Southern style at M3 in Davis Square

Like the formation of a new and delicious galaxy, there has been something of a slow-motion explosion of interesting places to eat in the Boston-Cambridge-Somerville area over the past year or so.

Which is particularly frustrating when one spends a considerable amount of time unable to eat (or at least unable to eat in polite society). I spend my days reading local food blogs and noting the new arrivals with a mix of curiosity and chagrin.

On good weeks, I'm torn: Do I try out a new restaurant, or do I fall back on an old favorite (especially if I've been craving, say, Eastern Standard's charcuterie plate while sucking cold soup through a straw)?

Last night we decided on the former, and headed into Davis Square to check out new southern restaurant M3, which is in the corner spot that used to be Out of the Blue, which was in the spot that used to be Dolly's.



It's a small space, and was pretty busy when we arrived before 6pm. The only available seats were at the counter, which suited us fine, because we were able to watch the action in the tiny kitchen.

The decor is retro-kitsch, but not precious. The walls are covered in chalkboard paint, the lights are hung inside canning jars, and the beer fridge is vintage and chubby.



We ordered beer and studied the menu: frogs' legs? Fried green tomatoes? Oyster po' boy made with Island Creeks? Duck fat (gasp!) burger?

No, wait. Of course, it had to be:



Deep fried cheese curds.

We had discussed going to the Big E again this year, pretty much for the sole purpose of tracking down the cheese curds vendor. But now we didn't have to.

Which, as The Boy pointed out, was not necessarily a good thing.

"It was better when they were a two-hour drive away, and only available for a few days a year," he said, between mouthfuls of popplers. "Now they're just down the street. How am I supposed to control myself?"

The curds at M3 are less cheesy than their state fair cousins — rather than being in big chewy chunks, the cheese is smaller and melts into the batter. But we could still imagine ourselves stopping by M3 for a beer and a quick cheese-curd fix. Often. Too often.

Anyway, there was something more dangerously tasty on the specials board yesterday: chicken and waffle nuggets.



Imagine brined chicken, dipped in waffle batter, deep fried and finished with poached cherries.

The whole thing is soft and warm; the batter is pillowy and a little sweet; the fruit adds a slight tartness and pulls everything together.



Now we really could have stopped there; a little deep-fried goodness goes a long way. But we'd already ordered mains, all of which come with a choice of three sides (hence "meat and three," or M3). So:

For The Boy, chicken-fried steak with corn, Brussels sprouts and sweet potato casserole.



The steak breading had an almost chocolatey note to it, which was unexpected and good.

I've never quite understood how marshmallow became the default topping for sweet potatoes, but there you go. This was Fluff, which I guess counts as locavore (??).



I had the catfish, with more Brussels, the mac and cheese, and the root veggie hash.



The fish was nice and flaky, though sliced so thin that it was a little overwhelmed by the batter for my liking.



The sprouts were small and plentiful, and the mac and cheese ... was a thing of beauty. Light, creamy, with a mild cheese sauce, it reminded me of the baked macaroni pudding desserts we'd sometimes have when I was a kid.

But yes, we had indeed ordered way too much food; the portions are extremely generous.



How generous? Put it this way: we had our sides boxed up to bring home. I weighed the leftovers, which clock in at just over a pound.

In other news, dinner tonight is sorted.

I currently feel a little overwhelmed at the number of new places to try. Do youse guys have any suggestions? Is there a new restaurant we really should check out while I'm still able to eat?

Introducing my parents to Journeyman

My parents were recently visiting for a couple of weeks. As we like to do every time they come over, we introduced them to some new experiences.

This included visiting the Ryan and Wood Distillery and the Taza Chocolate factory (both of which I highly recommend); watching the July 4 Nathan's hot-dog eating competition (which I highly don't); and dining at Journeyman.

I've written about Journeyman before. We don't go often, but when we do there's a feeling of quiet celebration about it.

We were pretty sure it would be a whole new world to my parents, who don't get a lot of exposure to the latest gastronomic trends. If you want a fantastic Sunday pub lunch, my native turf will oblige, but there's not much call for foams and charcuterie.

Or, for that matter, asparagus ice cream, which tasted exactly as you'd hope.



Next came a salad, everything fresh and crunchy and vivid with just-picked flavor.



My mom said, "It's like when you're a kid and you're wandering through a field, just pulling up things you know will taste good."



Next came a lettuce soup. The Boy and my dad had it with a single tender oyster, finished with tapioca balls:



My mom and I had the alternative, mustardy squares of potato; I because I'm not supposed to eat raw stuff (immuno-compromised as I am) and my mom because even she has limits.



It was good, though I'm convinced the oyster was probably better.

Then the fish course: a very nice piece of mackerel, to which ham had been fused (using what the server called "a protein enzyme," probably transglutaminase. There, go learn something). Whatever, it was delicious.



The blueberries were a surprise, and at first seemed a little random and nouvelle cuisiney. But their sweetness actually worked very well with the ham and the fish.

Next came rabbit two ways: sausage and roularde.



The meat was light and tender; not what we're used to from bunny (which is usually baked into pie).

Then there was cheese; unfortunately I don't have good photos, but I do remember that the Corsican L'Empereur was fabulous and should be sought out.

And then a strawberry sparkler as a sorbet to cleanse the palate:



And on to dessert, which involved black locust flower ice cream. Our server described it as being from a tree with very hard, durable wood, with a flower that blossoms for a short period. (Wikipedia describes the flowers as toxic until cooked and causing anorexia and depression in horses, but thankfully our server left that part out.)

This was definitely a first for all of us.



The ice cream was ... well, woody. "It's like when you're sawing something and you get wood dust in your mouth," said my dad, and he meant it in a good way. And it was good, in a slightly sweet, tree-reminiscent fashion.

Alongside the ice cream was honey cake, a milk-and-honey sauce, something white and fluffy I don't recall (eek!) and delicious toasted marshmallows.



But of course, that wasn't really the end of the meal.



Almond financiers, intensely chocolatey bouche noir brownie squares, salted caramels, strawberry jellies.



Even my mom, an unrepentant member of the Clean Plate Club from childhood rationing days, wasn't able to finish them off.

My parents loved dinner at Journeyman.

Mission accomplished.

Saloon in Somerville is a swell joint

Okay, before we start, it's important to have this tune playing in the background as you read.

Ready?

This week saw the opening of Saloon in Davis Square. Owned by the same people who run Foundry on Elm, Saloon angles itself as a pre-Prohibition joint. But this is no sleazy speakeasy; it's a ritzy juice joint, see?



Entrance is via a narrow door on Elm Street, marked by two glowing orb lights. And here's the odd time-travel thing: I worked next door in the Gorin Building for two years, and I have no recollection of seeing that door before. And when I check Google Streetview (which is a little outdated, as it still shows McIntyre and Moore — sob!) it's not clear where the door should be. So, you know. Spookeh.

Down a flight of stairs is a windowless (and TV-less, amazingly; I assumed all bars in Davis Square were required by law to show ESPN at all times) room, handsomely outfitted in dark, heavy woodwork sourced from the now-closed Newbury Street branch of Capital Grille. The bar dominates one end of the room, with the dining area at the other. UrbanDaddy has a nice slideshow of the interior.

Is there drink? Yes, there's drink; a 200-plus library of liquors, including bourbons, ryes, single malts and white whiskeys. Many of them are available in three serving options: on the rocks, Old Fashioned or Manhattan.



On our first visit, on Thursday, we stuck to cocktails: The Boy tried the Old Pal (rye, aperol, averna) and I had the Brown Derby (rum, antica formula, maraschino, mole bitters). Both lovely, well-balanced drinks.

Last night I started with the Ward 44 (because pork belly whiskey) and ended with another Brown Derby; apparently my new tastebuds have decided that bitter and aromatic are Good Things in a drink. The Boy started with an Old Fashioned made with Willett bourbon and moved to neat, smoky Russell's Rare.

One could, if one was so inclined, take on the liquor menu as a winter project. Also a spring one.

Is there food? Oh lord, is there ever food. The menu at Saloon isn't huge — a handful of appetizers and around nine entrees — but it makes me happy in every way.

When we went on Thursday, my goal was to have the steak and kidney pie. Because even though it's often used as a cheap way of saying English food is crap, a well-made S&K is a thing of beauty, and they're pretty much impossible to find over here.

I was a tad concerned when I saw the price ($26? Serious?) but then our waitress explained it served two. And indeed it did.



The crust was buttery and flaky and, as is right and proper, nicely moistened on the underside with pie gravy. The steak was fall-apart tender, the kidney was earthy, and there were generous chunks of carrot and mushroom (I'm prepared to overlook the latter). The gravy was rich, deep, complex. The whole thing was perfect.

So I say to you: If you've never had steak and kidney pie, you should absolutely go to Saloon. And take a friend, 'cuz it's large.

(Oh, and sorry there's no photo. Saloon is a dark place and the only shots I took, using the flash, made the interior of the pie look scary.)

On our Saturday night visit, we started with a charcuterie plate. All the meats are made in-house by someone who clearly knows their stuff. Best were the prosciutto and the salami; note how they're marbled with sweet fat. Delicate, not overly seasoned, so the flavor of the meat came through.





And then I went for the bubble and squeak, another fine English dish, traditionally intended as a way to use up leftover veggies from Sunday lunch. This one involved very flavorful root veggies and Brussels sprouts, topped with sausage and finished with a rich onion gravy.



The Boy ordered the flatiron steak au poivre, which came nicely medium-rare with fries and creamed spinach.

Sorry, that should be: with creamed spinach finished with shaved parmesan, and fries IN A SILVER BUCKET.







The fries, BTW, were so good that I award them the highest honor: they were chips. Real proper chips.

After this enormous amount of food, we really shouldn't have had dessert. But it was trifle, so.



Bavarian cream, dulce de leche-soaked sponge, candied hazlenuts. Apparently Saloon only offers one dessert at a time. But frankly, one is all you need.

It's also worth noting that Saloon doesn't offer coffee (because bars didn't in the 1900s), a fact which took the pompous actor types at the next table ("It's so sad that I'd never be allowed to direct at the Globe in London because I'm American") by horrified surprise. Deal, people. The Diesel is close by, though apparently you preferred to go to Starbucks, thanks for sharing.

Sorry; it's been a while since I snarked about diners who converse in outside voices to people sitting three feet away. This bunch was particularly annoying.

That aside, dinner was fabulous. As we walked home, we talked about the fact that we no longer have to go into Boston to find good food and thoughtfully made cocktails. Between Pizzeria Posto, Foundry and Saloon (not to mention longstanding favorites like Redbones and Tu y Yo, and the soon-to-open Painted Burro), we're pretty well sorted. And that's just the cat's pajamas.

Journeyman, Somerville: Fifty flavors in two hours

I'd been battling a cold all week, which left me lumpen and miserable. By Saturday, I was starting to feel more human, so The Boy decided to lift my spirits with a trip to Journeyman in Union Square, Somerville.

Our last dinner at Journeyman was back in February; interestingly, it was also a cheer-up respite from illness. Not that I want this to become a habit, but if poor health ends with food like this, I may start paying small children to cough on me.

We had a six o'clock reservation, so the place was almost empty, which was lovely. And we were seated at the counter, looking into the tiny kitchen, which was perfect.



I love watching the dynamics between people in a kitchen. Here, the four chefs worked almost in silence, leaning close to talk (no loud voices), moving around each other in a fluid dance. The motion was constant and focused, calm and confident.

We started with cocktails: for The Boy, an Old-Fashioned made with his choice of spirit. He went with genever, which came nicely finished with citrusy Bittermens' Boston Bittahs. I chose the Dartmoor, a milk punch infused with heather and lapsang souchong tea. The result was so extraordinarily good, it made me misty; it was light, slightly citrusy, with complex floral and smoky notes.



We got to chat with Meg, who made this incredible drink, and she gave us a quick history of the milk punch.

Not to be confused with the New Orleans-style milk punch, which is essentially a boozy milkshake, the (very) old-school version involves curdling milk with lemon juice, scooping out the curds, and combining the remaining liquid whey with spirits and botanicals.

And then she came back with the recipe for the Dartmoor. I might have told her I love her.



But wait, it gets better: there was food as well.

Journeyman offers three prix-fixe options: three, five, and seven courses. We went for the three-course; The Boy took the "omnivore" version and I took the vegetarian, so we could try each others' entrées.

First, an amuse-bouche of smoked bluefish rillettes,



and white bean consommé with a tiny biscuit stuffed with an amazing miso butter. The former was light and refreshing. The latter, unfortunately, was eated before it could be photographed.



We'd decided to add a charcuterie plate to the three courses, because meat. There was a choice of six options: you could order one for $5 or four for $15. Which meant we had to decide which two not to get. We ended up nixing the lardo (regretfully) and the bluefish, which we got to try anyway. So it all worked out.

And then came the charcuterie: quail galantine, oxtail scrapple, duck liver pâté, and a terrine of lamb tenderloin.



Everything was beautifully made, but we decided the winners were the rich, creamy, duck liver pâté:



and the warm, earthy, beef-hash-like scrapple:



Next came what was described on the menu as "salad." Which is like calling the Sistine Chapel "painting."



Each ingredient stood on its own, and each also added to an overall harmony of tastes and textures: cubes of sweet root vegetables, a single, warm Brussels sprout, paper-thin slices of pear and black radish, wilted leeks, a marinated mushroom, crunchy red cabbage, swirls of creamy caulflower and celeriac sauce, drops of vibrant red pepper purée, and my favorite: a rolled red carpet of beet leather.



And then the mains: for The Boy, Chinese roasted duck leg and seared duck breast, served with black rice on a ribbon of huckleberry sauce.



(The next shot is a little NSFW.)



The main reason I chose the vegetarian option was that the entree was described like this:

SWEET POTATO
cheese, coffee, hazelnut

How could I not?



The tortellini were filled with tangy, melting taleggio. The potato was a sweet, creamy swoosh of sauce. The foam and the croutons held varying intensities of coffee. And there was a single, perfectly roasted shallot.

It's hard to explain how — or why — these flavors worked together. But they did, unexpectedly and yet completely naturally. I'm not sure how easy it would be to replicate it at home. It was a delicate balance that probably took a lot of work to refine; too much coffee could overwhelm the milder flavors, but too little could make the whole thing seem insipid. This was perfect.

Of course, we weren't done yet. Next was a palate-cleanser of cat-mint ice cream garnished with Sichuan pepper leaves. It was —

Wait. Cat mint?

Yes.

As in cat mint?

Yes!



The flavor was distinctly catnip; a muted, almost sagey mint. I was a little concerned about the pepper leaves; chef Diana explained they would "leave a tingle on the tongue," which to my (now-teenaged) tastebuds could have meant "carpet-bomb the forest floor." But actually the leaves were light and fresh, with just the slightest buzz. So maybe my 'buds are all grown up now?

Then came dessert, described on the menu as:

CARAMEL-APPLE
brioche, scotch

What this actually meant was fresh brioche roll, sliced and filled with a smoky bourbon cream, served with a bright, fresh apple sorbet and a hunk of caramelized apple.



Again, flavors balanced each other, and variations in texture and temperature made every mouthful different: cold and hot, tart and sweet, creamy and spongy. A lovely fall dessert.

But wait, there's more: a final plate of sweetness. This one had chocolate brownie bites, pumpkin spice-filled eclairs, and chipotle marshmallows.



Oh yeah.



As we made our way home, we tried counting up how many different flavors we'd tasted over the course of the two-hour meal. We decided it was close to 50.

Fifty distinct, individual flavor types. How often can you say that?