Thanksgiving at Eastern Standard

So, you want to hear about Thanksgiving lunch at Eastern Standard? Sure you do!

The day itself was lovely; we checked in to the Hotel Commonwealth, which inexplicably and wonderfully always smells of lemons, and got a corner room on the fifth floor with views over Kenmore Square and down Comm Ave.



And then we went down to Eastern Standard for lunch.

We started with drinkies: a glass of sparkly Schloss Gobelsburg Brut Reserve for me, and a Houdini for The Boy.



The Houdini (genever, Cocchi and benedictine) and the Gala Brand (made with house apricot vermouth — in which apricots are first soaked in gin for six weeks — and finished with bubbles) are my two favorite recent additions to the cocktail menu.

And then food. First, oysters from Bar Harbor and Eastham. Below is the latter, juicy and tender, called Sunken Meadow Gem. Love that name.



Then, from the Thanksgiving menu, The Boy went for salad, a loose pile of greens with a light sherry vinaigrette, scattered with pumpkin seeds.



I had apparently decided it was necessary to have more oysters; these are baked, topped with brioche crumbs, sitting on buttery leeks with a hint of rosemary:



As usual, we both ordered turkey. There were other nice-looking options on the menu (roast venison, pork osso bucco with polenta, New York strip steak with truffled potatoes), but well, you know, turkey!

And it was this.



"It looks like cafeteria food," said The Boy. It did.

And perhaps our disappointment was in part because last year's Thanksgiving at Eastern Standard was so much prettier. (The link opens in a new window so you can compare and contrast.)

The turkey was moist and flavorful, though the gravy was already a little congealy by the time it reached us. The yam was extremely candied; the potato was smooth and buttery; the cornbread stuffing was unexpectedly light and airy and laced with fresh herbs. All in all, pretty good, though it did leave me thinking wistfully of last year's meal.

But wait — there was still dessert!

The Boy got the punkin pie, which came with a puddle of dark chocolate for a creative flavor contrast.



I chose the apple and huckleberry pie; the big chunks of apple were still quite crunchy, and I'm not sure whether this was a bug or a feature. Maybe I just prefer my pie fruit to be more yielding and comforty. The anise ice cream was nice, though.



We contemplated a cheese course, but then decided we were too full. But then I got a text from LC Sarah about the cheese plate she'd devised for her family Thanksgiving dinner: Munster, Manchego, Cotswold and Chabis Feuille. (You'd think she'd taken a cheese class or something!)



So Thanksgiving at Eastern Standard was good. But ... it wasn't as good as we expected. And I think I've decided it's not a good idea to do Turkey Day at the same place twice.

Compare with our two Thanksgivings at Rialto: the first was almost perfect in terms of food, service, and atmosphere, while the second saw us squashed between large parties and served courses out of order.

It was the same here. And maybe memory gives everything a rosy tint (though having photos and a write-up provide focus) but I think, to be safe, we'll come up with a new plan for next year.

Hey, we might even stay home.

My NPR Thanksgiving interview

Ah, the power of social media! One minute I'm idly browsing tweets, the next I'm chatting with Nancy Shute, NPR science writer, about my plans for Thanksgiving.

Nancy was looking for people who dine out on Turkey Day, and as that's a Thing We Do, I got in touch. This morning we talked; this afternoon her piece, When Thanksgiving Means Making Reservations, Not Turkey, was up on The Salt, NPR's box-fresh new food blog.



Of course, I made sure to say lovely things about Eastern Standard, which is where we're heading on Thursday. And of course, as I've done for the past few Thanksgiving dinners, I'll be documenting the experience.

What do you think about eating out at Thanksgiving?

Giving thanks at/for Eastern Standard

This year, we ate out for Thanksgiving, continuing a tradition that in previous years has seen Thanksgiving dinner at Sandrine's and two years of turkey at Rialto.

This year we wanted somewhere new, and after considering the options for about two minutes decided on Eastern Standard for our Thanksgiving feast. (The promise of pheasant galantine may have factored in this decision.)

So that's where we began. The galantine for me, with lightly pickled and curried veggies:



And for The Boy, a fabulous duck confit tart with local mushrooms.



Though the galantine was good — somehow both sophisticated and rustic at the same time — the tart was amazing. The Boy accurately identified the reason:

"Fat," he said. "The confit? It's fat. The pastry? Made with fat. It's all fat, baby."

The mushrooms balanced the duck and gave it depth. And the cranberries cut through the fat (the lovely, lovely fat) and added a brightness. And it wasn't dense or heavy; it was a perfect lead-in to the main event.

Which was, of course:



Beautifully juicy turkey, creamy mashed potato, cornbread dressing, a smooth, almost pureed cranberry sauce, candied yams, and a generous pour of gravy.

No greens, though, so we also asked for a side of brussels sprouts, which came with sweet shallots.



And then on to dessert. For The Boy, the traditional (loaded) pecan pie.



For me, the punkin pie, which came with a buttery shortbread cookie sparkling with sugar.



Looking back at last year's write-up of Thanksgiving at Rialto, I realized we'd planned on staying home for turkey this year. Oops! But given how fabulous the meal was, and how lovely (as always) the staff of Eastern Standard were, I'm glad we have such short memories.

Thanksgiving at Rialto (again)

Last year we had Thanksgiving at Rialto and it was fabulous: a cozy corner table, flawless service, excellent food.

So this year we decided to go back.

Okay, let's get the bad stuff out of the way first.

I know I should be thankful that there are enough financially sound people to fill a restaurant at Thanksgiving. And I know this is a time to get together with family.

But still, there we were, sharing space with a party of three, yelling at each other despite sitting next to each other; and a party of nine (four of whom were bouncingly under 6 years old). Yay.

(If you've been following for a while, you know I have issues with people who don't use their indoor voice in a restaurant.)

Similarly, I know I should understand when the lunch rush means things get a little backed up. But still, somehow we were overlooked, and our server didn't notice we had no first course until everyone else was finishing their second. Our second course arrived before the first; our third arrived before the second.

But enough complaints, on to the good stuff!

First course: a rich, creamy roast-chestnut soup with a garnish of diced pear, parmesan and celery.

Next, I had tiny taleggio and fig tarts, cheese and fruit and pastry dancing together perfectly.



The Boy went with bite-sized pumpkin and sage ravioli, served with scallops:



And then instead of going for the turkey dinner, he had duck two ways on a bed of lentils (that sounds a bit rude, doesn't it? Tasted rather juicy, too ).



I stuck to tradition.



The meat was tender and moist; the mashed potatoes were creamy velvet; the stuffing was a thick slice of bread pudding.

Best, though, were green beans finished with shallots, and a light, citrusy cranberry chutney.



And then dessert, which came with the unexpected accompaniment of comped Moscato D'Asti. We assumed that was to make up for the upside-down service (though it was never explained).

My dessert was a lovely apple and quince tart, with generous chunks of fruit, topped with maple-cinnamon ice cream.



The Boy was the clear dessert winner, though; his honey-ricotta cheesecake was a light, fluffy, gently perfumed cloud.



So while Thanksgiving at Rialto was a slight disappointment this year (mostly because we were rather unrealistically expecting a re-run of last year), it was still a fantastic meal.

Still, we've decided that we'll spend next Turkey Day at home. That way, we also get leftovers.

Thanksgiving at Rialto

I know you're all wondering about our Thanksgiving lunch at Rialto. Arentcha? Sure y'are!

We decided to go at real proper lunchtime, largely because if we waited until, say, three or four, we'd already have demolished a box of crackers and an entire wedge of Stilton with dates and oranges, and then we wouldn't be hungry.

As it turned out, that was the right time to turn up: there were only a handful of occupied tables and we were shown to a lovely window spot in a secluded corner.



(One of the nicest things about Rialto's recent redesign is that the room is sectioned off with linen drapes, creating smaller, more intimate seating areas. Sure, you can still hear the obnoxious diners at the next table, but at least you don't have to look at them.)

Rialto's Thanksgiving menu was a three-course prix-fixe.



Even though there weren't that many choices, we still had a tough time deciding.



Actually, there were four courses: everyone got the roasted pumpkin soup, a creamy, velvety little serving with pumpkin seeds, a dollop of ginger cream and a fried sage leaf.



For the first course, I chose the salad with poached pear. The greens came tucked inside what was essentially a taco shell made entirely out of parmesan cheese. (Process that for a moment.) The pear was allegedly poached in red wine, but there was something else (Amaretto, perhaps?) that gave it a sweet, almondy note.



And then, the star of the show: the turkey dinner.



The mouthful of crisp skin and the scattered pecans were a tasty and unexpected bonus.



Note the diced morsels to the left of the sprouts in the next photo. Notice how the sprouts do glisten so? Bacon, my friends. Bacon.



With the turkey, I had a German Spätburgunder; it's unusual to find German reds, and this was lighter than its French Pinot Noir cousins and a good match for the meal. This shows the color pretty well:



And then dessert: a pumpkin custard topped with chocolate and cream, each flavor carrying hints of fall spice and blending together in a happy harmony.





And finally, a nice cup of mint tea in a teapot that looked like the kind of teapot that would appear in a 1950s sci-fi movie about drinking tea in the year 2000.



So that was all very — wait, what's that you say? What did The Boy eat?

Well, let's ask him, shall we?



(And yes, they played salsa all afternoon, which I loved, especially hearing Celia Cruz and a Beny Moré cover, but which The Boy compared to how I would feel if they played incessant Beatles while we ate. I saw his point.)

The service is always graceful at Rialto, and was especially so that day. Perhaps it was because the atmosphere felt like more of a celebration, or perhaps the staff was thankful that people were still willing to eat out, even in the middle of an economic apocalypse.

Either way, a number of lovely people stopped by our table to chat, including Rialto's chef and owner Jody Adams.

Darn. I should have asked her the secret of the poached pears.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving? Way ahead of ya

After weighing the relative success of last year's Thanksgiving at Sandrine's, we decided once again to go out for Turkey Day instead of cooking at home.

It's not that we don't love to cook, you understand; it's just that the prospect of spending all morning in front of the stove and all afternoon in front of the sink (because I don't trust the dishwasher) takes the edge off having a random relaxing Thursday off work, gravy or no gravy.

So we're giving thanks at Rialto in Harvard Square, which promises roasted pumpkin soup with ginger cream; red wine risotto with figs and almond pesto; and of course a full-on plate of bird and carrots and sprouts and stuffing.

The one downside to this otherwise brilliant plan is that we get no leftovers. In previous years, we've stretched the T-Day meal to last a week, between hashes and pasta dishes and soups, finding increasingly creative ways to use up mashed sweet potatoes and garlic green beans and picadillo stuffing.

But the meal we missed most last year, almost to the point of mourning, was the next-day sandwich: turkey, cheese and Julia Child's cranberry chutney stuffed into a ciabatta roll and warmed in the oven. A beautiful thing.

So this weekend we decided to have a scaled-down Thanksgiving a little early. I knocked together the chutney in about an hour, we picked up a free-range chicken and some veggies, and The Boy found a nice Bordeaux. Result:





The green pesto-esque thing in the foreground above is garlic ground up with fresh rosemary, oregano and sage, blended with butter and massaged under the skin of the chicken. Was it good? What do you think?

Best of all: we got to have the next-day sandwich for supper the same day. And there was enough chicken left for lunch sandwiches for half the week and some fabulous enchiladas, for which The Boy made fresh tomatillo sauce.

Hey, there's no rule that says you can only celebrate Thanksgiving once a year.

Bad citizen! Part Two

Last night, while celebrating the end of Turkey Day with friends over homemade butternut squash pie and spiced apple cocktails, someone pointed out that this was my first Thanksgiving as an American citizen.

And how had I commemorated the event?

I watched ten minutes of the Macy's parade and made snarky comments throughout--apart from the part where I immediately recognized that the giant silver bunny balloon was designed by Jeff Koons.

I walked (walked!) to Thanksgiving lunch.

Which was in a French (French!) restaurant.

And then I walked home.

I did not watch football.

I did not spend time with relatives.

I did not make plans to rise at 4 o'clock this morning so I could start my Christmas shopping.

I am such a bad citizen.

Happy happy Turkey Day ...

A question I'm often asked at this time of year: "Do you celebrate Thanksgiving?"

Well, duh.

I understand the assumption that because I'm not from around these here parts, and didn't grow up with the tradition, I may not embrace the full meaning of the holiday.

But come on--it's all about food. How could I not celebrate?

In the past, our Thanksgiving has involved getting together with friends and turkey and a multitude of side dishes and eating until coma sets in. Last year was a prime example.

But this time, as we hadn't made plans to get together with others, and as I had to be back at work on Friday, we decided to take the easy way out and made reservations at Sandrine's in Harvard Square.



I was slightly reticent, because even though I love the food at Sandrine's (Alsatian, so lots of pork and sauerkraut and incredible Flammkueche), the clientele skews toward hard-of-hearing Harvard alums and their entitled families, meaning there's a good chance of being wedged between parties of yelling yahoos.

Today, however, we were in luck. The place was busy but not heaving, and apart from the family behind us (whose black-turtle-necked patriarch, when not conversing with his disinterested offspring in clumsy French, felt it necessary to explain his 12-year-old daughter's vegetarian stance to the waiter), we had a peaceful meal.

Ah, yes, the meal. The Boy began with a half-dozen escargots in garlic butter. I went for the butternut squash veloutée with wildflower honey.



It was creamy (of course) with a slightly spicy edge, the sweet intensity of the honey coming through as a final note.

And then we did something we hardly ever do in restaurants: we both had the same entree. Well, you have to have turkey at Thanksgiving, dontcha?



With haricots verts and jaunes, golden beets, obscenely buttery mashed potato and a cake of chestnut stuffing.

As often happens, I only ate half my main. But while this is usually because I'm too full, this time I had an ulterior motive. If Thanksgiving is about eating huge piles of nosh, the day after is about reheating the leftovers for breakfast. And I was damned if I was going to miss out on that tradition.

Plus I was, um, too full.

Though apparently not too full for dessert: pernod creme brulée with a perfectly carmelized, crackable crust of brown sugar.



The Boy decided to end the meal with a glass of Pierre Ferrand cognac. It was of exceptional quality, and deliciously smooth, the reason for which became clear when we got the check: despite The Boy's best efforts to point at the 12-year-old vintage, the waiter had delivered the 25-year, with associated markup. Still, it was fabulous. And very pretty.



A delicious meal, capped off by the joy of not having to wash dishes. We'd definitely do Thanksgiving out again.

But that said, we both missed the fun of cooking--of prepping the turkey, and roasting veggies, and finding new ways to add extra sin to gravy and mashed potatoes. This morning I came across my favorite cranberry chutney recipe (from Julia Child via Robin) and felt a twinge of regret that I had no need to make it this year.

On the other hand, Christmas is only a month away. And we'll need to eat something.