Last evening, I attended Junk Ditch Brewing Company’s Monday Night Pairing Dinner. This is the third dinner of its kind that Junk Ditch has hosted, but only the second that I’ve been able to attend. On this special evening, the theme was Italian cuisine. If you were expecting Sunday gravy, a metric ton of spaghetti, gabagool, mortadel’ or prosciut’–you may have left disappointed. This wasn’t your Italian-American grandma’s cooking and, frankly, I’m glad. Midwestern Olive Garden culture is alive and well–and it was nowhere near Junk Ditch Brewing last night. This was an exploratory dinner–taking us from the North of Italy with its use of zucca (or pumpkin, to you uncultured plebs who didn’t fail four years of Italian in school like I did) to Southern Italy, with its cold, refreshing gazpacho style soups. To accompany each plate: an Italian wine–and not once did a bottle of Chianti in a fiasco basket make an appearance. Stereotypes were avoided, expectations were subverted, and–as a result–good times were had by all! This dinner sold out–and extremely quickly! I was lucky enough to snag a table for bestie and I to share, but much to our delight, a table of friends was booked right next to ours. So, tables were pushed together and an Italian-inspired dinner was shared as all good Italian food is meant to be–amongst the best of company.
Almost as soon as we sat down, we were treated to a plank of focaccia with house ricotta, honey, and seeds. My friends and I, all brilliant gourmandizers, found the ricotta to be so divinely creamy that some even questioned if it was a blend of butter and ricotta. But behold: it was merely splendiferous cheese, drizzled with honey, and sprinkled with nuts. When slathered upon a notch of the freshly baked focaccia–the experience was transcendent. Some of the crew working the event suggested that the bread was actually the best part of the meal. While the entire meal was absolutely scrumptious–I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the bread was particularly dreamy. It was a truly divine way to begin the evening and set a nearly unachievably high bar for Junk Ditch to hit with the rest of the meal. Yet, somehow–they managed.
The amuse-bouche was two petite, fried potatoes, that appeared to have been given a gentle smash to just slightly burst them open. With them, an undeniably unique cauliflower cheddar rillette. For the uninitiated, a rillette is generally a preservation method of meat that is similar to confit. Meat is submerged in fat, cooked slowly over a period of several hours, only later to be consumed as a spreadable or dunkable treat–perhaps on some crusty bread with some cornichon and a slight schmear of mustard. This imagining of a rillette was, obviously, vegetarian–it is the first non-animal rillette I’ve ever tried and I enjoyed it tremendously. The entire plate was bedecked with microgreens and pickled mustard seeds. In its entirety, it was effectively a reimagining of potato salad. I’ve never been one to give a hoot for potato salad. For me, the dish totters between unimpressive and sometimes disgusting–depending on who makes it. When Junk Ditch presents its topsy-turvy and reimagined versions of this classic dish, I am never disappointed. To pair, the LaLuca Prosecco: a divine sip to begin an evening with. Italy’s answer to France’s Champagne, Prosecco hits basically the same flavor profile of traditional Champagne. Think green fruits like apples and pears and citrusy grapefruits and lemons. Instead of the big yeasty or bready quality that Champagne often offers, I found this Prosecco to come through with some nice minerality that was really refreshing. There was still a hint of that lovely toast note that we know and love with Champagnes and Proseccos, but I found the minerality to be more present. It was delightful. With persistent fizz and high acid, this paired perfectly with our first tiny bite of the evening.
Next was our soup course: a white gazpacho. Consisting of sunchoke, cooked down to utter creamy nothingness, with hints of garlic, a single half of a smoked grape, bits of almond, and minced celery–which, after much debate, my dining companions and I agreed must have been pickled, in some sense. Served cold, this was a lovely white gazpacho with myriad textures and flavors to delight the palate. To pair, a sip of Principe Pallavicini Frascati. I’ll be honest, because there’s no point in lying, and say that I’m not as well versed in Italian wines as I’d like to be and this was my first ever taste of a Frascati. I’d place it at being medium bodied, leaning toward off-dry, and higher in acid–all reasons why it played so nicely with this chilled gazpacho, packed full of bold flavors. This still white wine was citrusy, with a bit of melon and minerality–though not my absolute favorite of the evening, it certainly piqued my interest regarding Frascati and I’m certain that, sometime in my future, I’ll be searching out more bottles to sample.
I said it before, and I’ll never stop saying it: pasta is never just pasta. It’s a magical tonic. It’s a balm. It’s a salve. A warm blanket. A love letter: sent or not. It’s an old song. A romance. It is what might have been, under better circumstances. It’s what might become: someday. A promise. A prayer. It’s the breath after your head has been underwater for too long. It’s a hug. It’s hope. This is why pasta is never just pasta. It’s somehow both an exercise in the art of precision and the science of alchemy: romancing simple ingredients into something so much better than the sum of its parts. The pasta plate was very likely my most favorite of the evening–if that makes me a basic bitch, so be it. Butternut raviolo with slices of citrus, butter, melted leeks, and a subtle drizzle of aged balsamic: this is the flavor combination that everyone at home in their kitchen dousing frozen butternut squash ravioli in sage brown butter sauce actually needs, but they don’t know that they want it yet. This plate is the marriage of two seasons. A warm, welcoming, hello hug from autumn and a sweet, subtle, goodbye kiss from summer. I will dream about this plate for the foreseeable future–there’s a good chance it will never leave my mind. When I say “pasta is never just pasta,” it may be the most honest phrase I’ve ever put to page. This wasn’t just pasta: it told a story using the language of food to capture the tale of the changing seasons. Well fucking done on this one, chef! To pair, the wine that–if I remember correctly–our server told me was their favorite pick of the pairing dinner. The Colosi Nero D’Avola: a bold red wine with medium tannins, medium acidity, and whispers of cherry, blackberry, plum, and a whole bunch of other delightful sensations. Honestly, if I’m right and this was the pick of the evening for our server–good pick, friend. This would also be my pick: this is one of those bottles that isn’t terribly expensive at all, but it delivers flavors you might expect from a bottle priced at twice the cost. I’m not trying to say it’s the finest of fine wines–so, if you’re a wine snob looking for a fight, don’t get it fucking twisted–but for a weekday sip, especially when paired with a lovely Italian dinner, this wine is a pretty smart choice. This was quite possibly my favorite pairing of the evening.
The entree was braised veal atop a bed of polenta, flanked with winter vegetables cooked in Junk Ditch’s iconic woodfired oven, and blanketed in a sauce vierge. I fear my description won’t do this plate justice, so before I begin I want to preface whatever words come next by saying I enjoyed this dish. I cleaned my plate. I have no complaints. But, I don’t know if I fully understand what I ate. When I was a child, after Thanksgiving, my grandmother would take leftover turkey, grind it to a mince, and make these conical shaped turkey croquettes. They were diner style little pyramids of fried joy that we lathered in turkey gravy and greedily devoured. I haven’t eaten one in probably over fifteen years but it’s a happy childhood memory, nonetheless. The veal dish put me in mind of this sense memory from my childhood, as I can only describe the braised veal as being, perhaps, some kind of croquette. The exterior was blanketed in something–batter or breadcrumb, who am I to say. I’m uncertain. At this point, dinner was inching closer and closer to abutting my bedtime, I’d had several sippy sips of wine, and my senses were swimming from the constant stimulation of good food and good company. I will be frank and say the veal dish was not at all what I expected from a menu that read as “braised veal.” I assumed I’d get a dish similar to the one served at the last Junk Ditch Monday Night Pairing Dinner that I attended–you can read about that on the appropriate blog post if you’re curious, because I’m not going to rehash the gorgeous details here. (Update: A friend with all the insider details sent me the kindest voice memo explaining the dish. So, allow me to elucidate in full detail the preparation of last night’s entree: Chef Andrew braised the veal breast, he took the liquid that he braised the breast in and added gelatin, then he added the shredded meat back into the liquid, formed it into a log, chilled it. Finally, it was sliced, breaded, fried, and served. Magnifico!) Junk Ditch completely subverted my expectations with this entree. It’s not a bad thing. How could it be bad that this entree gave me a full-blown Ratatouille moment where I was transported back to a childhood memory I’d nearly entirely forgotten? I feel like I still haven’t fully processed the experience–the only thing I know definitively is that I would gladly swim in a pool of polenta. This plate was paired with the Farina Amarone della Valpolicella: a full bodied, oaky red, with suggestions of plum and raspberry. It stood up nicely to this plate. Another excellent sip that I would more than happily sip again.
As for dessert–my god, do I have words. I often find that the dessert course can be forgettable, but I will be dreaming of this dessert course until the day I die. Another primo example of simple things becoming more than the sum of their parts: torn shards of olive oil cake, with a small scoop of vanilla ice cream, two torched kisses of meringue, piles of candied orange peel, a whisper of fennel frond, a dukkah (which my GK Carrot Cake obsessives will realize is not entirely dissimilar to the sprinkling of seeds used on GK’s Carrot Cake), all sitting pretty atop a shallow pool of decadent chocolate sauce. The olive oil cake was otherworldly: with a thick, golden crusting, visually reminiscent of the exterior of an angel cake but infinitely more delicious. This cake could almost–I said almost–make me forget all about GK’s Carrot Cake. That is the highest compliment that I can give a cake. To pair with this mind-bendingly delicious dessert, a glass of Adesso Cagnina Di Romagna Dolce. This sweet–but not too sweet–red played a pivotal part in the divine creation of, I kid you not, probably my favorite wine and dessert pairing I’ve ever encountered. (Can I just say: I’m so glad it was this wine and not just a Vinsanto.) So often, dessert-y wines end up feeling heavy and saccharine; not this baby. Light on the palate, with some interesting depth of flavor to counterbalance the sweetness–I’m wondering who I have to bribe to get this exact dessert plate and this exact glass of wine as an annual birthday treat. This was the absolute most idyllic end to a meal–I can imagine no sweeter, more perfect ending. And, for that reason, I feel that this is where I end my writing–as there is nothing more to say other than bravo. Complimenti al cuoco!
Plonk & Pleasure 
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