Stupid seasonal produce!

One of my favorite days of the year is in late spring, when the weather has been warm enough for long enough that it's safe to pack away the winter sweaters and pull out t-shirts and shorts and sleeveless cotton dresses.

Of course, this means there's an equivalent worst day: when end-of-summer denial is no longer sufficient insulation, and the t-shirts are regretfully put into storage again and replaced with heavy coats and waterproof boots and flannel pajamas.

I have a parallel experience in the grocery store. There's the day when the produce section is miraculously overflowing with local tomatoes and corn and peaches and berries. And then, for no good reason, they take it all away and replace it with a solid, mocking wall:



Not that I have anything against pumpkins, per se. It's just that they signify the inevitable return of winter. They mean waving goodbye to fresh raspberries and plums and nectarines, and instead relying on carrots and beets and yams. They say, "Oh, you want fruit? Sure, there's fruit—as long as you like apples! And how, exactly, do you like them apples, huh?"

There are survival strategies, of course. One of mine is to turn late-season fruit—such as the New Jersey peaches I picked up this weekend—into crumbles and keep them in the freezer. They'll stay there until a particularly gray and miserable winter night.

In case of emergency, preheat oven to 350.

L'Espalier's new location: What's changed and what hasn't

As we had tickets to the Randy Newman concert at Symphony Hall last night, we decided to make a completely fancy-pantsy evening of it and go to dinner at L'Espalier, which just opened in its new location in the as-yet-unfinished Mandarin Oriental hotel building last week.

The differences between old and new are apparent from the start. In L'Espalier's old Back Bay brownstone, a hostess greeted you and introduced you to the maitre d', who led you up a grandly curving staircase to the second floor.

In the new L'Espalier, a hostess greets you and presses the button for the elevator.

On the third floor, a second hostess now greets you and invites you to sit in the lounge. Then the butler (no, really! Butler!) offers drinks. This is a nice addition for the restaurant; in the old location, there was no space to lounge. Diners who arrived early had to stand in the entryway next to the coat closet and wait for their table. Now there's a space to sit and relax.

And, let's be frank, it's an opportunity for the restaurant to offer $30 glasses of Bolly while you wait.



The dining spaces are bright and light-filled with oversized windows. The feel is sleek, clean and modern, without being overly austere.



There are two large rooms and a smaller "library" (i.e. it has bookshelves) that can be used for private parties. All told, the new L'Espalier can seat about 20 more people than the old.

We were also invited to check out the kitchen, and graciously allowed to take photos. Where the old kitchen was a narrow galley, the new one is around four times the size, and is connected to the kitchen in sister restaurant Sel de la Terre next door.





I asked our waiter how the staff felt about the new kitchen. "They love it," he said. "They have much more room. They're really happy here!" And then he pointed out the glass wall along the back of the kitchen, and explained that once the adjacent corridor opened, passersby would be able to look in and watch the chefs at work. For some reason, I thought of the gorilla enclosure at Franklin Park Zoo.

Though the kitchen is bigger, the menu will stay the same, at least for the time being. Which meant we started with the lovely standard amuse-bouche of smoked salmon napoleon with dill:



I'd been particularly glad that the room was so bright, as I figured it would allow me to finally get some good photos. But no, of course not: as our apps arrived, the house lights dimmed, the sun started setting, and every shot was dark and blurry.

So you'll just have to trust me when I say the roasted pear and chestnut soup was light but creamy, perfectly flavored for fall; the salad greens with organic tomatoes were bursting with late summer flavor; the rabbit with green olives and kidneys was tender and harmonious (though frankly the herbed gnocchi were a little too gummy, and not as good as the ones at Marliave); and the beef tenderloin topped with marrow-filled ravioli was exactly what beef should be.

We weren't sure we could manage dessert, but it was included in the prix-fixe, so we really had no choice. The Boy went for a creme brulee, the burnt-sugar crust served as a separate topping, like a hat, accompanied by black sugar ice cream. I had pavlova, the meringue scented with lavender, served in a pool of intensely deep blackberry coulis.



So, the verdict? The food, of course, is as fabulous as ever. The decor is lovely, but also generic; L'Espalier now looks like any number of modern restos with dark wood, white tablecloths and upholstery in muted tones.

The other constant is the level of service. Despite the unexpectedly casual service we'd encountered during our last visit, we think of L'Espalier as the kind of place where waiters ask what "the lady" would like to order and whether "the gentleman" would like more bread. And while I understand that this level of formality is part of the experience, it also seemed more appropriate in a genteel old townhouse filled with antiques and flowers.

In L'Espalier's new location, with its glass walls lined with wine bottles and views onto the enormous Lord and Taylor logo across the street, I don't think it would kill them to loosen up a little. Yes, by all means ladle my soup out of a silver tureen, but don't feel you have to refer to me as "milady" while you do so.

Nevertheless, I don't think L'Espalier will suffer for being in a new space. While we were there, at least four different groups of people wandered through, evidently just checking out the new location and making satisfied noises. The place has its fans, and they'd come regardless.

Oh, and the Randy Newman concert was awesome.

Sofra, so good (ow! Sorry!)

A confession: we have not yet been to Oleana (what?). I know, I know; you'd think we would have managed by now, given its relative accessibility, its interesting Mediterranean/North African menu, and the fact that there's a general consensus about its awesomeness.

And yet--or perhaps to redress the balance--we have already investigated Sofra, the bakery owned by Oleana's chef, Ana Sortun.

Tucked around the corner from the big Star Market opposite Mount Auburn Cemetery, it's not the most convenient place for us to pick up pastries—not when we could stroll up the street to get poppyseed rolls from the Danish Pastry House or wander into Davis Square for lemon slices at Diesel.

So why do I keep fantasizing about driving out to Sofra?

Oh, I know why:





Sofra's cookies include a rich, intense chocolate earthquake mouthful and a fig-jam-topped thumbprint shortcake that has more butter than a whole cow:



Inside the earthquake:



The almond-rosewater cake manages to be dense, moist and fluffy all at the same time:



Not everything at Sofra is sweet, of course. We watched the busy kitchen staff stretching dough for the flatbread wraps they fill with chickpeas, feta, tomatoes, spinach and olives and then heat on curved griddles:



We also picked up a couple of savory items: plaki, a dish of white beans braised with onions, tomatoes and carrots; and a burek.

My experience of burek to this point had been limited to the Cornish pasty-like meat turnover served at Sabur. Sofra's version is more like a lasagna pie: thick layers of dough striated with ground beef.



It came warm and ready to eat, in which state I'm sure it would have been fantastic. However, we saved it for a picnic the next day, which may account for the chewiness of the dough and the fact that the meat had settled into one thin layer near the bottom. It was great, but not the greatest.

Sofra would probably be a lovely place to hang out for a while; it's light and airy, with cosy window seats and colorful upholstery. But butt-space is limited, and (at least on our Saturday afternoon visit) was hostage to a passel of gray-haired ladies whose plates held just crumbs and who evidently had no intention of moving.

A better suggestion, if not a request: go early to Sofra, for breakfast. Pick up the morning bun with orange-blossom glaze, the Sicilian ricotta-chocolate croissant, the date and walnut brioche.

And then tell me all about it.

Signs you live in a wealthy nation

Despite the calorifically good time we had indulging in fried food at the Big E last year, we decided not to schlep out there this time.

Which is a shame in some ways, as I was just thinking about one of the Big E's big draws: the butter sculpture. What could be more perfectly American than taking an unnecessarily large amount of food, shaping it into a whimsical approximation of a cow, and then throwing it out?

And then my co-conspirator Mike sent me a link to the site of Jim Victor, a Pennsylvania sculptor who takes food sculpture to a whole new level.

A roast turkey made from chocolate!



A Channel 10 newsanchor in parmesan cheese!



A rather coy Fidel Castro in vegetables!



There's more; so much more. If you want to see Columbus's ships in pizza dough, Ronald Reagan in butter or Mickey Rooney in chocolate (yes, a disturbing thought, I know), I suggest you go visit Jim's food sculpture page.

Meanwhile, I'll be in the kitchen with a picture of Larry King and a bag of walnuts.

Go to Marliave. Go now.

I'd heard murmurings that Marliave was reopening, so when it popped up on OpenTable this weekend, we decided to take a look.

We were intrigued by descriptions that used phrases like "locally farmed produce" and "Welsh rarebits" and "prohibition-era cocktails," not necessarily in that order.

And then we looked at Marliave's menu and saw "foie gras ravioli with duck meatballs" and "wild mushroom and oxtail risotto" and "Rabbit: black truffle-stuffed leg, prosciutto-wrapped loin" and we thought, yeah, it might be okay.

The restaurant is on Marliave's upper level; there's also a more casual downstairs bar, which has burgers and salads and such. But as we wanted Upstairs, we made a reservation and I put on a posh frock.

What we hadn't realized, because it's not mentioned anywhere (the website's news page currently says "We're getting ready to open; check back soon"), was that Upstairs wasn't yet ready for prime-time, so Downstairs was our only choice. Which meant no truffled rabbit or duck meatballs or escargots in garlic butter or local beef carpaccio or tuna wellingon with foie gras.

But the room is a cool blend of old (pressed-tin ceiling, wrought-iron railings) and new (everything is minimalist black and white).



And then the cute blonde waitress brought the cocktail menu. And suddenly everything looked brighter.

Aparently, all the drink selections were invented by the bartender; they're named after famous people (the Amelia Earhart; the FDR--a pitcher of martinis) and historical events (the Waterloo; the Great Molasses Flood).

If our choices are any indication, Marliave may make a name for itself as a cocktail destination. My Noble Experiment involved gin, mint, lime and cucumber, garnished with a cucumber slice dipped in salt and cayenne, so it was fresh and light with a warming, peppery finish. The Boy had the White House China (rye, mint, lemon), the mint giving it a bright, clean edge. And they have a couple of non-alcoholic drinks, blending grapefruit and citrus and herbs, that I actually considered (no, really!).

And then to food. We weren't really in the mood for pizza or sliders or hot dogs (though I was tempted by both the Cuban sandwich and their version of croque madame). Instead, I had arugula with thin, tender slices of prosciutto and romano cheese, and The Boy went for the rarebit.

When I was growing up, Welsh rarebit was basically cheese sauce poured over toast and grilled. At Marliave, however, the cheese is melted with bacon and butter in a skillet, and served with a side of soft garlic bread. It's like a rustic fondue. It's fabulous.



Then The Boy had roast chicken--tender and juicy, with a crisp, salty skin--on mushroom risotto.



My feelings about mushrooms are doubtless now a matter of public record (I don't much care for them, no sir), but this was a lovely, meaty, complex and creamy dish. The Boy felt the rice was slightly undercooked, but only someone who grew up eating rice EVERY SINGLE DAY would notice such a thing.

I went for the Sunday Evening Gravy, i.e. a slow-cooked three-meat ragu with handmade gnocchi.



The sauce was insanely good, with a nice balance of meat to tomato; it reminded me of the pibil at Tu y Yo. And the gnocchi ... oh my. You know how they're often just sticky, starchy balls? These were not those. They were light, dumplingy pillows. I ate way more than I should have.

Which meant, sadly, that I had no room for dessert, so had to pass on the panna cotta with cinnamon roll and the bread pudding with sultanas. Oh well. Next time.

So to the title of this post: Go to Marliave now, while you can. I have a feeling it's going to go big.