex, somewhere between sesame and fresh grass--like winter turning into spring. I almost asked for tortillas to mop it up.

The Boy's dish was simpler but still carefully planned, with the vinegar-pickled cactus serving as a bright foil to the pork-fatty goodness of the sausage.

Our waiter said they plan to stay with the menu in its current form for the next two years. Which is good, because I want to try everything on it. And if they keep serving up intruiging specials, it's gonna take a while.