The last days of Icarus

Guest writer The Boy has a few things to say about our last meal at Icarus.

Running a successful restaurant is difficult under the best of circumstances. Running one during the worst economic downturn in recent memory is even more challenging. Given the situation, we consider ourselves lucky not to have seen any of our favorite restaurants close since the economy crashed. Until now.

Icarus, a South End institution for 31 years, is closing on July 3. I should say it's closing in its current incarnation, as the new owner apparently bought the name along with everything else.

LimeyG and I have been to Icarus many times over the years. It was one of the first “nice” restaurants we went to, back when we could only afford a few such meals a year.

While the food has always been fantastic, part of what made it special was the experience: walking down an anonymous, cobbled residential street, going down to the basement-level room, encountering the dramatic statue of Icarus, poised as if ready for takeoff, in the middle of the dining room.



Like the original Craigie Street Bistrot, getting there was part of the evening’s entertainment.

When we heard it was closing for good, we decided to go one last time. There were not many customers—certainly not as many as on previous visits—and I don't think that was only because it was early on a Tuesday evening.

Perhaps the location has finally become a liability, or maybe the trendier South End competition (like Toro) is to blame. I can say that neither the quality nor the price of the food could account for the lack of diners.

The current farewell menu is built around a three-course $31 prix fixe selection. LimeyG opted for the antipasto plate and the cod; I chose the braised mushrooms on polenta and the swordfish; for dessert we shared the baked Alaska for two. It was all fantastic.

The key to the antipasto plate was the fresh-from-the-garden taste of the red-pepper spread and the lightness of the grilled flatbread. For the polenta, it was the crisp, caramelized exterior contrasted with the soft, creamy interior. For the swordfish it was the contrast between the lemony sauce and the caponata. For the cod it was the loads of butter (nothing wrong with that.) The baked Alaska was not the usual '70s nostalgia effort, but rather a showcase for flavorful vanilla ice cream contrasted with passionfruit sorbet.



You have until July 3 to take advantage of this reasonably priced, high-quality menu and to say goodbye one of the great local restaurants. The trendier spots can wait another week.

Otherworldly sushi in Boston? O ya!

The Boy turned F-Word this past birthday; he sailed into it much more gracefully than I did. To celebrate, we checked out o ya, the sushi sensation that allegedly has people commuting up from New York for dinner.

Those who claim Boston is superior to NYC must be delighted to have evidence to back up their belief.

I made the reservation through OpenTable, which meant we were at the chef's bar (reserving one of their six tables is only possible by calling).

This turned out to be the best option, as we got to watch o ya's three chefs at work in their tiny space, creating incredible dishes using only veryveryvery sharp knives, a blowtorch and an electric whisk. Oh, and insanely fresh and fabulous ingredients.

I've had sea urchin before, but I'd assumed it was an acquired taste. How could anyone truly enjoy something that tasted as though it had sat in a tidepool on Revere Beach for three days?

The sea urchin at o ya, however, made me realize I just hadn't had fresh uni. This wasn't Revere Beach; it was a deserted Polynesian island. It was amazing.

The other surprise was the onsen egg. Apparently this is a relatively common preparation in Japan—onsen means hot springs, and eggs can be slow-cooked in the water—but it was a revelation to us.

When I think poached egg, I think runny yolk. But here, the yolk was just-just-just cooked; enough to hold together, but still soft, almost custardy. And warm. And topped with wafer-thin slices of pickled garlic.

How good was it? It actually made me cry. Thanks a lot, o ya.

In all, we had:

Kumamoto oyster
watermelon pearls, cucumber mignonette



Diver scallop
sage tempura, olive oil bubbles, meyer lemon



Scottish salmon belly
cilantro, ginger, hot sesame oil drizzle

Peruvian-style tuna toro tataki
aji panca sauce, cilantro pesto

Shima aji & sea urchin
ceviche vinaigrette, cilantro



Warm eel
thai basil, kabayaki, fresh Kyoto sansho

Onsen egg
dashi sauce, truffle salt, homemade pickled garlic

Porcelet tonkatsu
seared foie gras, cabbage shiso slaw, dashi apple sauce, hojiso

House-smoked moullard duck tataki
foie gras kabayaki, arima sansho

Foie Gras
balsamic chocolate kabayaki, raisin cocoa pulp, sip of aged sake

Everything was excellent, although (what?) ... the meat dishes weren't as fantastic as the fish. The smoked duck took a lot of chewing; maybe that was more noticable because we'd had several plates of melt-in-the-mouth tender ingredients beforehand. The pork was delicious, but no more amazing (it seemed) than pork anywhere else.

But the last item—the foie gras with chocolate—more than made up for it, especially with the taste of 8-year-old sake (with the color and depth of port).

I made a video. Wanna see? Goes like this:



The only thing I felt bad about was the prep-to-consumption-time ratio; we'd watch as the chef sliced fish with meticulous precision, bathed it in marinade, chose the right kind of plate on which to delicately place the fish, sliced another ingredient, layered them and topped them with tiny, measured amounts of garnishes, and finished them with a spoonful of something from a sizzling pan.

And then our waiter would bring the finished dish to us. And we'd go nom. Nom. And the chef's intense, focused artwork would have disappeared.

I think we'll be going back. O ya.

Where I've been

Okay, don't start. I know I've been terrible about keeping up with posts, and I don't have (m)any excuses.

Oh, except that I was spending quality time with my parents, including a week at a lovely house on the Annisquam River in Gloucester.

We hung out with friends:



Spied on the local wildlife:



And toasted the sunset:



It was the most relaxing experience I've had in ... I don't know how long; the first time I understood what the phrase "living in the moment" meant. And now, two weeks later, it already feels as though I dreamed about it.