I dropped my programming class.
And to celebrate, I bought four canvases.
I began digging into (quite literally) a massive, sculptural art project I’ve had broiling in the back of my head for months. It’s top-secret for now, but David Lynch is its muse and it may end as half a diptych.
I blew off a barbeque, a cupcake-making party (I know!), a night of dancing, a pair of dinner invitations and one for coffee, my phone and my email inbox, a writing project in my other class, and I made art. All day Saturday. It made me really, really happy.
Then, yesterday was Couples’ Decadence, a perfect day just to ourselves capped with a ridiculous dinner at Central Kitchen. Our favorite way to approach their menu is as small plates (i.e. we just order a whole bunch of bar snacks and appetizers for dinner). First, because the entrées are enormous and really feed two, plus because there are so many flavors, and the menu changes often. Besides, we love eating family-style.
We started with a dozen oysters, the kitchen’s selection, three each of four varieties. I was most excited about the Beau Soleil, from Nova Scotia, because Cristo’s current favorite oysters are the PEIs at Persephone. Then came deviled eggs. It’s fascinating to me to see these come on so strong and popular as “bar snacks” recently. The Plough & Stars does amazing, intense deviled eggs with crab meat, which sounds terrifying but are actively amazing. Central Kitchen’s were prepared with tuna and capers, and didn’t stand up to the Plough’s, but were still excellently satisfying. Of course, the best deviled eggs in the entire world are my mother’s, as my sister will attest, though the Plough might argue.
Our next pair of plates was a ceviche, and a chicken liver pate. Really, the whole meal was about luxurious and raw or undercooked meats that could kill us. The cerviche came out like an oyster shooter in a thin short glass, made with sweeter citruses than is traditionally Mexican (less lime, more orange or grapefruit; maybe even tangerine). It was bite-sized cuts of shrimp and cod floating in milky acidic juices; any fruit pieces flotsaming in the glass were chopped far too finely to be edible. I’m spoiled by ceviches with giant mango slices, but what they were going for was the pickling aspect of the dish, a pattern that would repeat in our next pairing. The pate, though, was truly and astonishingly something. It was served on crisp slices of a savory short bread, with some sort of jammy plum reduction and flesh.
Finally came two of our favorite small plates, the ones that we find ourselves ordering over and over, at least one of them every time we eat here. First, seared octopus tentacles: crispy, smoked, and spicy, the tips like charred twigs, the thickest bits tender and resistant. They are an embrace, wrapped around a nest of frisee salad. Buried amidst the pale branching leaves are sauteed and pickled veg; beautiful mathematical cubes of paprika potatoes that first strike one as croutons dot the dish. Then, the Parisian-style beef tatare, a life-in-your-hands dish: raw ground beef, seasoned and marinated exquisitely, with two crisp slices of grilled bread and a side of pickled veg: onion, cauliflower, cornichons.
Set into the center of the bowl of beef is a single quail’s egg, its top lopped off, its golden yolk gentle inside the dappled shell. It sits on a small square of wax or parchment paper, presumably to protect the meat from any cross-contamination with the eggshell. It reminds you of the risk. The raw egg reminds you the beef is raw. Cristo pours the raw egg over the raw beef, and I stab the yolk with a corner of grilled bread, scoop up some cold meat on the warm toast as he spreads the egg across the tatare in a thin slimy layer with the back of a fork.
Our waiter was excellent. He recommended two great wines: a white for the oysters and first half of the meal, and a red for the last pairing that was really yummy and also held its own against the beef, the smoked spiciness of the octopus, and all of the pickled tastes.
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