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Dana’s: French inspired, Fort Wayne accessible…
It was a Friday afternoon in Fort Wayne and I knew exactly what to order. Volchy scooped me up at my doorstep and ushered me downtown. We found parking faster than usual: because sometimes things just work out. With no reservation, we showed up at Dana’s mere minutes after opening. Still–it was far from a ghost town. Fort Wayne is big, but not that big, so word of this chic new spot has spread like wildfire. Despite the observed popularity of the newest restaurant to pop-up on The Landing, we scored a table–actually, a cozy little booth. I like the booths. When you go, you should sit at a booth. There’s something intimate about booths; especially black booths with curved backs.
I knew what I wanted to eat before I walked in the door; but it wasn’t any easy choice for me to make. Though I’d like to give the impression that I went into this dining experience with nerves steeled, mind thoroughly made up, and indecision conveniently left on my bedside table–I can’t lie to you. I felt a little uncertain with my choice to dine at Dana’s: new things can be scary for countless reasons. But the menu at Dana’s is seductive, to say the least. It’s a menu to be appreciated–clearly, a team of talented people has put in a lot of work to turn this dreamy vision into a reality. I can say with absolute confidence, there’s not a single dish on the menu that I wouldn’t try. Everything looks and sounds spectacular. Secondly, I think the menu has been more than fairly priced. Yes, even that $120 Côte de Boeuf is fairly priced and I can say that with unwavering certainty because–spoiler alert–it’s what I ordered. Bitch, it comes with tallow fries! They’ve even started serving up a simple, delicious, Champagne vinaigrette dressed salad as a precursor to the steak-show: because 40 minutes is not an inconsequential amount of time to wait for your dinner. (Though I assure you, time flies when you’re eating a scrummy salad.) I digress. A third point for why I’m enamored with the menu at Dana’s is there is no prescribed order. There’s no dictator denoting appetizers from entrees. There’s not even a guide for what’s a small plate or a large plate–and I’m so glad, because frankly, I much prefer when it’s all open for interpretation in the court of common opinion. Rather than tell you how to eat, Dana’s simply lists the food options available. Choose what you will. Eat what you like. Sate your personal level of hunger: because we’re not all built the same and a prescriptive menu, similarly to fast fashion, fits very few.
The wine list isn’t too shabby, either. Volchy turned me on to Carboniste wines after he spent a few days in Cincinnati and explored a Skurnik Wines Portfolio tasting. My personal prediction: this will be the hip bubbly of summer in Fort Wayne. Right now Dana’s is offering the Carboniste Pinot Grigio Pet Nat aka “The Mackerel.” Depending on its interaction with oxygen (as in how recently the bottle was opened) this wine can behave a little differently–or so I’m told. Even with this knowledge: I have no complaints, only raves. The color of my first pour was pretty fucking orange, my friends. (And so was my second pour. Yes, I liked it that much.) This low alcohol sip is giving citrus, she’s giving green fruit, she’s giving yeast, but remaining insanely fresh while she’s giving you an appropriate amount of fizz to the face. If I hadn’t just dropped a puke-inducing amount of money on required bottles of wine for my upcoming WSET class, I’d be purchasing several bottles from Carboniste, just for funs and summertime enjoyment. I’m telling you: Carboniste is going to be the cool kid sip this summer. (I mean, not for me. I’ll be pouring whatever is required of me for class…which is decidedly not a cool kid move. But, like, you should have fun.) Stock up while ya still can, dingus.
As for food, I had my sights set on Fried Olives. I would have also happily eaten Oysters, Steak Tartare, and Tallow Fries with dips–but I suppose this just gives me good reason to go back very soon. As for the Fried Olives: I want to know who gave Dana’s the right to put so many of my favorite things onto one plate and fuck with my feelings like they did. Your girl doesn’t just love an olive–she loves a warm olive, a stuffed olive, a fried olive. Have y’all ever had those fried olive bites that you can sometimes get in the frozen food section at Trader Joe’s? Dana’s basically looked at those and said, “Bet.” These olives are stuffed with spicy nduja for an appropriate kick. The little bites are breaded, fried, and served with a “gorgonzola anchovy sauce.” If that sounds like a total mindfuck, I get it and I can’t fault you. But, if you read those words and your first reaction is something like, “How can I get an IV drip of Gorgonzola Anchovy Sauce” then we can be best friends. If salty isn’t your thing, this dish ain’t for you. To be real, it’s salty as fuck–but I live for these flavors. I will absolutely order these again. Like, real soon–don’t you dare change them.
Volchy thought it would be a nice idea to try some Ratatouille–and he wasn’t wrong. If you’ve seen the iconic film, it’s basically just that. You’re Anton Ego. You take a bite of this beautifully plated, traditional French vegetable dish. You think of your mother. Suddenly, you’re a child. It’s summertime in France. All of the vegetables are fresh and pleasant. The aroma of sun dried herbs tickles your nose before their taste even has a chance to dance on your palate. You are comforted by the knowledge that someone cooked this for you with love: because you are loved. Everything is beautiful and nothing tastes like rats made it–because as much as I love Disney movies, rats probably shouldn’t be in professional kitchens. If that’s a hot take: sorry, I guess. You know those days when it’s so hot out that you almost don’t feel like eating food? Those days are coming. They’re creeping up on the horizon even now. The Ratatouille at Dana’s will be there for you. So fresh. Filling, but light. Exquisite.
Now the salad–which we did not order but were more than happy to receive. It’s a sort of “thank you for your patience while we cook your big-ass steak.” I am not one to tell you how to eat. You should eat as much or as little as you need to feel full. I am someone who can house a big steak pretty easily–no regrets. It is my personal opinion that, if you’re getting that humongous steak–which comes with fries and a salad–you probably don’t need other noms. Even split amongst two people, it’s quite a bit of food. Could I do it alone? Depends on the day, but generally speaking: solid maybe. That’s just me though. And, if you don’t intend to take home leftovers, hopefully you’ve entered the situation pretty famished. Now, all this is to say that, I am someone who loves a simple salad: and Dana’s is delivering here. At the time of writing this, the salad isn’t even on the menu. I think they’re just tossing it together for anyone who orders steak and, truly, it’s a boon for us steak eaters. Mixed greens, with olives, some herbs, and a bit of onion and shallot. I even found a clove or two of creamy garlic and a light sprinkling of green onion. The whole ordeal is topped with a snowfall of these uber flavorful, perfectly toasted breadcrumbs–maybe the best part of the whole thing. I am very much team breadcrumb over team crouton. I think there’s a time and place for croutons, but they’re widely overused and generally poorly executed; because who wants to break a tooth on weakly-flavored stale bread while trying to eat some healthy veg? It doesn’t matter–it’s not even a concern with this gorgeous salad. Brilliant ingredients are dressed in a bright Champagne vinaigrette. There’s some leftover salad in my fridge right now and I’m fighting the urge to go get it and finish it. It’s late in the evening. I don’t normally like to eat this late. Fuck it…I’m getting the salad. It’s so utterly delightful. Currently, there’s a wedge salad on the menu at Dana’s. We love to see it. But, hard truth, if they put this salad that accompanied the steak onto the menu as its own thing…I would order it consistently.
Now for the steak: a masterpiece of epic proportions. A 42 day dry-aging process on a 32 ounce ribeye. The steak is cooked flawlessly, topped with a more-than-generous slab of compound butter (which, if I’m nitpicking, was perhaps significantly colder than it should have been: just respectful food for thought if anyone is looking for a way to improve upon perfection) and served up with a side of Béarnaise for dipping. The tallow fries that come with the steak are frankly mystifying to me. These hand cut fries are hefty and flavorful–they’re tossed in malt vinegar powder and served up with a sprig of rosemary. All of your senses are at play when enjoying these fries. Their exterior is ridiculously crisp while the interior remains fluffier than cumulonimbus clouds. If you just order the Tallow Fries alone, they come with three dips. The Tallow Fries that are served with the steak do not automagically come with three dips: but if you ask really, really, really nicely somebody might bring you the dips anyway. No promises. If you are someone living in or around Fort Wayne, Indiana and you happen to enjoy steak frites, you should not deprive yourself of this iteration. I can’t promise that you’ll find your absolute new favorite steak frites dinner–because everyone seems to hold strong personal opinions on this particular plate–but you will most certainly find a top contender. How you enjoy this Côte de Beouf is entirely up to you. It’s all about what you want out of the evening. Like I said earlier, this offering is absolutely sharable: though I still contend I could wreck this steak dinner alone, with the right attitude and a glass of Cabernet Franc.
You already know what comes next. Do I even need to say it? Go to Dana’s. Choose literally anything off their menu; it’s dripping with wonderful options for carnivores, herbivores, and omnivores alike. Go there with friends or family or your mortal enemy if you’re trying to show them a good time for some reason–I won’t judge. If you’re feeling it, try the Pet Nat, it rules. Or don’t. There’s a whole list of wines, cocktails, and beers for you to explore. Do as I say, not as I do, except when I tell you to check out Dana’s–then do exactly as I say. If you see me there and notice a 32 oz dry aged steak coming to my table once I’ve wrecked the salad, don’t be surprised. Give a girl a big steak and a glass of Cab Franc and she can take on the world.
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Venturi Pizza: pizza is the glue that temporarily holds a broken heart together…
Some people love Valentine’s Day. They yearn all year long for the annual return of February 14th–bringing with it a storm of cheap chocolates and polyester rose petals. But when the corporate-constructed pink and red haze sets in on my city, something inside me screams to get out of dodge. So, I listen to that persistent voice in my head, I hop in my car, and I drive–but, to where? This animalistic urge to flee in the face of a romantic-storm, like wildlife instinctively scattering in the fragile moments before a tsunami reaps destruction, begs the question, “How far have you run to try to escape a broken heart?” Which, unfortunately, can only raise the followup question, “When did you learn that you can’t ever run away from yourself?” Everywhere you go–there you are. You’re the wildlife and the tsunami.
Surely, we’ve all suffered our own small heartbreaks; it’s part of the human condition. But, the big heartbreaks–the real whoppers–the massive shatters, well, I don’t think all of us have suffered that misfortune. For the unlucky few who have genuinely had their heart mishandled, repeatedly drop-kicked, and stomped with big black combat boots: I’m sorry. I don’t think those truly significant breaks ever really repair–or cease. It doesn’t really get better; you just learn to live with it. Your heart is like a midwest highway constantly under construction. Demolished, then repaired to somebody’s definition of the word but not necessarily your own–only for it to begin again, with no ‘completion’ date for the unending project in sight. But just as spirits make themselves known in this mortal coil the closer we inch to October 31st, I think the scariest part of this holiday is how the eternal crumbling of a permanently broken heart grows louder and louder the closer we inch to February 14th. The sound of something fragile inside you, still going to pieces after all these years, will echo as you lie awake in bed at night–haunting you. Those of us afflicted, so stoic and strong 364 days out of the year, fall to bits when faced with Prix Fixe romantic dinners for two hosted at all of our favorite usual haunts. While we can’t outrun the sorrow or the echo of the everlasting obliteration of our fragile tickers, we can escape our status quo and run towards something necessary–though perhaps counterintuitive. At times like this, all we can do is run towards the closest thing we still have to that dirty four-lettered thing that fucked us over in the first place–love.Don’t get it twisted, dear reader: I don’t mean that you should run back into the arms of your ex. (Darling, if there’s any day to let the battery on your phone die and go completely off grid, February 14th is it.) They say love comes in all types. These days, the only love I know is often round, though not always, and while I prefer it broken down into triangles–I won’t turn my nose up at it in any shape. Yes, pizza: “more reliable than any lover I have ever known.” Trusted, tried, and true–the only thing I want to spend my Valentine’s Day with. Pizza won’t ever break my heart.
On February 14th, I found myself more than an hour away from my house. My urge to run away had driven me to Goshen, Indiana but my destination was much more specific than that. I was headed to Venturi: Indiana’s first certified Neapolitan Pizzeria. Venturi has been certified by the Vera Pizza Napoletana since 2011. For the uninitiated, the VPN is effectively an international non-profit organization whose sole purpose is recognizing the artisanship of true Neapolitan pizza, founded by a gang of Neapolitan pizzaiolis (or, pizza makers, for those who don’t enjoy doling out dope titles). In 1984, shortly after the non-profit was formed, it was deemed a “denomination of control,” or DOC, by the Italian government. In short, that means the Italian government recognized the organization’s authority on all things related to defining Neapolitan pizza. Venturi, in Goshen, holds the high regard of meeting these strict standards. Furthermore, it’s been named one of Esquire’s Top 15 most life-changing pizzas in the US. All I could think as I approached Venturi was, “I could really use a life-changing pizza right now.”
The atmosphere of Venturi is clean, bright, and transportative. Enter their doorway, and it’s suddenly debatable whether or not you’re still in Indiana. They offer respite from the doldrums of everyday life–the DOC qualifying pizza is just the cherry on top! But, before jumping into pizza, my ride-or-die adventure buddy and I each ordered a glass of wine. They opted for the Aglianico; a full bodied, fruit forward red wine sure to pair well with most pies on the menu. As for me, my heart was set on a glass–or two–of the Gragnano. In my mind, this wine is one of the most quintessential pizza sippers. If it’s not in your current rotation, seek out a bottle for your next pizza night! This red wine was just off-dry with effervescence that created a really gorgeous pink-hued mousse that briefly floated atop the wine only to soon ethereally vanish.
Our first bite? The Fougasse: because you don’t see this on every menu! Venturi serves these pull-apart style breadsticks with imported Italian tomatoes, Extra Virgin Olive Oil, and oregano. Upon first bite, my initial reaction was, “Mmmmmm,” but my second reaction was, “This texture is everything I dreamed it would be and nothing like what I expected it to be.” I’m accustomed to being let down. I’m accustomed to having reality fall short of my hopes and dreams. Life often doesn’t live up to my expectations. But the Fougasse was perfection. You tear into it and the dough rips apart like clouds in the hands of angels. Yet, it retains the chew and relative density that you would expect from a really masterfully crafted dough. This is one of those foods where the past and the future simply melted away while I ate. There was only the present moment: me and the Fougasse. Flawless–I have no other words for this. It’s simply flawless.
As for pizzas, if you’re truly a smart cookie, you’ve probably pieced together that for the VPN to consider a pizza made in America a truly authentic, DOC qualifying, Neapolitan pizza–it must meet very strict standards. These standards are so stringent that most pizzas on the menu at Venturi don’t actually qualify. A true Neapolitan pizza doesn’t have a lot of extra toppings. If you want to throw on olives, mushrooms, or even pepperoni–you’re SOL, because your pizza is no longer going to meet DOC requirements. Venturi has three qualifying pizzas on the menu: for an American pizzeria, that’s honestly a lot and we should all be eternally grateful and ecstatic that we have access to those three DOC qualifying pizzas. If you go to Venturi solely to try a super authentic pizza with the DOC certification, your options are: Marinara, Margherita, or Margherita Extra. The Marinara has no cheese; just tomatoes, oregano, basil, and garlic. The Margherita should require no explanation, but in case your brain is still in bed, it’s just imported Italian tomatoes, Mozzarella, and basil. Basic stuff. Simple. Pure. Perfection. The Margherita Extra is essentially the same, but they give you a little extra of the house-made Mozzarella cheese on it–making this pie feel like the closest existing thing to a peace treaty between Midwest America and Naples, Italy. I got one DOC Certified pizza and one that wasn’t certified but was still properly delicious! Obviously, for my DOC pizza, I went for the Margherita. Your girl likes to keep things classy and classic. I have zero regrets about my pizza choice; which is more than I can say about most of the people I’ve dated.
So, given that Venturi prides themselves on keeping their pizzas pretty gosh darn authentic, you should anticipate that when your pizza arrives at your table it will not be cut into slices. That’s your job. Make like you’re in Naples, grab your fork and knife, and get to work. (They have a “Plan B” in back if there’s a problem–but we’re not going to have any problems with cutting our pizza. Are we, fam?) My Margherita pizza was gorgeous: a thin layer of bright red tomatoes, a generous yet limited distribution of melty house-made Mozzarella, and pops of green basil leaves bedecked a perfectly leopard-spotted round of dough. But that’s another thing about Venturi; these aren’t pizzas manufactured to corporate specifications and formed into a perfect circle every single time without fail. These are very much hand-crafted, artisan pizzas: size and shape may vary slightly. I think that’s one of the most beautiful things about these pizzas. Here I am going on and on about how it looked–when, really, how it tasted was the most impressive part of it. I have only three words to describe the flavor of the Margherita pizza: elegant, transcendent, pure. I offer no further explanation–you won’t understand unless you’ve tried it for yourself and, even then, maybe you won’t “get it.” But, for those of us who “get it,” there is no denying–this pizza is beyond measure.
I had a genuinely difficult time settling on a second pizza to try; as literally every menu item was appealing and there were at least six that sounded right up my alley. Ultimately, it was the Spicy Sopressa that caught my eye. (And maybe I ordered one of their current specials, a Black Garlic pizza, for the road–but that’s my damn business.) The Spicy Sopressa doesn’t qualify for the DOC Certification because it’s too extra. Topped with sopressa, Ricotta, and Kalamata olives, this pizza packs a punch. My dining companion immediately upon first bite said, “Heads up, she spicy.” I got a little scared, as my buddy is not one to complain about spice levels and can typically handle much more heat than I can. I was pleasantly surprised to find the spice level was enjoyable and more than tolerable for me. If you can handle something along the lines of Calabrian chili paste, this pizza will be well within your spice-tolerance-threshold. The ultra-creamy Ricotta and the bright, briny olives offer gripping contrast to the spicy sopressa. I don’t care what the VPN says, this pizza is officially awarded the Plonk & Pleasure seal of approval. I maybe don’t have as much clout as the entire country of Italy; but I’m cute and a smartass, which I’m pleasantly surprised to find is usually more than enough to get me by.
I wasn’t going to write about it–I was just going to gobble it down as if I were feral and call it my ‘secret’ pizza–but the Black Garlic pizza was too good not to write about! Admittedly, I traveled over an hour with it and then had to re-warm it in my shitty oven on my okay-ish pizza stone. Despite my cruel treatment, this pizza still slapped. (Pizza really is more reliable than any lover I have ever known.) Topped with their house made Mozzarella, black garlic, pancetta, red onion, and basil this pie managed to be both pretty and full of substance. Like, sheeeeeeeeesh! Did any of us really care about black garlic before Bob Belcher bet it all on black garlic? Arguably, no. I think everyone’s favorite dad and grill chef started a genuine movement in American cuisine. And now, thanks to the heavy lifting done by a cartoon character, I get to enjoy pizzas like this. Thanks, Bob–but, maybe more importantly, thanks Venturi for breathing this pizza into reality. This pizza is ulta creamy, ultra cheesy, and the subtle funky-sweetness of the black garlic is, frankly, unmatchable. And I can’t believe I’ve gotten to my penultimate paragraph and only now am I finding the right time to tell you–I will always eat the crust of a Venturi pizza. They’re that good. If this is reading like a rave review, it’s because it is.
Pizza is the glue that temporarily holds a broken heart together. And while everyday cardiac wear-and-tear can always be treated by the love doctors at your local pizzeria, some matters of the heart require a specialist. If you need a life-changing pizza to keep the shards of your shattered ticker together another day, look no further than Venturi.
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Johnny OX: a sacred journey through the prowess and expression of a culinary virtuoso…
I’ve written a lot about pizza. Scan through previous blogs and you’ll find that I’ve penned that pizza is “more reliable than any lover.” To quote myself, “There’s no amount of money I wouldn’t spend, no distance I wouldn’t travel, no obstacle I wouldn’t overcome for the sake of pizza.” I’ve made questionable choices in the name of pizza before. Drove a little unsafely to reach my final destination–obviously, it was pizza. At the risk of sounding narcissistic, I’ll quote myself once more, “These are the choices that I make for love of pizza. I will never know a greater love.” I used to believe that there was no such thing as decent pizza past Pittsburgh. I’ve grown and I’ve learned. There is good pizza in the midwest. It exists as indisputably as death, taxes, and rats. There is also bad pizza in the midwest, so you have to seek out the good stuff. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again and again: pizza is a love language. Frankly, most pizza places don’t actually speak the love language of pizza–it’s a rare thing. Serving up some dough covered in sauce and cheese doesn’t automatically make you fluent. Love is rare; hard to come by. It doesn’t happen every day. Which, perhaps, is why it’s taken me so long to write about the pizza that is actually, hands down, my absolute favorite in Fort Wayne. It can be a lot easier to tell someone that you “like” them, or even that you “like like” them, than it is to express your love.
Saying “I love you,” for the first time can be a scary thing–almost as scary as outwardly admitting which pizza place in Fort Wayne is your favorite. (Imagine doing both in one breath: I’m gonna, baby–if you’ll just stick with me a little longer…) While many Midwesterners might not actually know what good pizza is, they certainly have some fucking strong opinions. But, I suppose that’s historically been the American way–stay ignorant, but hold your uninformed opinion horrifically strongly. God forbid you show up and suggest that a Midwesterner’s favorite little hut selling cardboard covered in ketchup and melting plastic isn’t heaven sent and delicious beyond measure. Look, I love pizza more than I love my own mother. (Sorry, mom! But, we both saw this coming.) I try to have an open mind because I genuinely believe that there is a time and place for all pizzas, regardless of type or quality. But, even with an open mind, I’m going to form my own, (well) informed opinions. I can’t help it. I’m human. There is a pizza place in Fort Wayne that I fell in love with at first bite. I go back over and over again–you couldn’t pay me to stay away. If pizza really is a love language, they speak it fluently. I no longer feel that I need to prioritize getting a pie when I visit home. The stuff being served up by this pizza place in Fort Wayne is just as good–if not better–than any New York (or if you know your shit: New Jersey) slice that I can get in the tristate area when I’m back home on the East Coast. But how do I summarize all of my immeasurably strong feelings about this pizza place? How do I sum it all up into a few pithy paragraphs? It’s easier to say nothing than to try to explain how much I love Johnny OX Pizza and fail at getting my point across clearly–so I’ve stayed quiet. I’ve stayed quiet for too long. If Johnny OX isn’t your favorite pizza in Fort Wayne: you’re wrong.
Recently, The Local did a brilliant write up on Johnny OX pizza. (I don’t believe in competition. I want everyone to win. I’ll link to it right here: https://www.thelocalfw.com/johnny-ox/) If you have any questions on Chef Johnny Bojinoff, The Local article will surely have answers. A graduate of Le Cordon Bleu, Chef Johnny learned how to craft artisanal, neapolitan style pies in Oregon. He already had an extensive history with bread making–his first passion–so pizza was a logical next step. This might explain why the crust on Johnny OX pizzas is so fucking delicious. The dough is fermented for a superior crust. I was recently eating pizza with a friend and she lamented, “I need to just grow up and learn to eat my crust.” To this type of thinking I scream, emphatically, “NO!” If a chef can’t be bothered to make a genuinely delicious pizza crust, you are under no obligation to consume that shit. Some pizza crust belongs in the compost pile. Dips like hot honey and ranch shouldn’t be necessary for consuming the crust: they should be an added bit of flare that makes an already extraordinary crust a little extra fun and fancy. That’s exactly how it is with Johnny OX’s pizza and that is one of the billion reasons why I love them so much.
I am always honest with you, even when I’m sugar coating the truth. But here’s where I need to get really honest. On National Pizza Day, I went to Johnny OX Pizza and ordered a pepperoni pie to take home and enjoy. I paid for it and waited for my pizza to come out of the oven–because, one of the many cool things about Johnny OX, is that your pizza will always be fresh out of the wood fired oven. It would have been a good day if I’d simply gotten my pepperoni pizza as expected–like, I even ran into a friend in line while waiting for pizza. My day was going pretty well. Chef Johnny decided to whip up the pizza I ordered, plus their Angel’s Peruvian Chicken Pizza, plus all the dips, plus their Simple Field Greens+ Crumbled Gorgonzola salad, plus a sugar cookie, and one of their absolutely dope chocolate brownies. I was floored. I didn’t expect this kindness. I tried to play it cool but, yes, I almost cried in the car on the way home. It was this act of kindness coupled with my genuine love of Johnny OX Pizza that made me realize that I need to stop fucking around and pretending like I don’t have an absolute, unequivocal, indisputable favorite pizza in Fort Wayne. “The Best” is a title that exists and should be handed out to the place that actually deserves it: and that’s Johnny OX.
Let’s start with the salad. I am a girl who will swoon over a simple salad. If I was in the mood for just a super simple salad and didn’t want to make it myself–I’d go to Johnny OX. For $6 you can get a salad of mixed field greens, with crumbled Gorgonzola, and a seriously craveable truffled-white balsamic vinaigrette. Despite loving a salad, I admittedly seek them out a little less often when the weather is cold. But in warmer months: I genuinely crave this elegant, sophisticated simple salad. The truffled-white balsamic vinaigrette is beyond description–you’ll simply have to try it for yourself. The crumbled Gorgonzola adds just that slight creamy, funky edge to the salad. It keeps things interesting. If I close my eyes while eating it, I’m in Europe with my lover: I’m carefree and enjoying my scrumptious salad–maybe with an expensive glass of wine–and my lover is paying for everything. If you’re all for eating your greens, this salad is not to be missed. Chef Johnny isn’t playing around–he’s got the training, he’s got the knowledge, he’s got the palate, and he’s going to make you eat your veggies and love it.
Next, the pizza I actually ordered and paid for–the OX Pepperoni. The fact that this pie only costs $26 is an absolute steal. Chef Johnny is meticulous when it comes to choosing ingredients for his pies. You can trust that you’re getting high quality and thoughtfully crafted cuisine when you eat anything from Johnny OX. Their pepperoni pizza is their gorgeous, slow-fermented dough topped with organic marinara, whole milk mozzarella, and dotted with Ezzo natural cased, old world, dry-cured fermented pepperoni. Sounds simple enough, right? Yeah, because at the end of the day it’s just pepperoni pizza. It’s one of the best pepperoni pizzas I’ve ever had–not because it involves rocket science, but because it is exceptionally crafted and uses quality ingredients. Drink whatever you want to drink with your pizza of choice. But if you’re having The OX Pepperoni, consider a Cabernet-Shiraz blend or a Cab Franc. I’m also all about the Gamay, but I wouldn’t kick a Syrah out of bed if it showed up with a Johnny OX pie.
The second pie that I had the honor of trying was Angel’s Peruvian Chicken. This is the chicken pizza that will make you be like, “Bye, American BBQ. It was fun while it lasted, but I’m moving on to better things.” Chef Johnny brings his family’s Macedonian and Puerto Rican influences into the cuisine he crafts–and we’re all better off for it. (This girl spent many of her childhood summers in Puerto Rico and has been missing alcapurrias since moving to the Midwest.) I’ll be honest: I’ve seen Angel’s Peruvian Chicken pizza on the menu and have never ordered it because I know that I love their pepperoni pie, I know that I’m obsessed with the I Learned It In Oregon pie, and all of their limited-time special pies are always so enticing. It can be really difficult–nearly impossible–to break your own habits and try something new. If Chef Johnny hadn’t gifted me this pie, I might have never tried it. Now, it will have to be part of my regular pizza rotation–it’s too good to be missed! Atop their expertly fermented, leopard-spotted crust is an Extra Virgin Olive Oil base, melty whole milk mozzarella, Garlic-Lime Miller’s Amish Country Chicken Breast, a bright red speckling of Sweety Drop Peppers, thin slivers of red onion, crumbles of Queso Fresco, and a generous drizzling of ají verde. Don’t know what ají verde is? That’s okay! It’s a super creamy green sauce made from ají peppers and things like garlic, scallion, cilantro, and lime. Nothing about this pie is spicy, but holy moly is it bursting with flavor! The little red peppers give each slice a subtle pop of sweetness. The chicken is beyond tender–it’s the best chicken pizza I’ve ever had, no competition. I could bathe in the green sauce. If it’s not already, make ají verde part of your vocabulary immediately and consume it regularly. I didn’t expect to eat this pizza today, so I didn’t have a wine on hand to pair with it. I personally love a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, and I think this high acid white would play nicely with Angel’s Peruvian Chicken pizza. However, I think the pro move is probably to get a Vinho Verde. I will definitely be seeking out a bottle for the next time that I enjoy this pizza.
As for the sweets that I got to enjoy, the sugar cookie was yummy as heck. Cookies after a meal are always such a treat. This one wasn’t the overly soft, frosted sugar cookies that you’ll often find on dessert tables. This cookie had texture–it was firm and crumbly, almost reminiscent of a shortbread. I wish I could tell you more about it, but I let my bestie finish it because my attention was completely stolen by the brownie. Nobody is surprised. As much as I love cookies, I am a fickle mistress–and anything chocolate, but especially brownies, will always have the power to steal my attention. If you’ve read the article put out by The Local, you’ll know that this brownie is genuinely straight out of Chef Johnny’s culinary school syllabus. This is not a fudgy brownie–it’s a cake brownie, but it’s creamy. If I’m ever having a bad day, you can fix it by buying me a brownie from Johnny OX.
Chef Johnny has got the training, the tools, and the talent: he’s genuinely mastered his craft. Go to Union St. Market any day of the week and you’ll see this man and his protégés slinging picture perfect pies with the elegance and intensity of the shop’s namesake: the noble and gentle ox. Look even closer, and what do you see? Every single recipe is visionary and the ingredients are consistently of the highest quality. Every bite from point to crust of a Johnny OX slice is a sacred journey through the prowess and expression of a culinary virtuoso. Do you have a favorite pizza place in Fort Wayne? If it isn’t Johnny OX, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re wrong. I will sing it from the mountaintop until the chorus of my fellow disciples rings throughout the land: Chef Johnny is the pizza messiah, and Johnny OX is our temple.
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Junk Ditch Mardi Gras Pairing Dinner: pass a good time…
Monday nights used to be for starting the work week, steeling yourself for the slog ahead, and mentally preparing to not punch that one really tedious coworker in the face–no matter how much they maybe might have deserved it. Mondays aren’t like that anymore since Junk Ditch started hosting hella hype-worthy monthly Monday night dinners. I just attended a Mardi Gras inspired dinner at Junk Ditch Brewing Company. Good company, good food, and good times were plentiful–like a fais do-do with no dancing. Laissez les bon temps rouler! Considering that Chef Andrew of Junk Ditch trained in NOLA under Chef Emeril Lagasse, nobody is surprised that this dinner was transportative. My home away from home is The Big Easy (Blech! Literally retching because only tourists refer to NOLA as “The Big Easy.” Apparently, I’ll write those words–for the blog’s sake and to humor you, dear reader–but you’ll never catch me speaking like that. I suffer for my art. You’re welcome.) Given my history with New Orleans, I feel informed enough to speak on the culture of this vibrant city with cuisine as rich and storied as its history. Like Tom Waits, I wish I was there right now. I am planning a trip back–it won’t be for a few more months–but this dinner really got me feeling like my next visit can’t come soon enough.
Lights up on our table–seven people and a bread course. Potato Rolls with Creole Butter were presented to us on a plank. (Love this presentation!) Volchy was there and, if you’ve been reading the blog for awhile, you’ll know that he and I coined a term, “better than bread.” The CliffsNotes version is that the bread served to start a meal should be good but the rest of the meal should be better. If the bread is the highlight of the meal, there’s a problem. This bread set a high standard for the rest of the meal to reach. Soft, pillowy rolls with lightly spiced Creole Butter–dreamy. Who doesn’t love buttery carbs? To be real, I could have eaten like six of these and been happy. I could have eaten like a dozen of these and called it a meal. But I behaved. I ate one. I didn’t upset the status quo. It took restraint. You’re welcome.
Our second plate, but arguably first course, was a Roasted Oyster with Pernod and Spinach. My dude, while I will forever argue that a single oyster is not enough–even for a tasting menu–this plate was bonkers! So, you can combine salt and egg whites to create, essentially, a crust. If you don’t know, now you know. Encase fish or meat in the concoction for dope results. On this particular occasion, the combination was actually used as a bed to hold our oyster shell–and it was a sexy as hell plating. Très chic! Atop the salty bed, half an oyster shell with a vibrant pop of spinach-green sauce and some crispy-bits of joy. There was some debate at the table if this bite was best devoured by fork or by slurping. I’ll slurp raw oysters all day long, but as soon as they’re cooked I feel like a fork needs to be involved. (Unless they’re breaded and fried–and then it’s fingers all day long, baby!) I wasn’t disappointed with my fork approach. I got essentially the whole nibble in one fell swoop. Best bite of the evening? Hard to say. It was definitely better than bread. I could eat a dozen or two of these babies and not be even a little bit sad. How could you be sad when you’re eating oysters? They’re an aphrodisiac. You can’t be sad while eating oysters–only horny. To pair, the Paul Dolan Sauvignon Blanc. This high acid wine came through clutch with green apple, lemon, and grapefruit notes. While it was the first pairing of the evening, it remained one of the most fun!
Our next course was Black Bean Soup and I can confidently say that it was unlike any other black bean soup I’ve ever had in my life. Having grown up spending many summers in Puerto Rico, black bean soup has long been on my radar. I make it at home sometimes: it’s a beloved cold weather dish. Often this soup has a thick texture–both from beans and the vegetables cooked with them. On this particular occasion, the soup was effectively vacant of texture. It was the most velvety, smooth black bean soup I’ve ever ingested. There was even a bit of Pernod in the broth; it burst with flavor. To fully enjoy this soup, you’d need to throw away any preconceived notions of black bean soup that you hold. You need to start with a fully blank slate, as if you’ve never once heard the words “black,” “bean,” and “soup” before. As its own thing, this soup kinda slapped. It was simply nothing like any black bean soup I’d ever had before. The soup was paired with the Parducci Chardonnay. A Californian wine, it was bright and crisp. Not a remarkable performance, but also no notes.
For the salad course, Shredded Romaine, Salami, Ham, Peppers, Olives, and Provolone. This salad was chopped to perfection. This type of salad is having a moment: internet famous and making the rounds on all social media platforms. This particular version was delicious, but difficult to explain. With not enough olives to be reminiscent of a Muffaletta, and not the right kind of meats to be reminiscent of a Po’ Boy, this salad was like the grinder (re: hoagie, hero, sub, or spuckie depending on your locale) of our collective dreams. I’m sure this salad could break the internet if it tried. To pair, a super fun wine–The Stump Jump White Blend. This blend is all the things you might want from a warm climate white wine. Super fruity, a nice balance of acidity and sweetness, and a little funkiness from some subtle vegetal qualities. Could quaff this–call it a porch pounder or couch crusher, if you must. This was also the white wine pick for the soup course pairing at Junk Ditch’s NYE dinner. I guess if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.
Next, to what was perhaps my favorite plate of the evening–Shrimp Ravioli with Shrimp Sauce. Two hefty ravioli were topped with some spicy andouille and ever-so-thinly sliced scallion. I am a ravioli girl and I’m not living in a ravioli world; but I should be, so I’m trying my best to make it one. When these juicy moments arise where I’m at a tasting dinner and get a plate with not one, but two, raviolis–I swoon. Life is beautiful and so was the ravioli. The little pasta pockets of deliciousness and joy were a wee bit spicy–I liked it. I liked it a lot. To pair, the Opici Chianti. If you’re a Chianti snob, maybe it’s not for you. This bottle comes straight out of the sunshine state–which, obviously, isn’t Italy. But, y’all, I for sure didn’t hate it. Like, cowabunga, this Chianti is full-bodied, not too tannic, and balanced with nice acid. Juicy red fruits with just a touch of spice. When it comes to pairing with food, this Chianti is fucking niiiiiiice.
Do you think short ribs are an undervalued and underutilized cut of beef? Yeah you right! We love all beef–but especially fork tender, flavor-poppin’ beef. For our final savory plate of the evening: Braised Beef Short Rib, Red Beans, Dirty Rice, and Hollandaise came together in perfect union. Did you know that dirty rice typically utilizes chicken lips, beaks, and spurs–I kid, obviously. It’s offal. No, not awful–it’s fucking fantastic–it’s chicken livers or whatever. I didn’t know about the chicken livers, but I did know I like it. I can tell you that the holy trinity of Cajun cuisine is onion, celery, and green bell pepper. (Like a mirepoix, but you swap the carrot for pepper.) I can tell you that the holy trinity of seasoning is black pepper, white pepper, and cayenne. I can tell you that I love red beans and rice but I couldn’t tell you how to make it. What I can confidently tell you is how to eat it–slowly savoring each bite, and with a lot of weird noises that border on being sexual. If you’re not “Mmming” somebody did something wrong. Junk Ditch made me “Mmm.” I’m sure the wine pairing helped–the Louis Bernard Côtes du Rhône. There was a lot going on with this French red wine. With bold tannins, this full-bodied wine boasted notes of jammy red fruit, smoke, leather, and spice. I’d love to revisit this wine, but paired with steak frites.
Ah, dessert–the course so many of us look forward to. Even being a savory chick, I can’t help but hold a soft spot in my heart (and a sweet tooth in my gaping maw) for really good desserts. Junk Ditch presented their take on a Bananas Foster. No flames, just torn banana cake topped with their iteration of a bananas-foster-type-sauce, brown sugar ice cream on a bed of sweet crumble, and a bit of torched banana. As a cake gremlin, I’ll never be mad about being fed a piece of cake–whether it’s served by someone who subscribes to the school of tearing cake or cutting neat, uniform slices. I also like bananas. And ice cream. And setting stuff on fire. This dessert wasn’t set on fire–I just kind of felt like we were having a beautiful moment of honesty and vulnerability, so I thought I’d come clean. Hi. I’m a closet pyromaniac. Anyway, if there’s leftover cake, can someone make sure I get a hefty portion? My doctor says I have a cake deficiency. It’s critical. I’m not long for this world–unless I get more cake. Good thing this dessert was paired with a glass of LaLuca Prosecco. If I’m going to die from a cake deficiency, at least I’ve gulped something nice and bubbly before prematurely departing from this mortal coil. This creamy crisp sip was effervescent, with lively bubbles, and all the typical green fruit and citrus notes you anticipate with this style of wine. It’s even a little toasty–who knew that the “better than bread” philosophy could even carry into the wine world.I spend a lot of my time wishing I was in New Orleans. I can see it in my dreams. Arm-in-arm down Burgundy; a bottle and my friends and me. So, who would have thought my dreams would come true on Main Street in Fort Wayne, IN. These monthly Monday night dinners at Junk Ditch are really fantasies come to life. I’m already looking forward to what wild culinary adventure February will bring our way. So, wear that dress I like so well and meet me at Junk Ditch on the last Monday of the month. Make sure there’s a dixie moon. In January, NOLA, I was home–without ever leaving Fort Wayne. Who knows what magical universe we’ll be transported to next month. All I know is, the adventure always starts and ends at Junk Ditch.
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Savor Tolon: the Steak Frites is iconic…
Certain things are simply “iconic.” They define a cultural moment. They epitomize a person, place, thing. Nothing is born iconic, but everything is born with iconic potential. If the stars align and the zeitgeist is right, anything can become “iconic.” But, ultimately, to be considered an icon, something must be celebrated, revered, or idolized in some way by somebody. The Eiffel Tower is iconic of Paris. Zelda Fitzgerald is iconic of the flapper era. Hell, maybe If I keep hustling and using all the best words to describe all the yummiest things, someday I’ll become an icon of the food scene–known for my writing, but perhaps better known for my black beret, little black dresses, and stomping around Fort Wayne in my black combat boots like I own the damn place. I’m a menace. Who even invited me to the Midwest? (Let the record show that, depending on who you ask, I’m already an icon. So, la-di-da.) It should come as no surprise that food can be iconic. Disney World has Mickey Mouse waffles. Hawaii has malasada and Spam. Chicago has the deep dish pizza and veggie-loaded hotdog with neon green relish. When it comes to Fort Wayne iconic food, I’m sure the long term locals have lots of opinions. But, I’m not asking for opinions–I have something to tell you.
Steak frites is a classic dish. Right now, it seems like every restaurant (and their mother) has a version of it on their menu–and I don’t just mean in Fort Wayne. It’s globally revered. You’d think that any plate of steak and fries is likely to look like the next. You are welcome to think that. You’re also welcome to be wrong. I posted a photo online of the Steak Frites from Tolon with no context and no indication of where the dish was from. Would you believe that multiple people were able to identify the photo as being the Steak Frites specifically from Tolon? I mean, talk about an iconic food. We were beyond blessed to have the Steak Frites from Tolon featured as an option on their Savor Fort Wayne menu this year. Spoiler alert: I ate it.
My dining companion and I arrived at Tolon late on Saturday evening; they were packed. We had a reservation because we’re smart. She ordered a glass of Moscato. I opted for a glass of Mollydooker “The Boxer” Shiraz–I already knew there was a rare ribeye in my future when I ordered this. Fun fact: there’s something called the Mollydooker Shake. So, for Mollydooker red wines, you’re actually supposed to pour a tiny bit out after opening the bottle, then recap it. Invert the bottle. Give it a little shake. They treat their wines with nitrogen, so this is important to ensure a full-flavored experience. You don’t need to know about any of that to order a glass of Mollydooker at a restaurant. But hey, now you do know it–so, you’re welcome.
The Tolon Savor deal was $49 per person: plus beverage, tax, and gratuity. This cost included an appetizer, entree, and dessert. (The steak frites had an upcharge of $20, but nobody is complaining about that because it was still a great deal.) To start, diners could choose between the Kale and Apple Salad or the Indiana Cheese Fondue. The nice thing about having dinner with one of the sweetest human beings on the planet is that they’ll always share their food with you–no questions asked. I ordered the salad. She ordered the fondue. We got to enjoy both. The fondue is a mix of brie, aged goat cheese, and white cheddar. This melts down into one of the most creamy fondues I’ve ever had the pleasure of sampling. Topped with pretty red pickled Fresno chiles and served with warm artisanal focaccia, this is definitely a must try. As for the salad: it had me swooning. The Kale and Apple Salad at Tolon is absolutely one of those situations where I’ll eat my veggies and like it. Shredded kale, chunks of Honeycrisp apple, pickled raisins, dry aged drunken goat cheese, and pumpkin seeds are all married together by an apple and maple vinaigrette. This salad is a perfect balance of creamy and crisp textures. It offers just enough sweetness to beautifully contrast the natural bitterness of kale. It’s an exercise in culinary symmetry and it rises to the occasion deliciously.
For the main event, my dining companion opted for the Garlic Shrimp Scampi. Of course, I was afforded a hefty bite. My dudes, the shrimp were behemoth–like, Indiana has never seen shrimp this size before. These not-so-little darlings were reaching the point that “shrimp” was no longer an appropriate name for them. These colossal sea critters were beyond delicious. The portion was more than generous, the texture firm yet tender. Served in a sea of spicy Calabrian chile butter; an island of velvety mascarpone polenta nested in the center of the plate. A pine nut and parsley gremolata served both as a welcome pop of green against the orange hued sauce and as a compelling textural element. If I lived in a world where steak frites didn’t exist, I would order this Garlic Shrimp Scampi. But, in my little world, steak frites reign supreme.
I paid the extra $20 for my Wood Farms ribeye. Rubbed with Tolon’s Umami Rub, my beautiful ultra-pink steak rested upon a bed of Bone Marrow Bordelaise. This classic, red wine based French sauce is a luxurious accompaniment to any steak dinner, but here it really serves as a supporting character to the star of the show. Atop the steak, a sizeable knob of slowly melting Foie Gras Butter. It oozes across the surface of the steak. It’s reminiscent of that moment from The Lion King where Mufasa tells Simba that everything the light touches is his kingdom. I watch the butter flow and glide across the surface of my steak–everything it touches is perfection. Everything it touches is infinitely better for its presence. Everything it touches is pure liquid gold–and I intend to savor every last morsel. A hefty pile of duck fat and garlic herb frites sits next to the ribeye; the fries atop the pile remain the crispest, the ones at the bottom soak up more and more flavorful Bordelaise with each passing moment. I alternate bites of ribeye with sips of Shiraz, occasionally breaking the routine to enjoy a fry or five. At this point in the meal, I have become very bad at holding conversation. My dining companion is hilarious, engaging, and such fantastic company–but the Steak Frites is iconic. I’m devouring the stuff of legends. I have no time–nor ability–to engage with humans. My meal is divine in every sense of the word and each bite has me bordering on a religious experience. This is my desert island meal. This is my last supper. This is what I want to taste when I’m celebrating or mourning. This is iconic for a reason. This is, dare I say, the best Steak Frites in town. Ope! There I’ve gone and said it and now I’ll be swarmed with dissenting opinions. I’ll save you the trouble–I’m not interested in your personal hot take. I said what I said and I meant it. No well meaning suggestion to try some other offering will make me change my mind. Baby, I’ve probably already tried it–I’ve tried most of them. This isn’t a swing in the dark. This is an educated deduction. The Steak Frites from Tolon is a Fort Wayne icon. I propose a statue be erected in its honor. Someone else can figure out the logistics—I’m more of an ‘ideas’ kind of gal. Something marble? Maybe gold? I assure you, this Steak Frites is worth it. Spare no cost in immortalizing it, Fort Wayne.
As for dessert, I got to try a bite of my friend’s Brown Butter Blondie. They’d run out of the Bourbon and Brown Sugar ice cream. Je déprime! My peach of a dining companion is unflappable–she just opted for a different ice cream flavor. She went for the Burnt Marshmallow ice cream that is typically part of the S’mores Sundae served at Tolon. As a fan of the S’mores Sundae, I wasn’t sad to see this marshmallow ice cream unexpectedly make an appearance at our table. It’s special. The Brown Butter Blondie was, again, substantial. We can talk all day long about the price tag that comes with dining at Tolon. (Well, I mean, you can if you want. I won’t, because I think it’s tacky.) But, the quality and quantity of food is bonkers–more than worth what you pay. To top it all off, the blondie got a sexy little drizzle of butterscotch caramel sauce. I hope I get the opportunity to try this sweet little treat again someday. My dessert was a little more sinful–a “Deviled” Affogato. Dark, dense, decadent devil’s food cake was served in a coffee mug with a scoop of espresso gelato. Tableside, they pour over coffee. I enjoy an affogato. You could even say that it’s one of my (many) weaknesses. Never before have I had one that included cake. From this experience, I’ve determined that we’ve all been eating affogatos wrong. Cake should always be invited to the party. You know me. I’m nothing if not a cake gremlin. Tonight proved no exception. Even after an insanely rich and heavy meal, I devoured my dessert shamelessly–and I’d do it again. No, really–it’s midnight as I’m writing this and if Tolon were still open I’d consider hauling my ass downtown to beg for one last serving of the “Deviled” Affogato. The combo of chocolate and coffee, the collision of consistencies, the coalescence of bitter and sweet–if loving this dessert is wrong, I don’t want to be right. If it’s devilish to indulge, save me a seat in hell and an extra serving of this affogato so that I have something nice to gobble down in the flames.
Welp…what more is there to say? Fort Wayne has had no shortage of icons over the years. I mean, come on, the city is named for a guy so crazy that that’s all most people even know about him–well, if by crazy you mean racist/genocidal. John Chapman looms large in the iconography of this town–also historically an asshole. It may come as no surprise that I prefer Fort Wayne’s favorite daughter, Shelley Long–historically, not an asshole. And, I know; Fort Wayne’s food scene is not hurting for icons, either. But what would be more midwestern than making room for one more. So, who’s going to fund the Tolon Steak Frites statue?
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Savor Solbird: food so good you’ll wish you could stay all night…
Solbird is delicious fusion food for the soul. With a name inspired by The Doors song Soul Kitchen, this restaurant has something in common with The Doors: they’re both amazing and, in my opinion, timeless. This place has fantastic food, eclectic ambiance–say hello to the giant colorful portrait of Jim Morrison hanging on the wall, and a playlist of bangers. From Bowie to The Smiths: there’s always something on that I want to bop along to. The only downside to this restaurant is that it’s so far North, it’s practically “in Canada.” But, I promise you: it’s worth the trek. If you haven’t been yet, during Fort Wayne’s “Savor” week is absolutely the right time to give them a try. For just $24 you can score an entree, side dish, and dessert. If you want to plus-up that deal, for just $4 more, you can do an appetizer, entree, and dessert. My dining pals and I aren’t brand new. We know a good deal when we see one; we all got appetizers, entrees, and desserts. There was sooo much to savor–pun intended–so allow me to spill the juicy details.
Most of Solbird’s appetizers qualify for their Savor Menu deal. So, whether you’re in the mood for some house spiced chips and queso fundido, some shrimp ceviche, or one of several awesome loaded papas fritas options, there’s something on the menu that will spark joy. Bestie was in it for the queso fundido. They added chorizo to this already decadent appetizer because, for the duration of Savor, heathen mode is engaged. I stole a nibble of chips and cheese. The cheese-pulls that were achieved at our table were epic–no photos provided, because the cheese pulls were boarding on graphic. I don’t want to break the internet. You’ll just have to use your imagination, ya cheese perv. I opted for the Mexican Poutine, which is Solbird’s interpretation of the Canadian classic. Poutine purists will be offended. If your heart only has room for Poutine composed of fries, unmelted cheese curds, and brown gravy–stop reading now. The Mexican Poutine is a little bucket of Solbird’s ancho fries loaded up with Chorizo gravy, cheddar cheese, pico de gallo, queso fresco, cilantro, green onion, and chipotle crema. Personally, I’m more comfortable calling this a ‘loaded fry’ situation than a ‘poutine.” But ultimately, whatever you call it, I’m going to smash it. It’s loaded to the point of requiring a fork for consumption: and nobody is going to be mad about that. This is one of those dishes that inspires instant happiness. If I’m sad, and then I eat this Mexican Poutine, I will not be sad anymore. Paired with a glass of Cava, you really can’t go wrong.
For entrees, everyone at the table got something different. Since basically every entree on the menu qualifies for the Savor deal: there are a lot of things to choose from! You can get a combo of two tacos, or one of several styles of quesadillas or burritos–and dude, let me tell you, their burritos are pretty hefty. Bestie is just enough of a masochist that they had to try the Hot Cheeto Burrito. While many Flaming Hot Cheeto inspired foods lean too far into hot-enough-to-hurt territory, this burrito was surprisingly well balanced. A blend of Wood Farms chuck, brisket, and short rib is enrobed in a flour tortilla with Hot Cheetos, rice verde, chihuahua cheese, pico de gallo, tinga sauce, and chipotle crema. The entire thing is covered in a blanket of queso and a snowfall of cautionary red Hot Cheeto dust. The queso absolutely does a lot of work in the way of providing unctuous fattiness to cut through the heat. Bestie was in burrito heaven. Since I’ve only ever gotten burritos on my previous trips to Solbird, I opted to go in a new direction. I ran directly into the arms of a quesadilla–which is for sure some quintessential, white girl bullshit. Sorry not sorry: the Shrimp, Pesto, and Goat Cheese quesadilla might be the least spicy, traditional, or Mexican/Korean fusion inspired dish on the menu…but, it slaps. The quesadilla is cut into four adorable triangles and served on a wooden plank. Adorbs. The gorgeously browned tortilla is filled with ancho shrimp, a pesto-goat cheese blend, and chihuahua cheese. The individual triangles are topped with a squiggle of chipotle crema; so if you’re not in favor of getting food on your fingers, maybe this isn’t the dish for you. Your girl loves shrimpys, your girl loves goat cheese, and anybody who doesn’t enjoy a bit of pesto is no friend of mine. Despite all of my known passions, was this menu item a weird pick for me? Totally. When I go somewhere, I try to get cuisine that really highlights what that place is all about. I could have done the Thai Shrimp Burrito (again; because I’ve had it before and loved it) or I could have ventured into Korean Beef Taco territory. But I didn’t–and you know what–I have zero regrets. I know the Shrimp, Pesto, Goat Cheese quesadilla is probably on the menu to assuage picky-eaters–but y’all should give it a go. It’s really delightful. The subtle herbaceous pesto notes, the creamy goat cheese mixed with the melty pull of the Chihuahua cheese, and the really nice firm bite of the shrimp: this quesadilla is a winner.As for dessert, I’ll be honest and say at least two out of four people at my table were really excited to try the Churro Waffles–and two out of four people were really disappointed that they didn’t have the Churro Waffles when we were there. Most of us opted for the Mexican Brownie. I guess this is the kind of dessert that, for foodies, will be basic, but it might knock your grandma’s socks off–depending on how hip your grandma is. It’s a brownie with some spices. You probably know the deal. Cayenne and chocolate play nicely together. Topped with a squirt of whipped cream, dusted with a bit of cinnamon sugar, and garnished with a few doodles of chocolate and caramel sauces on the plate. A basic dessert executed really well. Who’s going to complain about a lovely, spiced, chocolatey brownie? The pro-move might actually be to order the Pineapple-Orange Ice Cream with Chamoy, Tajin, and dried pineapple & mango. For the uninitiated, this is a take on a classic Mexican dessert. Tropical fruit ice cream–sometimes more-so in the Dolewhip category than ice cream category–is topped with Chamoy. If you don’t know that Chamoy is a sauce, sort of like a hot sauce, made from fruits, lime juice, and dried chiles: now you know. I’ll be honest and say that I didn’t opt for this for three reasons 1) I’m not a huge dried fruit fan. 2) I’ve had this type of dessert before; so it wasn’t a new experience for me and 3) I’m hormonal and after the disappointment of not getting a Churro Waffle, I needed chocolate to soothe the savage beast. It’s me. Hi. I’m the savage beast. (I mean, you didn’t ask, but now you know.) Do I think you should try the ice cream if you haven’t experienced something like this before? Emphatically yes. This is definitely one of those cool things that’s only available during Savor that you really shouldn’t miss out on if you can help it. Do as I say, not as I do.
If you haven’t been getting out and savoring all the flavors that there are to crave here in Fort Wayne during Savor, do yourself a favor: be a little braver, take a drive until you’ve drove past the hollow glow of the streetlights, through the neon grove, up north (or down south for my Canadian friends,) to Solbird. You’ve probably got a list of places you’ve been saving to savor this Savor season, but there’s still one place to go. If Solbird’s not on your list yet: fix it. Food so good you’ll wish you could stay all night.
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Paella Night at Bravas: a taste of romance…
Food is erotic. If that phrase shocks you, you’re probably new here. If that phrase somehow insults you or makes you feel uncomfortable, maybe I’m not the writer for you. If you know food (or me) intimately enough, you probably read that first sentence and thought to yourself, “No shit; tell me something I don’t know.” But, that’s what I’m afraid of, my friend. What if I can’t tell you something that you don’t already know? I mean, erotic is easy. Sexuality is in our nature, as long as we don’t get in our own way–after all, we’re animals. Look at a peach. Take a slow, juicy bite. Yada, yada, something about its juices dripping down your throat or slowly trickling down your chin or whatever. Food is erotic and we all know it to be true. However: recently, I found myself wondering why Spanish food and wine is so romantic. For me, that feels like a more challenging topic to traverse. Romance and sex are not the same thing–not even a little bit. I’m not certain that I’m the right tour guide to take you on a journey where we explore how food and romance (dare I even say the dirty, four letter word, “love”) are intimately and inextricably interwoven. As the self proclaimed queen of heartbreak, I’m probably a bad ambassador for all things appetizing and amorous. But being bad at love has never stopped me from trying before.
I’m no historian. Cold hard facts don’t really get me off in the same way that fanciful fairy tales do. I live for a good story–like the tale behind the word “paella.” The story of paella is so romantic and lovely that I don’t care whether or not it’s true; it can live in my head rent-free forever and I’ll always make sure there’s space for it. As the story goes, this world-famous Spanish dish was first created by a man for his lover. The name of this dish comes from the Spanish words “para ella” which translates to “for her.” This is infinitely more romantic than any boy who has ever put my name into some garage-band level, shit-rock song. The bar for bare minimum effort has been raised. I want a lover who crafts brand new, delicious dishes in my honor or bust. The words “for her” whisper in my subconscious like a siren song. Is anything even allowed to be this romantic? Is paella what love tastes like? Does love this limitless and unyielding actually exist in the real world and does it always come with rice? These are all questions that plagued my mind on my long walk to Bravas for their Paella Night Experience.
It had snowed early in the day, but not long after dawn the skies gave way to an unyielding rainfall. Midwestern winter was in full swing. The air was bitter, cold, and practically unbreathable. The rain pelted like frigid shards of glass stinging my reddened, icy cheeks. I didn’t dare leave any inch of skin exposed that I could comfortably cover. Bundled in my winter warmest, with unfamiliar romantic ideals as my secret company, I trudged the slushy, sloppy blocks to Bravas. The daylight hours had been dismal. (Well, it’s winter in Fort Wayne: hope your favorite color is gray!) But by the time it came to venture to Bravas, the darkness of night was upon me–though it was only early evening. I wondered, “Is this romantic?” It certainly didn’t feel romantic–plodding and clomping my Doc Martens through slush while shivers colonized my spine and soon claimed my jaw as their new capital. I imagined romance to be less cold and damp; though perhaps equally shaky, but from different causes. I suppose that sometimes these things are simply about your perspective. That movie-magic, picture-perfect kiss at the end of Breakfast at Tiffany’s would realistically be soggy, cold, and smell like rancid New York City garbage. Does romance often smell like trash? That can’t be right–it must smell like all matter of intoxicating things–it must smell like paella.
Pintxos: like tapas, but not. It’s how the evening began. These little snacks, native to Northern Spain, were served family style at a table full of strangers. That’s fine, because once the pintxos get busted out, strangers quickly turn into friends; and friends are basically our chosen family. We enjoyed scrummy marinated olives and heavenly pan con tomate–two small plates that any fans of Bravas are likely highly familiar with. They’re well-loved for a reason. Boquerones graced the table. (Anchovies marinated in olive oil, vinegar, garlic, and a little parsley; for the uninitiated.) Is it wrong to say this plate, one of the most simple of the evening, was also one of my favorites? Ya girl is in her fish era. I recently got a hat that says “Anchovy Club.” I’m not secretive about where my loyalties currently lie–it’s with stinky little fishies. There were also these super, ultra tender beef skewers, which I’m sure you’d like to hear more about…but, like I said, my loyalties are to the fishies. All of the aforementioned little bites shared two major points in common–all were delicious and all had the serious potential to make your breath stink like crazy. Which begs the question, “Is Spanish food romantic because it forces your lover to adore you despite anchovy and garlic breath?” To pair, a glass of sparkling wine–in the style of Champagne, but not Champagne. Acidic, bubbly wines pair great with little nibbly foods. A great way to start the evening? You betcha. But, who’s surprised? Bravas always brings their A game.
The first plate of the evening was a winter salad built mostly of greens and beets dusted in a festive snowfall of cheese. I’ll be real with you: I’m still learning to love beets. While this may not have been my favorite salad ever, it was well loved by all those around me–and those around me were well entitled to their opinions. As luck would have it, I sat across from the owners, head brewer, and chef of Parlor City Brewing. As people who enjoy beets, they dug this salad. (So, trust their professional opinions and not mine.) I still got down on the wine pairing; an Albariño. Super acidic and citrusy, this was a gulpable sip. I may have been a bad girl and not eaten all of my vegetables on this particular occasion, but I definitely got more than my fair share of fruits–in the way of fermented grape juice.
The soup course was a masterfully crafted caldo gallego. Composed of pork broth, white bean, potato, jamón, and kale, caldo gallego is a quintessential cuisine of Northern Spain. Nutrient and flavor dense, this dish utilizes “unto.” We could call it rancid pork fat, we could call it ‘salted and cured’ pork fat, or we could keep it real and just call it the flavor-bomb that gives caldo gallego its je ne sais quoi. Whatever it is, it’s worth trying twice–because it’s good enough that you’ll want a second taste. It was soup weather outside and this was an ideal soup to enjoy on such a day. It was warming and soul nourishing. (Sort of like love is supposed to be, I guess.) To pair, the Bodegas Raúl Pérez Ultreia Godello–which brings me back to my curiosities about romance. Why is Spanish wine so utterly flirtatious, bordering on seductive? This white boasts pear and lemon–and I know I said I wouldn’t talk about minerality anymore in 2024 but as I type this up I’m a little tipsy and it’s late so let me, just one last time, lazily mention the minerality and salinity of this wine. Big yum. Recommendable sip. Make this something you gulp in 2024. If you can have it with some caldo gallego, even better.
Now, the reason we were all there. The pièce de résistance: the paella. A simple dish of bomba rice, sofrito, organic chicken, butifarra sausage, and saffron coming together to be greater than the sum of their parts–and their parts were all pretty great to start with, so imagine what happens when you skillfully combine this supergroup of ingredients. Was this the best paella I’ve ever had? Yeah, sure–I’ll give that accolade to Bravas. It was absolute top notch paella. To pair, a wine I’ve come to have a bit of a crush on: the Ultreia Saint Jacques Mencía. I’ve written about this wine before: dry red, higher acid, and super food friendly. With delicate tannins and delicious fruitiness, it’s no wonder I’m smitten with this bottle. I revisit it–perhaps more than I should. I suppose it’s like a lover. I enjoy it, so I return. If I ever stop enjoying it, I’ll stop returning. But I don’t envision myself falling out of love with it any time soon.
Dessert was bonkers, to say the very least. An apple crisp with vanilla ice cream is typically nothing to go bananas over–but what if I told you that the ‘crisp’ part was made of Cheez-Its. (I feel like I’m giving away a big secret. Sorry, fam, but the tea had to be spilled.) I haven’t had Cheez-Its since elementary school. I had a turtle named Waldo who I would feed Cheez-Its as a little snack–that goofy reptile went apeshit for those cautionary-orange-hued crackers. Waldo was one of the first creatures I ever loved. He was also one of the first creatures I ever lost. When he died, I swore I’d never eat Cheez-Its again. Like, I guess my thinking was that since Waldo could never eat Cheez-Its again, I too would never eat Cheez-Its again in solidarity. I know the logic doesn’t exactly track: but I was a grieving child. I don’t have to make it make sense. I had a big feeling and that’s how I coped with it and I stuck to that promise for over two decades. Then Bravas sneak attacked me with Cheez-Its in my apple crisp. Thanks, Bravas. No, but really–thanks, Bravas, because I was kind of obsessed with the sweet and salty pairing. Also, sometimes moving on takes a little push. I feel like I grew a lot tonight. It’s important to know when to let go–and for everything else, there’s apple crisp. They paired it with a Sherry. I won’t pretend to know much about Sherry; it’s a blind-spot for me in my wine studies. I simply haven’t had very much exposure to this wine. What I can say is that this particular Sherry sparked my curiosity–so I’ll definitely consider exploring more Sherry. A little bird told me Bravas is expecting a bit of a shake-up in terms of their wine menu in the very near future, so perhaps you’ll be able to go and sample this Sherry. When I say “perhaps,” I really mean it sounds like this is something you could presently go to Bravas and ask for, if you wanted to. I suggest you do.
Spanish food is easy to fall in love with–especially the paella from Bravas. Thoughtfully paired with quaffable wines, I can’t think of a better way to spend an evening. It was fun, delicious, and–above all else–simple. From the dishes presented to the family-style picnic table dining experience, everything about the night was just really simple. The thing about simple things is that they have to be really perfect to be good: there’s no grandeur to hide behind. Simplicity can be difficult to achieve and even more impossible to execute flawlessly. Bravas did it–seemingly without breaking a sweat. So, here’s the moment where I admit that my fears were founded: I am indeed a bad ambassador for this journey. Simplicity completely goes against my understanding of romance. For me, love stories are generally either triangles or tragedies–riddled with confusion, anxiety, and most definitely never a happy ending. The way I’ve previously viewed romance, there’s nothing simple about it. But, this meal forces me to change my perspective. Romance is simple. At least, it’s supposed to be. If we’re going to search for love, we should search for a love like paella–simple, quality ingredients coming together to make something greater than the sum of their parts. It should be something that develops with time and attention. There’s no quick shortcut, microwave ready, television-dinner-style substitute that comes close to the real thing. Love, like paella, requires effort–something so pure and simple, it need only be tended to properly for it to flourish. If you don’t tend to it properly, no amount of added extravagance or truffle oil will save it–you’ll only muck it up and make it worse. I want a love like paella. But, until then–pintxos, paella, and some Spanish wine from Bravas are the perfect placeholders to fill the vacant space in my heart. Spanish food is romantic–more romantic than any lover I’ve ever known. I don’t know the feeling well enough yet. I’d like to know it better someday; which I suppose means I’ll have to eat a lot more Spanish food. Lucky me. If your lover doesn’t bring paella to the table: send them packing. I am accepting applications for lovers and fast tracking any applicant who will take me to the next Paella Night at Bravas. I will relentlessly crave their paella until the next time that I’m lucky enough to enjoy it again. I’ve had a taste of romance: and I want more. -
Junk Ditch Brewing NYE Tasting Dinner: the perfect playground for a courageous odyssey of the palate…
New Year’s Eve is full of magic. It’s the one night of the year where humanity shares in the biggest “goodbye” and also the “hello” that holds the most potential. We collectively countdown the last ten seconds of the year while, at the speed of light, we are catapulted into the next. For a solitary fleeting moment we are a planet of time travelers–lost in space and held in eternal return and repeat. (Weren’t we just here some three hundred odd days ago?) We quietly absolve ourselves of our pasts, while secretly hoping that the future will be better. But even those of us who study the stars, or religiously read a newspaper horoscope, or consult the cards for counsel ultimately have no more insight into the future than the rest of humanity. Nobody knows what comes next. All we can control is how we greet the masked stranger that is the New Year.
Whether you’re dancing on the bar, playing beer pong in somebody’s garage, fast asleep in your bed, watching the ball drop from the comfort of your living room sofa, or out to dinner with friends–as of the stroke of midnight, everything will be different. Carriages won’t turn into pumpkins and, if you left the house wearing glass slippers, it’s likely you’ll still have the same shoes at the end of the night. It’s nothing like a fairytale. But even so, there is undeniable magic that occurs at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. As another page falls from the calendar, we’ll gaze with wonder at the blank canvas of a fresh year–yet untouched by the passing of time. With no memories to color the minutes not yet passed, we’re left with only one possibility: hope. Will this year be different? Perhaps better? What does the future hold? Call me superstitious if it pleases you, but I’m of the mind that how we say goodbye to one year may very well impact what comes our way in the next.
Maybe this past year was shit. It doesn’t matter anymore. So what if all of your dreams didn’t come true in the last three hundred and sixty five days? Who cares if you’re not quite the version of yourself you’d hoped to be by now? (And what’s the big deal if the person you thought you’d be kissing at midnight will be kissing someone else?) We’re all about to be granted one of the most precious gifts that we as humans can receive. It’s not something that we can give each other, barter with, or borrow as needed. It’s a gift that comes directly from the universe. It’s the gift of more time–days, hours, and minutes to spend both as we must and as we please. More time to, perhaps, make this next year our best one yet. I don’t think that sort of wondrous possibility should be greeted half asleep in old pajamas. No matter how the past year treated you, I hope that you’ll do your damndest to welcome the new one with–at very least–an open heart. Better yet: why not celebrate its coming! There’s no use fearing the unknown. Fear won’t help you to know it better–so we might as well welcome it with open arms. I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate 2023 ending and 2024 beginning than with friends at Junk Ditch Brewing’s final tasting dinner of the year.
For our first course, we enjoyed Mushroom Veloute with Truffle, pickled Chanterelle, and brown butter. While Veloute sometimes refers to a sauce, in this instance it referred to a soup–a thick, creamy, absolutely mesmerizing mushroom soup. Bespeckled with black truffle and accented with local pickled mushrooms, this was not your typical cream of mushroom soup–this dish offered layers of flavor to be discovered. Intoxicatingly earthy, this velvety soup was paired with The Stump Jump white wine blend. This lush, fruity blend offered balance for the decadence of the soup and, without question, got our evening started off on a strong note. Brown butter makes everything better. It’s a basic bitch sentiment, but it checks out.
The next plate was a Kale and Date salad with pistachios, gouda, and orange vinaigrette. Junk Ditch is one of those special places that gets me to eat my greens eagerly and without complaint. A small salad of robust green kale was punctuated with pieces of chewy date, crunchy pistachios, and creamy gouda. Dressed with a bright citrusy vinaigrette, this plate stunned as a winter salad. The Paul Dolan Sauvignon Blanc paired with this plate was probably my favorite white wine of the evening. Typical of Sauvignon Blanc, there were notes of tree fruits and citrus fruits balanced by notes of honey and very present minerality. But that’s an old-school way to describe a wine. Like the rest of the wine world, one of my goals for 2024 is to try to move away from these hackneyed, unrelatable descriptions. I don’t want to keep using the language of the oppressor. What does minerality even mean, really? It’s this ephemeral quality–kind of stony, like sucking on a river rock or eating soil, but who fucking goes around doing that? Isn’t that a pica thing? Are we supposed to believe that old cishet white men have been shoveling dirt in their wealthy gobs for generations? Is “suck rocks, get rich” one of the secrets to success?
The third plate of the evening was an artful presentation of Wood Fired Carrot with Harissa, Marcona almonds, curry, crème fraîche, and crispy rice. The woodfired oven lends a flavor to the carrot that no other cooking method can truly replicate. Dressed fancifully with microgreens, this dish was certainly one of the prettiest presentations of the evening. To pair, the Parducci Chardonnay: a very light, crisp, California Chardonnay.
While everything up to this point in the evening was delicious, the fourth plate of the night was the stunner that stopped us dead in our tracks. Little did we know that by the end of the night, we would all still be hoping that we could sneak into the kitchen and snag a second plate of Crab with XO sauce, parsnip, crispy farrow, and caviar. A delicate lump of crab was topped with XO sauce (just slightly spicy and umami rich), accompanied with parsnip, flavorful crispy farrow, and topped with a thoughtful lump of caviar–my best semi-educated guess is sturgeon. This dish was an absolute delight of texture and flavor. To pair with this well-loved dish was one of the most beloved wines of the evening: even our server said it was their favorite. The Foris Pinot Noir, a lighter bodied red, boasted a complex palate of red fruits–like raspberry–a hint of plum, earthiness–like from mushrooms–and a bit of vanilla and spice. For an affordable bottle of Pinot Noir, this is definitely a joyful sip. I will probably seek out this bottle to buy for myself and enjoy. 10/10 would sip again–but don’t let my love of this wine overshadow how good the crab dish was. Babe, it was divine.
Just when I thought that I’d eaten my favorite plate of the evening, out came the Pork Belly with apple, carrot, miso, and a polenta pancake. Like, are you kidding me, Junk Ditch? Katie Jo said that she wanted this plate again for breakfast the next morning, but I want this plate for breakfast every day for the rest of my life. (No. I will not get tired of it after three days. You don’t know me. Mind your own business.) A polenta pancake was perched atop a cozy bed of (what I believe to be) a carrot and miso purée. The pancake served as a pedestal for one of the absolute best bites of pork belly I’ve ever enjoyed. I say that a lot about pork belly, but I mean it every time. It wore apple shreddies like a party hat. This was a New Year’s Eve dish for the record books–but that doesn’t stop me from wishing I could enjoy it every day of the year. The wine pairing for this was a Napa Cut Cabernet Sauvignon. I’m honestly a huge cab fan, but I think I would have preferred this wine more with a different plate. It was bold and seriously tannic which I love. Boasting dark fruits, leather, and oak, I’d absolutely enjoy another pour of this wine, but maybe with even heavier food–like a big-ass juicy steak. Your girl’s a red wine chugging carnivorous cutie. Love me; feed me steak and wine, please. (Do not fret, dear reader, they eventually did. Just keep reading.)
As always, there’s at least one dish on every Junk Ditch tasting menu that causes me to check in with my culinary moral code, but ultimately I trust Junk Ditch’s thoughtful ethical practices in regards to selecting and procuring their proteins. I’ve already given the spiel about being a meat-eater who tries to ensure that I’m sourcing my food ethically and blah, blah, blah–look through my older blogs if you want to know more about it–I don’t want to rehash an old point. What I don’t believe I’ve shared yet is my personal rule about not eating animals I’ve previously kept as pets. It’s pretty much the only rule that stands between me and a pet potbelly pig. But tonight, I bent that rule and enjoyed a Pierogi with wild mushroom, rabbit, veal reduction, and fennel. (I had a bunny named after a famous trumpet player when I was in college–my boyfriend at the time was a jazz musician. I hope I don’t have to tell you this, but never date a jazz musician. Maybe don’t even date musicians–not even the weirdo who played clarinet in middle school band. We’re all trouble.) Somehow, up until this particular New Year’s Eve, I’d managed to go my whole life avoiding eating rabbit. I braced myself and took my first bite with as much confidence as I could muster and, you know, it really wasn’t bad at all. It’s definitely not something that I’ll seek out–but it’s also something that I feel like I could fearlessly eat in the future if an opportunity worth seizing crossed my path. This dish was paired with another notable wine of the evening: the Louis Bernard Côtes du Rhône. This wine was so well-balanced; it was tannic, fruity, acidic–a bit of everything all at once, with no particular quality overshadowing another. This is another bottle that I would absolutely purchase for the sake of revisiting. While not overly gamey, the rabbit definitely had an earthy quality that was reflected in the palate of the wine, making this an idyllic pairing. It made me feel like a French peasant. A beautiful, bougie, modern day French peasant with a lover named Philippe who rides a horse also named Philippe. Maybe I don’t need a passport after all, a tasting menu is a lot cheaper than airfare.
The final savory plate of the evening was Roasted Strip Steak with potato rosti, winter vegetables, and Béarnaise sauce. Your girl is never, ever mad about a plate of steak and potatoes being presented to her. The strip steak was surprisingly tender and cooked to perfect pink perfection. I could have enjoyed three or four plates of this–but that’s a personal problem, I think. This was paired with the second Cabernet Sauvignon of the evening: a bottle by Kiona. This Washington State cab was significantly less tannic than our first cab. Velvety tannins, dark fruit, hints of leather and smoke–there are no bad words for this pairing. All I’ve got left are good vibes and high praise. When it comes to wine, Washington state’s cooler than California. I said what I said. Home of the world’s first queer wine festival, a trip to Washington state should absolutely surpass any dreams you once had of riding a wine train through Napa Valley. In the New Year, we’re no longer doing snobbery and status quo. We want more gay wine and good times.
I was beyond excited to try the dessert course after watching plates be carried to other tables throughout the night. (That and I’d heard rave reviews of the Fromage Blanc ice cream which was previously featured on another tasting dinner menu.) The Warm Donut with Persian spiced apples, Fromage Blanc ice cream, and crumble was a scrumptious way to end our evening. Paired with a Frisk Riesling, this was–without a doubt–the most beautiful way to say goodbye to 2023. Fuck kissing some dingus at midnight: the pro move is a warm donut, a bit of Fromage Blanc ice cream, and a little sippy-sip of a stone-fruit, citrus, and honey forward Riesling. (No petrol in this pour–but it’s definitely for the best with this pairing.) Kissing an idiot will leave a sour taste in your mouth. You want to head into the New Year with nothing but sweetness on your tongue. You want this dessert course to be what launches you into the future.
I think 2024 will be the year of the mushroom and the fish. These are two foods that younger me believed I did not like. When I read them on a menu, I would simply continue reading until I got to dishes only comprised of the pre-approved list of ingredients from which my brain insisted I must not deviate lest I risk having a yucky time. Over the past year, I have been learning one plate a time that younger me was flat-out wrong. Short of severe allergies, there is not a single foodstuff on the face of this planet which you can’t appreciate at least one bite of when carefully prepared by industry professionals in controlled conditions. The tasting dinners at Junk Ditch Brewing are the perfect playground for this sort of courageous odyssey of the palate. I urge you to explore with me–I promise you will not regret it. Trust your chef. With trust, an adventurous spirit, and a worthy guide we can learn to love anything–even things we once believed ourselves to hate. It’s time we taste every wonderous flavor this universe has to offer: preconceived notions be damned and promptly forgotten. Let’s let 2024 be the year that we explore and discover–with chefs as our sherpas and our tastebuds serving as our only compass. The future is a blank canvas. Let’s choose to fill it with the most delicious adventures. We’re brave enough. We’re bold enough. We can do it if we decide to. Afterall, we’re time travelers. We can’t see the future, but we can shape it. I don’t know what the next year will bring, but I know one thing with absolute certainty–my life will be so fucking delicious.
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Rocksteady Pizza Parlour: there is passion in these pies…
I’d like to believe that those who faithfully read my writing can tell the difference between when I write with passion and when I’m just phoning it in. Passion makes all the difference: because it’s the apples and oranges of genuinely being emotionally impacted by a dining experience versus feeling obligated to write nice things about some food that I ate. Maybe this is silly, but I like to think of it as the Transitive Property of Passion. Food made with passion tastes better. If a chef is truly passionate, then that should translate into their cuisine, and I should then be imbued with that passion when I consume their food. My hope is that I then harness that passion, inject it into my words, and spread it amongst all who read my writing–which is, perhaps, a little arrogant for me to hope. Still, at the end of the day, I can’t help but wish to find myself somewhere in the middle of the food chain: consuming passion, merely to pass it on to others like some contagion of good vibes. Maybe you can tell already, maybe it goes without saying, but today I ate passion. So, now it’s your turn, baby. Buckle up buttercup, you’re about to be filled with vicarious passion–because, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: pizza is a love language. Rocksteady Pizza Parlour speaks the love language of pizza fluently.
I get a bit irritated when pizza places claim to have a certain type of slice and then fall short of the promise. Don’t tell me it’s a “New York Style” pizza and then underdeliver. If you just call it “pizza” with no qualifiers, I’m less likely to be disappointed with whatever you give me. But, if I’m promised a “New York Style” slice and get anything that falls even fractionally shy of that, I now have reason to be disappointed. The first thing that I love about Rocksteady Pizza Parlour is that they underpromise and overdeliver. Nothing in their name, or on their menu, tells me what style of pizza to expect. Spoiler alert: what they’re serving up is brick oven pizza most closely resembling the beloved Neapolitan style. The pies have gorgeous leoparding with charred black, bubbly crusts–yet the dough is pillowy, light, and indisputably delicious. The ingredients are high quality. The sauce is simple and pure. The care and craftsmanship that goes into these pies is apparent right from the jump–but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Rocksteady Pizza Parlour is a new restaurant in the gorgeous lake-infested community of Warsaw, Indiana. Is there such a thing as too many lakes? Warsaw is 50% lakes, 20% people, and the rest is good places to eat. Chef Jason, of the notoriously delicious One Ten Craft Meatery, is involved in this project–so you know it’s going to be epic. They’ve only been open for a few weeks at this point and are still working to perfect service–but, despite this spot being brand new, the quality of the food doesn’t suffer even in the slightest. Eventually, the plan is to offer some adult beverages and coffee, but this will come in due time. As someone who, frankly, doesn’t really want pizza without a glass of wine–I am very much looking forward to this addition and can’t wait to go back and enjoy! They’ll even have some breakfast sandos for early risers–but this part of the plan is on pause until they can coolly, confidently, and effortlessly provide lunch and dinner service consistently at the high standard to which they hold themselves. If my meal was any indication, I’d guess they’ll be rolling out these plans soon–because I have zero complaints. They absolutely slayed. I usually save all of my “bravos” and “well dones” until the end of the piece–but I can wait no longer. Rocksteady Pizza Parlour deserves a standing ovation, a hug, and a gold medal. They speak the love language of pizza fluently. Eating there I feel heard, seen, and understood. I am full of pizza and passion. I am fed. I am sated. I am grateful. But, again, I am getting ahead of myself.
The building is stylish, immaculate, and industrial chic–fitting for an upscale casual pizza parlour. An open kitchen concept near the back of the dining area allows guests the opportunity to peep people slinging dough–making the experience feel both authentic and exciting! It’s always a joy to watch the pros at work. This element made me feel so at home. Nothing about Rocksteady Pizza Parlour feels particularly Midwestern–but surely the locals will still feel welcome there. The menu boasts an entire selection of dipping sauces: including ranch! (Not that I’ll be ordering that, but I’m sure somebody might…) Primarily, this joint offers red pies, white pies, and a few outliers. The menu is rounded out with a small but thoughtful selection of sandwiches, soups, salads, and snacky type things. My first taste of Rocksteady was the Fried Garlic Knots. In highschool, my friends and I would often go to a pizzeria afterschool and split a plate of greasy, garlicky knots. I still haven’t found a pizza place in Indiana that can genuinely replicate the garlic knots of my youth. Rocksteady isn’t serving the garlic knots that I grew up with; they’re serving something better. This might sincerely be one of my new favorite little nibbles. A basket of soft, pillowy, knotted, fried dough dusted in a snowfall of parmesan cheese. This dish is for my garlic lovers–those of us who could kill a vampire by blowing a kiss and measure cloves of garlic by listening to our hearts instead of counting with numbers. You can order any dipping sauce to accompany this treat, but there’s only one correct answer: roasted garlic aioli. Let’s take a moment to appreciate that Rocksteady serves their dips in a small dish and not in annoyingly tiny dip containers. Not all heroes wear capes; some sling pies. The roasted garlic aioli is not aioli that uses “garlic” as a mantra when it meditates. This aioli didn’t merely spend a semester in college studying the concept of garlic. This is not a basic aioli that a line cook whispered the word “garlic” into–this is Garlic aioli with a capital “G.” The Fried Garlic Knots with roasted garlic aioli are goated with the sauce. They’d make it onto my “Last Meal” menu. Garlic bread could never. I said what I said.
As for pizzas, I felt it was only fair to get one red sauce and one white sauce pie–you know, for the sake of science. For red sauce, I snagged the Rocksteady pie loaded up with sauce, mozzarella, salami, Gordal olives, roasted red pepper, shallots, and mushrooms. I want to tell you that this pie was earth-shatteringly good–but if I say that now will you still believe me when I say the same thing about the white pie that I tried? Like, seriously, the ingredients are so primo. The pies are so excellently crafted. The flavors play together so blissfully. This pizza is–dare I say–perfect. My only complaint was that I couldn’t enjoy it with a glass of wine. I took home two leftover slices and am currently enjoying them cold with a glass of Chianti Classico. This pizza tastes so fucking delicious with wine.
Now, it’s no secret that I’m a cheese lover–especially goat cheese. So, perhaps I’m biased, but I would say that the white pie that I got from Rocksteady is one of the top five white pizzas of my life. Genuinely and truly–this comes from a place of earnest passion and not just lip service or an obligatory hype-up. I’m kind of, sort of in love with the Honey Goat. This is a vegetarian pie. I can get down on a vegetarian pie. Do I typically choose to? Nah–ya girl loves salty meats on her pizza and she’s not apologizing for it. But I could change my ways for the Honey Goat. This pie brilliantly walks the fine line between being delicate and also an absolute punch in the mouth of flavor. The Honey Goat pizza is topped with white sauce, goat cheese, ricotta, carmelized onion, herbs, and–of all things–sunflower seeds. (I’m pretty confident “passion” should also be listed as an ingredient for this pie; but it’s not on the menu, so…) Words will never do this pizza justice. You just need to eat it. The only things certain in life are death, taxes, and that the Honey Goat pizza is scrumptious beyond human comprehension. This pizza may have genuinely just restored my faith in humanity, my faith in high quality pizza in the Midwest, and–perhaps above all else–my faith in love. I love this pizza.
I’m worse than just your regular, run-of-the-mill hopeless romantic: I’m a hungry hopeless romantic. Sometimes I feel like I’m lost and searching for something–always looking at new restaurants, hoping that I’ll find whatever it is on my next cleaned plate or the bottom of an overpriced glass of wine. When I walk away from a meal with a full belly–but somehow still unsatisfied and eager to continue my search–I know the food wasn’t really that good. But I can assure you, the food at Rocksteady Pizza Parlour is really that good. I left with a full belly, a renewed sense of passion for what I do, a grateful heart, and the strange feeling that I somehow received more than what I ordered and paid for. I feel satisfied. I feel heard, seen, and understood. I feel like somebody is finally speaking my language. This is deeper than the love language of pizzas–this is all about the Transitive Property of Passion. There is passion in these pies. Can you taste it already?
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Bistro Nota Italian Wine Dinner: all my Christmas dreams have come true…
I’m a simple girl. I don’t want much for Christmas. Maybe a few bottles of wine under the tree, some yummy things tucked in my stocking, and–if I’ve been a particularly good girl–maybe some fancy cheeses in the fridge as a Christmas morning surprise. My Christmas list most resembles a grocery list: an oddity for which I’ll make zero apologies. It would seem my Christmas list intended for Santa was mistakenly rerouted to Bistro Nota–because they’re the ones making all my Christmas dreams come true this year. On the Thursday before Christmas, Bistro Nota hosted their Italian Wine Dinner. The evening promised five courses and five wines. At just $100 a head, this is honestly one of the more reasonably priced wine dinners I’ve seen offered in Fort Wayne. Did I snag a reservation as a Christmas present to myself? Duh.
I met my dining companion outside of the restaurant just before 6:30. This was another Plonky and Volchy adventure. Historically, we typically don’t return to a restaurant together–once we’ve dined somewhere, we check it off the list and move on to the next, new, exciting thing. But the lure of Bistro Nota’s Italian Wine Dinner was too strong for us to resist. Even though we’ve already dined at Bistro Nota together, we had to go back to experience this one-night-only dining extravaganza. Upon entering the twinkle-light bedecked brick space, we immediately noticed that they’d rearranged the furniture. For this special dinner, they’d pushed tables together to create one long tablescape down the center of the restaurant. The booths, lining the walls, were still being utilized–but most diners occupied the long, communal table at the center of the room. The place was abuzz with anxious anticipation of what the evening held in store for us. How did the evening begin? With our very first pour.
Our coupe glasses were filled with Pizzolato Spumante Rosé Secco Brut. This bubbly was super organic and the kind of wine you can feel groovy about drinking. For those curious, Secco is not dissimilar to Prosecco–but it’s lighter and typically boasts a slightly lower ABV. While Prosecco is a legally protected term, Secco is not–so we can be a little more loosey-goosey with what we call a “Secco.” This particular Secco was scrummy; gorgeous pale, with lively bubbles in the glass. Notes of strawberry, raspberry, lemon and peach made this sip a particularly pleasant way to begin our meal. After our wine was poured and we had a few moments to take in its profile, the first course was paraded to the table: Celeriac Soup with focaccia crostini, white bean purée, and celery leaf pesto–simple ingredients coming together in such pleasing harmony that it was nothing short of a masterstroke. The texture of the Celeriac Soup was otherworldly–it was perfectly smooth and velvety in the mouth. The crostini (which came perched across the bowl of soup like a delicate, decadent, carby bridge) was schmeared with white bean puree, a smattering of celery leaf pesto, an adornment of–what I believe to be–pickled mustard seeds, several thin half-moons of celery, and microgreens. The crostini paired with the soup and enjoyed with the Secco was an incredibly dreamy way to begin our meal and, truly, set such a high bar for the rest of the evening. While the first pairing of the evening remained a favorite throughout the night: the bar was set and then surpassed. This is really all we can ask for in a coursed dining experience.
Next up, the first white wine of the evening–a pour of Poggio Anima Uriel Grillo di Sicilia 2022. This straw-colored wine seemed to be a favorite of those dining around me. It offered notes of citrus and peach, making it an ideal friend for our second plate of the evening: La Rompagna Tagliatelle–otherwise known as fresh pasta with shaved Brussels sprouts, lemon, and prosciutto bread crumbs. The housemade pasta was exquisitely thin and cooked to perfection. I’m biased when writing about this dish; I am a sucker for fresh pasta and a lover of Brussels sprouts. Anyone who doesn’t absolutely adore pasta with lemon, Brussels sprouts, and prosciutto breadcrumbs can’t be friends with me. We have nothing in common.
The third sip of the evening was Fabio Oberto Langhe Nebbiolo 2020; perhaps the most controversial wine of the evening. If I recall correctly, this wine was explained to us as basically being a declassified Barolo. Whatever name we choose to call this big red wine doesn’t really matter; it had well-integrated tannins and boasted notes of red fruits like cherries, coffee, and baking spices. For me, the finish felt very spice-forward and I was kind of digging it. I heard some complain that the finish fell a bit short of their personal tastes–and I couldn’t really fault them for that observation. But, one thing we all could agree on, is that when paired with the third dish of the evening this wine became exponentially more enjoyable: Diver Scallops served with Umbrian lentils and pea shoots; a simple dish, executed flawlessly. Now might be the ideal time to mention–throughout my meal, I never once needed to pick up a knife. Nothing served required it. I mean, obviously, I didn’t need a knife to eat my soup; but the scallops were also so utterly tender that a fork was more than sufficient to navigate the dish effortlessly. I’ve previously been personally ambiguous towards scallops. If they’d stopped existing, I might not have noticed. This dish makes me want to seek out more scallops. If all scallops are even half as good as the ones dished up at Bistro Nota, then I really need more scallops in my life.
The penultimate wine of the evening was a second glass of red: Due del Monte Rosso 2018. This is the glass that I most looked forward to trying and, ultimately, it may have been my favorite glass of the evening. A stunning blend of Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, this wine is Italy’s version of a classic Bordeaux. If I’m being honest, it was paired with what turned out to be my favorite plate of the evening. Call it alchemy or chefy food science or kitchen witchcraft–sometimes the stars simply align and magic happens. It was an outstanding pairing: Pork Osso Bucco was served on a bed of creamy polenta with cameo apple, parsnips, and gremolata. The pork shank was so utterly tender that, as I’ve said, no knife was necessary. By this point in the evening, I was definitely hitting a wall and could have been perfectly happy to call it quits and go home to bed. Had the Osso Bucco not been so deliriously delicious, I might have given up on the evening–but it was too intoxicating to not clean my plate.
Our final sip of the evening was Broletto Lambrusco 2021. An effervescent red served festively in a coupe–an absolutely delightful way to end our Italian Wine Dinner. This fizzy, high acid wine boasted berry notes and a hint of lavender. To pair, a slice of Olive Oil Cake with red wine poached pears–Nebbiolo, to be specific–and luscious orange curd. The cake slice was a more-than-generous end to an already hefty meal. The curd was exquisitely tart and luscious. The Nebbiolo poached pears maintained their texture and structure while still providing a nice pop of flavor.
Let’s use our imaginations for a moment. Close your eyes–scratch that, you need them to read this, just squint a little or something. Picture if you will, a year has passed. December 2024, and so much has happened! The jolly bearded dude is coming soon and by some twist of fate you and I have grown close in the intervening year. We both know that I’m on the Nice list–obviously, because I’m a perfect little angel. But you know what Santa can’t leave under a tree? A top-notch dining experience with expertly-crafted pairings in the enchanting backdrop of Fort Wayne’s most noted Bistro. You know exactly what to get me. No partridges, turtle doves, hens, calling birds, etc. Just give Bistro Nota a ring, and tell them Plonk will be home for the holidays. They can set whatever date they want, just as long as they set a place for me.
Plonk & Pleasure 