-
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.
-
Dom’s Pie Shop: pizza is not a punishment…
Pizza is more reliable than any lover I’ve ever known. Like a Tina Turner song, pizza is simply the best. I call it when I need it–when my heart is on fire. It’s always there. Dependable. Predictable. Whether New York Style, Detroit Style, or even Chicago Deep Dish: when you order a pizza, you basically know what you’re getting yourself into. Like I said, more reliable than any lover I’ve ever known. Even if it burns me, it will never stop me from returning to pizza. Why? Because pizza speaks a language of love like it knows what it means. That’s why I want pizza above all others. Pizza can just be pizza; and that’s okay. That’s enough. Nobody is kicking pizza out of bed for just showing up as it’s raw, unbridled, wild self. Because, even at its worst, pizza is simply the best.
Some people “get” it–others don’t and never will. How could they? If you grew up in the Midwest, with the chokehold of Big Dairy heavily dictating what the word “pizza” means, you’ll probably never really understand the perfection of a true New York style pie. I’ll give you a hint: it’s not fucking soggy from the weight of too much wet cheese and we don’t dip it in ranch like some unholy monstrosity. But don’t get pouty and don’t take my words too personally. Like Eleanor Roosevelt said, I can only make you feel inferior with your consent–and this is simply not a consensual-non-con mindfuck. I promise, because I wouldn’t really be into that with you. (I just see us more like friends.) Besides, I get it. When I was a little kid, I used to dip foods that tasted bad in ranch, too. Ranch is great for making food that tastes bad taste like ranch instead. But things change. We grow. When I moved to Fort Wayne, I genuinely expected that I’d never eat pizza again–a living fucking nightmare for me, but we make these sacrifies so that our dogs may run in yards of their own. Then an ex-pat New Yorker pointed me in the direction of Big Apple and I felt a little more at home. Johnny Ox showed up on the scene and I felt understood. With each passing day, pizza is getting better and better in Fort Wayne. It’s almost starting to feel like the East Coast and the Midwest are speaking the same language–a universal language, united in pizza. Then in enters Dom’s Pie Shop. Catch them slinging pies out of the back of Draft Taproom: in the space previously occupied by Legalize Marinara. Some Doms dish out punishments, this Dom’s is dishing out their take on New York style pies and Detroit deep dish pizzas. If you’re like me and you have a fucked up mind, you might expect Dom’s Pie Shop to be a little more…ahem…subjugated than it is. The name is actually purely wholesome–which I’ll dish on in due time. But, you know, if you were hoping for something a little kinkier–I guess you could say, “Thank you, Daddy,” after enjoying your food–I’m sure it would make someone’s day.
I was lucky enough to snag an invite to the soft opening. Let me tell you, the place was packed full of eager pizza munchers–my favorite kind of weirdos. My friend and I got there five minutes after the start time and we were already too late to snag a real table. It’s more than fine, because we spent our evening chilling on a dope, green couch sipping drinks, laughing, and eventually doing what everyone secretly dreams of doing–eating pizza. If I hadn’t been wearing pants, this basically would have been my ideal night. No-pants, pizza, and wine on my living room sofa is pretty standard protocol in the Plonk household. I know how to have a good time. I am pretty sure that going pantsless at Draft Taproom is frowned upon. So, if you’re looking for a kinky, pantsless pizza time–look elsewhere. (And then text me the address. Just kidding. But am I?)
Let’s talk about potential: my middle school teachers may not have been able to see mine, and my college professors might all agree that I’ve squandered what little I had, but Chef Rio inarguably has oodles of the stuff and is putting it all to brilliant use. Dom’s Pie Shop is another brainchild of Chef Rio. Yes, that Chef Rio who operates Brew260 and the absolutely phantasmagoric Shop260–for all your bagel and breadstuff desires. Imagine that the person who basically perfected the art of the sourdough bagel and has a well-documented love affair with soft, bubbly focaccia opened a pizza place. Cool–if you’re doing that, you’re basically already thinking of Dom’s Pie Shop. Now, if you will, imagine that this marvelous maker’s first Executive Chef job was at a pizza place–so this ain’t their first rodeo. Imagine they’re of Sicilian heritage and grew up with all of their grandmother’s fantastic, authentic, old-world inspired recipes. Then imagine that this brilliantly talented chef has unwavering drive, interminable determination, and a passion for collaborating with other locally owned small businesses. As superhuman as Chef Rio might be, they aren’t doing this alone. Their partner for the pie shop is Dan Desjardins. If you’ve been to Brew260, you’ve probably met Dan–and probably think he’s a swell dude. Dom’s Pie Shop is, adorably enough, named after Dan’s son. The grand opening takes place on December 13th, Dom’s birthday. Does this sound like the recipe for your typical Midwestern pizza place? Probably not. But, maybe that’s a good thing.
The menu boasts both their take on New York and Detroit style pizzas with options for red sauce, white sauce, BBQ sauce, ranch, and even hummus: basically anything your little heart could possibly desire. The crusts are sourdough–because of course they are–and we’re all better off for it. But the fun doesn’t end there. Whether you’re from the coast or a fly-over state, there’s surely something familiar and nostalgic to be found on the menu at Dom’s. You want some saucy confit chicken wings? You got it. Salads? Sure. Grinders? Yes, Daddy. What about pie–like actual sweet, delicious pie? Yeah dude, they’re slinging actual pie, too: Dutch Apple, Chocolate Peanut Butter, and Lemon Blueberry. Make it a la mode if you’re feeling sexy–and, frankly, you should be. A lifetime of promises, a world of dreams–Dom’s is really showing up giving us everything that we need.
For the soft opening, my friend and I split a Danny Boy pie. We almost got the Sofa King Good pizza, but honestly–I couldn’t have ordered it without giggling and blushing. (In case you didn’t know, I’m a small child in a trenchcoat.) I could order the Danny Boy with a straight face: so I did. I paired this pie with Draft’s dry red blend. I think it’s scientifically impossible to be anything but absolutely happy when you’re having pizza and wine. Frankly, I think we should all do it more often. The red wine stood up nicely to this supremely topped pizza. The twelve-inch pie was gently blanketed in organic tomato sauce, with sausage, pepperoni, peppers, onions, and mushrooms. The textures of this pizza were varied and engrossing; from the soft pull of the cheese to the crispy bits of mushroom and charred veggies. This pie had it all–by the end of the evening, it even had my heart. But, with Chef Rio heading this project, my heart never really stood a chance–did it?
It’s not always safe to give your heart so freely. But, I think I can trust the pizzas at Dom’s with my heart. Pizza is more reliable than any lover I’ve ever known. I call it when I need it–when my heart is on fire. It comes to me: wild, saucy, and cheesy. Pizza speaks a language of love like it knows what it means. Pizza can just be pizza; and that’s okay. That’s enough. You shouldn’t need a single reason more to go to Dom’s Pie Shop than the infallible knowledge that pizza is simply the best. But if you require further motivation, you should know: brats don’t get pizza. Pizza is not a punishment: it’s a privilege.
-
Yeasty Boy Bread Co: this bread is giving…thanks…
I know my last blog post dealt heavily with the importance of bread and introduced the newly minted philosophy of “better than bread,” but I’m not ready to shut up about bread; not yet. Bread is important to me. If bread isn’t important to you too, I don’t think we can be friends. While, for many, the word Thanksgiving conjures up images of Norman Rockwell-esque turkeys and family around a table, I argue that this holiday ought to make us all think of bread. When it comes down to it, bread does all the heavy lifting on this holiday. While cornucopias of old were originally made of a real goat’s horn, then later more traditionally of wicker, social media informs us that the best cornucopias of modern day are always made of bread. Whether your household serves up pillowy warm dinner rolls with their feast, piles plates high with mountains of savory stuffing, makes objectively too much food all for the sake of leftover sandwiches, or some combination of the three: bread is ultimately the true MVP. Someone once said that Jesus once said, “I am the Bread of Life.” Christians interpret this phrase to mean that we don’t know true spiritual satisfaction unless we know Jesus. I am a complete heathen and nonbeliever. I interpret this phrase in three ways. 1) Bread is capitalized in the bible: so obviously we can all agree that bread is proper noun levels of important. 2) Good bread is a religious experience. 3) Nobody knows true satisfaction without bread in their life. Bread is the bread of life.
In the not-so-distant past, I purchased a loaf of bread from a bakery that shall not be named. (Seriously: I will take this information to my grave–probably. But I’m also easily bribable: especially if there is wine, cheese, and yummy bread involved.) I don’t even want to say what kind of loaf it was because I’m paranoid some internet sleuth will play a virtual game of Guess Who and figure out which local bakery I’m about to shit talk. But, ultimately, it was the only loaf of bread I’ve ever thrown away in my life. Y’all, I’ve had less-than-good bread before. It happens. Hell, I’ve made less-than-good bread before–more times than I’d care to admit. But the thing about less-than-good bread is that it still has potential. Whether turned into breadcrumbs or bread pudding, you can do stuff with less-than-good bread to create something that’s–at very least–good. The loaf I recently purchased was not less-than-good: it was bad. It was emphatically the worst bread I’ve ever purchased in my life and effectively turned to dough immediately upon first entering my mouth. Both the consistency and flavor were atrocious. That anyone would sell this product is, and always shall be, beyond my comprehension. (See? I can write negatively about food when I want.) I’ll tell you that it wasn’t from GK and it wasn’t from Shop260: because they never get bread wrong–those absolute carb angels. I had no choice but to throw the loaf away. Trust me, I thought exhaustively on the subject before coming to my final conclusion: there was nothing that I could do to salvage this steaming pile of shit that someone mistakenly sold as bread. Never before in my life had I thrown away bread–I abhor food waste. Even hard stale bread has merit and potential. But ingesting this trash was simply not an option. Did this loaf alone cause me to lose my faith in bread? No. Of course not. Because bread is the bread of life. We can’t let one sour bread ruin the bunch. (Okay, that turn of phrase didn’t work perfectly, but you get the picture.)
Since Thanksgiving is a holiday that celebrates a genocide, I personally no longer celebrate Thanksgiving: but I do succumb to the consumerist urge to buy a stupidly large turkey in November and cook up a nice feast for my nearest and dearest. (I keep my circle real tight these days, so read that as, “for me and my bestie.”) As someone who understands the absolute importance of bread, I obviously make sure it’s well-represented on my table. This year Shop260 showed up at my dinner in the form of my Alison-Roman-inspired super celery heavy sourdough stuffing. (Chef’s kiss! But, frankly, it’s hard to fuck up stuffing when you’re using really good bread, so I can’t take much of the credit–big thanks to Chef Rio and their brilliant team for making my meal extra special.) I did consider making a Maple Yuengling Cornbread or some sort of impressive braided challah for my table this year, but instead, I let one of my friends come through clutch with my “bread centerpiece.” To say that it was more impressive than anything I could have done on my own is a complete and utter understatement. This bread was giving. Thanks. Turkey could never.If you live in the Fort Wayne area and have been an avid farmers’ market attendee for the past few years, you’ve probably heard of Yeasty Boy Bread Co. This is a company run by adorable husband and wife team Courtney and Kyle churning out dope breadstuffs. If you’ve only started attending markets very recently, you probably haven’t heard of them: because they’re no longer operating. Kyle had been baking for years when the pandemic struck, so he had a head start on the rest of the freshly formed sourdough enthusiasts of 2020. But, Yeasty Boy Bread Co. was still very much a business bloomed via circumstance during the pandemic. Remember back when the world was in chaos and the future looked bleak, but we all had more time to pursue our passions? So many of us have stories like this. Countless small businesses were born from the combination of extra free time provided to us by lockdown and uncertainty about our futures. (Did you know that I used to own a dog bakery?) But it’s 2023 and we’re all trying our best to persevere and move forward with our lives. Sometimes that means growing past what we once viewed as endgoals–not all small businesses survived life returning to “normal.” For some, it’s a tragedy. For others, it’s for the best and simply viewed as the next move forward in the game of life. But, let’s think for a moment about the beauty of moments–and how fleeting they can be. There goes one. Now that one is gone. There was a moment in time where Yeasty Boy Bread Co. was thriving. Courtney and Kyle were deliriously happy serving up bakes to their community. That moment has passed. There may be a moment again, in the future, where new life is breathed into this company and they dish more dreamy sourdough bakes. Then again, maybe not. Nobody can predict the future. We’ll just have to wait and see what moments have yet to come our way.
I’m sure you realize that it’s not like me to write about a defunct business–I know. But, something you also probably don’t know about me is that I’m a hopeless romantic, overly sentimental, cry-at-the-phone-book kind of pathetically soft-hearted girl. Sometimes holidays make me extra mushy–deal with it, punk. Maybe at this time of year, if we’re taking everything at face value, accepting the honest history of the holiday, and sitting with the truth of the matter, we can also take just a moment to accept some more realities. Fact: just because someone isn’t monetizing their hobby doesn’t mean that they aren’t good at it. Courtney and Kyle didn’t just forget how to make bread when they stopped operating as a business. I think, especially in the food community, there is this sense that we need to make money and have a business surrounding our craft in order for our talents to be truly validated. But, to put it in local terms: if Chef Butts wasn’t cooking at Bistro Nota, he would still be the two-time James Beard Award nominated Chef Butts. You can take the chef out of the kitchen, but you can never erase the talent. Hustle culture is lying to you. It’s okay to take breaks or to do something just because you enjoy it. So, if you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m writing about a currently defunct business because the people behind that business are still incredibly talented and worthy of recognition–that and when a friend supplies me with yummy bread, I turn into an utterly sappy mess and require a vessel for all of my excess feelings.
While Yeasty Boy Bread Co. might not be officially operating right now, Courtney and Kyle are still baking up the occasional batch of bread and will happily share with those close to them. This time, I was one of the lucky few to score a loaf of their latest ambition. This decadent, crusty sourdough bake was one for the books. Chocolate malted rye provided both a bold, rich flavor and a dark, striking exterior. Balanced with the subtle sweet tartness of orange juice soaked cranberries and the buttery crunch of toasted walnuts, this loaf was honestly more impressive than any of the myriad dishes that graced my table. The bread was distinctively gorgeous in a rustic, dark-romance sort of way. It made a bold statement, effectively serving as the centerpiece of my table; completely outshining the turkey I spent too much money on and too many hours prepping. I received my bread a few days after it had been baked: still fresh, but not fresh out of the oven. Despite having had ample time to cool, upon cutting into my loaf, the aroma was apparent and intoxicating. The flavor was just as divinely fulfilling as the bouquet: spanning from dark funkiness to sweet fruitiness. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a bread that was quite this complex: this is definitely one for the grownups. I can think of no better bread for making high-brow leftover sandwiches–preferably with goat cheese added. This dense, dark, decadent sourdough loaf should be a staple on all Thanksgiving tables. Perhaps, one day, it will be–if the moment is right. Until then, I’ll remain eternally grateful to have been one of the select few privileged enough to have enjoyed this unique bake. My late fall harvest feast was definitely better for it. This was really good bread, which will make really good sandwiches, and countless really happy moments. We don’t know what our future moments will look like, but still, I can’t be stopped from keeping my fingers crossed in hopes that, someday, the right moment will arise and Yeasty Boy Bread Co. will be back in action. A girl can dream, can’t she? Bread is the bread of life. And after all, if we’re not finished with viewing bread through the lens of a parable, maybe Yeasty Boy Bread Co. will rise again. (Terrible pun. My apologies. I understand if you’re groaning.) But, while I still have your attention–happy holidays, friend. I’m so grateful that you’re here on this weird and wonderful journey with me. You’ll never know just how much your kindness and support has changed my little world. Every day I am thankful to be living a life that is, above all else, so fucking delicious. -
Bistro Nota: better than bread…
On a dark and gloomy Friday evening, my friend Volchy and I braved the cold streets of Fort Wayne to dine at Bistro Nota–without a reservation. By luck alone, we snagged the last available table. Sometimes, things just work out how they’re supposed to; no plan B necessary. It was there, amongst the exposed brick walls, the muted conversations of other diners, and the cozy glow of never-not-hanging Christmas lights that my friend and I coined a new phrase–a string of words that I think I’ll favor for some time to come and I’ll utter relentlessly much to the annoyance of friends and loved ones. “Better than bread.” Whether it’s a meal, or a person, or even a place–the hope is always to be better than bread.
The phrase was born out of a discussion of several recent dining experiences I’ve had where, sometimes, the bread–the very first thing that you eat as part of your meal–is the high point of the evening. Of course we want good bread. But, selfishly, we also want whatever follows the bread to be just as good–or better. I want the bread to be good. Hell, I want to live a life full of extraordinary bread, but if that means that everything that follows bread is all downhill from bread, that’s not really how I want to live. Is it too much to ask for extraordinary bread with exemplary things to follow? I don’t think it is. Bistro Nota and I seem to be on the same page.
I’m not afraid to say when I’m wrong. To annoyingly quote myself, “I’m human and I’m built to fuck up.” Error is par for the course when you’re dealing with people. So, I’m not ashamed to admit that I may have made an error early on in my judgment of Bistro Nota. Upon moving here, I perused the menu and was interested; but not so interested that I made any real effort to get there. In fact, if I’m being honest–and, at this point, I might as well be fully honest–I kept bumping them down my list of places to try in my new city. Simultaneously, I told anyone who would listen that Fort Wayne really lacked any decent French cuisine. Sometimes I’m wrong. Bistro Nota is a restaurant that should have been on everyone’s radars for awhile now. Shame on those of us who ignored it for too long. Especially now that twice James Beard Award nominated Chef Aaron Butts has joined Chefs Cam Kaminski and Jacob Koczergo to complete the trifecta of forces behind Bistro Nota: this is not a place to be ignored. While I wouldn’t necessarily call Bistro Nota a French bistro, they’re not not that. They’re applying French techniques to create food that is comforting and classic–yet imaginative and inspiring. If you’re looking for Coq au Vin and Crêpes, look elsewhere. Bistro Nota is serving up cozy vibes for Midwestern sensibilities with just enough French flair to keep the bougier diners intrigued. (Hi. It’s me. I’m bougie–and so intrigued.)
Now, back to better than bread–if you know anything at all about Bistro Nota, you probably already know about the bread. Everyone who goes there raves about it. If you’re not starting your meal at Bistro Nota with the Pain Et Fromage, you’re doing it wrong. Their housemade rosemary and sea salt focaccia is beyond delicious; it’s good enough to solve all your problems. But therein lies the problem–is the rest of the meal better than bread? At Bristo Nota, my personal take is, “yes.” Emphatically, yes! They set such a high bar for themselves with this absolutely dazzling bread–yet these talented gentlemen manage to meet or surpass the standard that they’ve set. Extraordinary bread, with a mountainous side of roasted red pepper cheese dip, is only the beginning of a brilliant dining adventure.
When it’s a Volchy and Plonky adventure, you can be certain of one thing: we’ll probably order too much food. But, that’s okay, because we’ll share a bit of everything–and that’s how well-rounded and well-informed experiences are curated. What with it being soup season and all, Volchy couldn’t pass up on the French Onion Soup–a special the evening we visited. I was lucky enough to sneak a taste. If this soup does not appear numerous times on Bistro Nota’s menu throughout the cold weather season–which lasts a damn long while here in Indiana–I will be devastated. French Onion Soup is classic. Bistro Nota has made no attempt to reinvent the wheel with this soup; kudos to them for that, because some things are perfect as they are and require no big tweaks or major adjustments. This classic soup is still adored by modern audiences for a reason. Under a bed of melty cheese, blanketed over a broth-soaked slice of that absolutely divine bread I’ve already raved about, the soup is just as you’d expect it to be–luxuriously soft and carmelized onions in a sea of dark, rich, flavorful broth. The pro-move is definitely to pop into Bristo Nota on a very chilly day with a friend: order the Pain et Fromage to share, you can each get a bowl of soup, and then split a bottle of wine. This is the vibe. This is how you survive winter like an absolute well-fed baddie. You’re welcome.
While some may have been done in by the carb-load, we obviously didn’t just call it a night after bread, cheese, and soup–we’re not amateurs. Volchy was interested in the Bistro Mac&Cheese and I had my heart set on the Pasta Bolognese that was only recently added to the menu. We ordered both and shared; because sharing is caring. The Bistro Mac&Cheese is not your mom’s mac and cheese. This mac is anything but stodgy: ooey-gooey is the name of the game. While this dish may utilize one of the French Mother Sauces, it’s far from classic. With additions of crispy prosciutto, caramelized onion, and roasted poblano peppers–this plate is a whole vibe. Definitely shareable; it’s a pretty hefty bite. Do I recommend? Yes. Split it with your favorite folks. As for the Pasta Bolognese: it doesn’t get more classic than this dish. Beautifully executed, this luxe plate of pappardelle is coated in a sauce of local beef, pork, pork belly, tomato, and traditional veggies. Topped with a dollop of ricotta, this is definitely food for the soul. Is it cold out? Go eat a plate of the Pasta Bolognese. Are you sad? Go eat a plate of the Pasta Bolognese. Are you celebrating one of life’s many joyful moments? Go eat a plate of the Pasta Bolognese. You could share this with a friend, as I did–but this is the kind of dish you won’t want to share with anyone. If I didn’t absolutely adore my friend Volchy, and if we hadn’t ordered so much food for the sake of sharing, I would have gone fully feral to protect my plate of bolognese–like Gollum and the ring. It wouldn’t be a cute look for me, but it would be worth it. Pasta Bolognese: I will be back for you again soon.For dessert, we were treated to warm chocolate chip cookies. Volchy went for the Chocolate Peanut Butter Stout Cake and I opted for a Caramel Cremeux. The desserts are good at Bistro Nota. I don’t often advise people to get dessert where they get their dinner. So frequently, dessert feels like an afterthought–something rushed–crafted by someone who doesn’t fully understand or care about dessert. Typically, I’d say you’re better off hitting up an ice cream parlor for an after-meal sweet–but Bistro Nota has got their own sweet game down to a science. My Caramel Cremeux was very light; definitely a nice option if you want just a little smidge of something sweet after your meal. Volchy’s cake was a whole mood. I think he ordered it partly because one of the chefs was telling us about how they’d recently sold out of the cake–I get it: my curiosity was piqued by that story, too. The cake is a nearly black chocolate cake, coated in a thin layer of peanut butter frosting, packed with crushed Marcona almonds. Flanking the cake, on one side a generous dollop of whipped cream, and on the other side a pool of triple berry coulis. If you like chocolate cake: get this. It’s a whole new experience. I see this cake as a reimagining of the classic combo of peanut butter and jelly–and I mean that in the best way. While I could rave about this cake and tell you not to miss it, tonight I learned that–for me, at least–the only way to end a meal at Bistro Nota is with a warm chocolate chip cookie. Sometimes simple perfection is better than grandeur. Everyone likes a warm cookie. These cookies, with Callebaut chocolate chips and a generous sprinkling of Maldon sea salt, are my personal ideal end to a fantastic meal. The perfect goodnight kiss.
Bistro Nota is so much better than I expected–because sometimes I’m wrong. I shouldn’t have waited so long to get there. I know with certainty that I won’t wait so long to get back. This is the kind of place where you can go with a date for a nice meal and know it will be wonderful. You can take your mom for dinner and you’ll both find things to enjoy. You can go with a group of friends and share little bites of a multitude of dishes. For me, the vibe is definitely to keep it cozy: I’m only going to Bistro Nota with my nearest and dearest–only the tightest of my inner circle will join me there. We will bundle up, brave the cold, wear plush sweaters, and unapologetically eat all the delicious carbs and comfort foods. In my dream vision of a perfect trip to Bistro Nota, my friends and I split a bottle of wine–or three–because, holy moly, their wine list is lovely. To go with my meal, I grabbed a glass of the Bishop’s Peak Chardonnay–because I like a Chardonnay paired with bolognese–but I would go back just to eat bread and sip more wine. Not all of their wines are available by the glass–some can only be enjoyed by the bottle–but that’s what friends are for. If you’ve never had wine from Uruguay, they currently have the Pablo Fallabrino 2018 Tannat on offer; a complex, yet approachable sip that I highly recommend. We’re talking dark fruits, crushed leaves–but also cherry, chocolate, and perhaps some leather. If you’re only into old world wines, they’ve got your bougie ass covered with a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. Truly: this is a wine list worth exploring–with great food to accompany you on the journey. There’s nothing more romantic to me than comforting food, good wine, and good company in a cozy little setting–a place that feeds your body and soul and keeps you safe from winter’s cold. As we enter these dark months, it’s important to look for the light. At Bistro Nota, the Christmas lights are on all year long: creating a soft, snug sanctuary from the worst of winter. You know where I’ll be hiding out for the next few months. If you’re smart, and want to stave off the winter blues in the most intimate and delicious way, you’ll be spending your dark days at Bistro Nota, too.
-
Junk Ditch Italian Pairing Dinner: complimenti al cuoco…
Last evening, I attended Junk Ditch Brewing Company’s Monday Night Pairing Dinner. This is the third dinner of its kind that Junk Ditch has hosted, but only the second that I’ve been able to attend. On this special evening, the theme was Italian cuisine. If you were expecting Sunday gravy, a metric ton of spaghetti, gabagool, mortadel’ or prosciut’–you may have left disappointed. This wasn’t your Italian-American grandma’s cooking and, frankly, I’m glad. Midwestern Olive Garden culture is alive and well–and it was nowhere near Junk Ditch Brewing last night. This was an exploratory dinner–taking us from the North of Italy with its use of zucca (or pumpkin, to you uncultured plebs who didn’t fail four years of Italian in school like I did) to Southern Italy, with its cold, refreshing gazpacho style soups. To accompany each plate: an Italian wine–and not once did a bottle of Chianti in a fiasco basket make an appearance. Stereotypes were avoided, expectations were subverted, and–as a result–good times were had by all! This dinner sold out–and extremely quickly! I was lucky enough to snag a table for bestie and I to share, but much to our delight, a table of friends was booked right next to ours. So, tables were pushed together and an Italian-inspired dinner was shared as all good Italian food is meant to be–amongst the best of company.
Almost as soon as we sat down, we were treated to a plank of focaccia with house ricotta, honey, and seeds. My friends and I, all brilliant gourmandizers, found the ricotta to be so divinely creamy that some even questioned if it was a blend of butter and ricotta. But behold: it was merely splendiferous cheese, drizzled with honey, and sprinkled with nuts. When slathered upon a notch of the freshly baked focaccia–the experience was transcendent. Some of the crew working the event suggested that the bread was actually the best part of the meal. While the entire meal was absolutely scrumptious–I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that the bread was particularly dreamy. It was a truly divine way to begin the evening and set a nearly unachievably high bar for Junk Ditch to hit with the rest of the meal. Yet, somehow–they managed.
The amuse-bouche was two petite, fried potatoes, that appeared to have been given a gentle smash to just slightly burst them open. With them, an undeniably unique cauliflower cheddar rillette. For the uninitiated, a rillette is generally a preservation method of meat that is similar to confit. Meat is submerged in fat, cooked slowly over a period of several hours, only later to be consumed as a spreadable or dunkable treat–perhaps on some crusty bread with some cornichon and a slight schmear of mustard. This imagining of a rillette was, obviously, vegetarian–it is the first non-animal rillette I’ve ever tried and I enjoyed it tremendously. The entire plate was bedecked with microgreens and pickled mustard seeds. In its entirety, it was effectively a reimagining of potato salad. I’ve never been one to give a hoot for potato salad. For me, the dish totters between unimpressive and sometimes disgusting–depending on who makes it. When Junk Ditch presents its topsy-turvy and reimagined versions of this classic dish, I am never disappointed. To pair, the LaLuca Prosecco: a divine sip to begin an evening with. Italy’s answer to France’s Champagne, Prosecco hits basically the same flavor profile of traditional Champagne. Think green fruits like apples and pears and citrusy grapefruits and lemons. Instead of the big yeasty or bready quality that Champagne often offers, I found this Prosecco to come through with some nice minerality that was really refreshing. There was still a hint of that lovely toast note that we know and love with Champagnes and Proseccos, but I found the minerality to be more present. It was delightful. With persistent fizz and high acid, this paired perfectly with our first tiny bite of the evening.
Next was our soup course: a white gazpacho. Consisting of sunchoke, cooked down to utter creamy nothingness, with hints of garlic, a single half of a smoked grape, bits of almond, and minced celery–which, after much debate, my dining companions and I agreed must have been pickled, in some sense. Served cold, this was a lovely white gazpacho with myriad textures and flavors to delight the palate. To pair, a sip of Principe Pallavicini Frascati. I’ll be honest, because there’s no point in lying, and say that I’m not as well versed in Italian wines as I’d like to be and this was my first ever taste of a Frascati. I’d place it at being medium bodied, leaning toward off-dry, and higher in acid–all reasons why it played so nicely with this chilled gazpacho, packed full of bold flavors. This still white wine was citrusy, with a bit of melon and minerality–though not my absolute favorite of the evening, it certainly piqued my interest regarding Frascati and I’m certain that, sometime in my future, I’ll be searching out more bottles to sample.
I said it before, and I’ll never stop saying it: pasta is never just pasta. It’s a magical tonic. It’s a balm. It’s a salve. A warm blanket. A love letter: sent or not. It’s an old song. A romance. It is what might have been, under better circumstances. It’s what might become: someday. A promise. A prayer. It’s the breath after your head has been underwater for too long. It’s a hug. It’s hope. This is why pasta is never just pasta. It’s somehow both an exercise in the art of precision and the science of alchemy: romancing simple ingredients into something so much better than the sum of its parts. The pasta plate was very likely my most favorite of the evening–if that makes me a basic bitch, so be it. Butternut raviolo with slices of citrus, butter, melted leeks, and a subtle drizzle of aged balsamic: this is the flavor combination that everyone at home in their kitchen dousing frozen butternut squash ravioli in sage brown butter sauce actually needs, but they don’t know that they want it yet. This plate is the marriage of two seasons. A warm, welcoming, hello hug from autumn and a sweet, subtle, goodbye kiss from summer. I will dream about this plate for the foreseeable future–there’s a good chance it will never leave my mind. When I say “pasta is never just pasta,” it may be the most honest phrase I’ve ever put to page. This wasn’t just pasta: it told a story using the language of food to capture the tale of the changing seasons. Well fucking done on this one, chef! To pair, the wine that–if I remember correctly–our server told me was their favorite pick of the pairing dinner. The Colosi Nero D’Avola: a bold red wine with medium tannins, medium acidity, and whispers of cherry, blackberry, plum, and a whole bunch of other delightful sensations. Honestly, if I’m right and this was the pick of the evening for our server–good pick, friend. This would also be my pick: this is one of those bottles that isn’t terribly expensive at all, but it delivers flavors you might expect from a bottle priced at twice the cost. I’m not trying to say it’s the finest of fine wines–so, if you’re a wine snob looking for a fight, don’t get it fucking twisted–but for a weekday sip, especially when paired with a lovely Italian dinner, this wine is a pretty smart choice. This was quite possibly my favorite pairing of the evening.
The entree was braised veal atop a bed of polenta, flanked with winter vegetables cooked in Junk Ditch’s iconic woodfired oven, and blanketed in a sauce vierge. I fear my description won’t do this plate justice, so before I begin I want to preface whatever words come next by saying I enjoyed this dish. I cleaned my plate. I have no complaints. But, I don’t know if I fully understand what I ate. When I was a child, after Thanksgiving, my grandmother would take leftover turkey, grind it to a mince, and make these conical shaped turkey croquettes. They were diner style little pyramids of fried joy that we lathered in turkey gravy and greedily devoured. I haven’t eaten one in probably over fifteen years but it’s a happy childhood memory, nonetheless. The veal dish put me in mind of this sense memory from my childhood, as I can only describe the braised veal as being, perhaps, some kind of croquette. The exterior was blanketed in something–batter or breadcrumb, who am I to say. I’m uncertain. At this point, dinner was inching closer and closer to abutting my bedtime, I’d had several sippy sips of wine, and my senses were swimming from the constant stimulation of good food and good company. I will be frank and say the veal dish was not at all what I expected from a menu that read as “braised veal.” I assumed I’d get a dish similar to the one served at the last Junk Ditch Monday Night Pairing Dinner that I attended–you can read about that on the appropriate blog post if you’re curious, because I’m not going to rehash the gorgeous details here. (Update: A friend with all the insider details sent me the kindest voice memo explaining the dish. So, allow me to elucidate in full detail the preparation of last night’s entree: Chef Andrew braised the veal breast, he took the liquid that he braised the breast in and added gelatin, then he added the shredded meat back into the liquid, formed it into a log, chilled it. Finally, it was sliced, breaded, fried, and served. Magnifico!) Junk Ditch completely subverted my expectations with this entree. It’s not a bad thing. How could it be bad that this entree gave me a full-blown Ratatouille moment where I was transported back to a childhood memory I’d nearly entirely forgotten? I feel like I still haven’t fully processed the experience–the only thing I know definitively is that I would gladly swim in a pool of polenta. This plate was paired with the Farina Amarone della Valpolicella: a full bodied, oaky red, with suggestions of plum and raspberry. It stood up nicely to this plate. Another excellent sip that I would more than happily sip again.
As for dessert–my god, do I have words. I often find that the dessert course can be forgettable, but I will be dreaming of this dessert course until the day I die. Another primo example of simple things becoming more than the sum of their parts: torn shards of olive oil cake, with a small scoop of vanilla ice cream, two torched kisses of meringue, piles of candied orange peel, a whisper of fennel frond, a dukkah (which my GK Carrot Cake obsessives will realize is not entirely dissimilar to the sprinkling of seeds used on GK’s Carrot Cake), all sitting pretty atop a shallow pool of decadent chocolate sauce. The olive oil cake was otherworldly: with a thick, golden crusting, visually reminiscent of the exterior of an angel cake but infinitely more delicious. This cake could almost–I said almost–make me forget all about GK’s Carrot Cake. That is the highest compliment that I can give a cake. To pair with this mind-bendingly delicious dessert, a glass of Adesso Cagnina Di Romagna Dolce. This sweet–but not too sweet–red played a pivotal part in the divine creation of, I kid you not, probably my favorite wine and dessert pairing I’ve ever encountered. (Can I just say: I’m so glad it was this wine and not just a Vinsanto.) So often, dessert-y wines end up feeling heavy and saccharine; not this baby. Light on the palate, with some interesting depth of flavor to counterbalance the sweetness–I’m wondering who I have to bribe to get this exact dessert plate and this exact glass of wine as an annual birthday treat. This was the absolute most idyllic end to a meal–I can imagine no sweeter, more perfect ending. And, for that reason, I feel that this is where I end my writing–as there is nothing more to say other than bravo. Complimenti al cuoco!
-
Brew260xVolchy: brunch has never been this cereal-sly delicious
The word ‘heaven’ is sure to conjure up images in all of our minds. For some, it’s the paradise that awaits us after death: full of cherubs, harps, and loved ones we lost too soon. No shame to the sinners for whom heaven is a fairytale you don’t buy into. I’m just the same–I’ll save you a seat in the flame pit if we both back the wrong horse. Whether you’re into the concept of heaven or Valhalla; some splendid celestial city awaiting in the wild blue yonder or a less easily definable, boundless bliss floating in the ether, one thing is certain to be true–we’ve all got some dreamy vision of a promised land bouncing around in our monkey brains. Whether we think it’s fact or fiction is neither here nor there: we all have the capacity to hold the concept–and we do. For most, their personal nirvana can’t be found on this earthly plain. It lies somewhere beyond, in an incomprehensible afterworld. For me, heaven is a much more simple and tangible concept. There are absolutely zero harps, the angels all have tattoos and occasionally wield knives with great finesse, and I don’t have to die to get there. Perhaps you recently visited my personal version of paradise. Did you snag a seat at the Brew260xVolchyx2Toms brunch pop-up?
Maybe you don’t want to believe that the whole ordeal was divinely spiritual. Maybe, to you, a beer filled brunching bedlam is more of a sinner’s paradise. What you think is really of no concern to me. We’re not talking about your beliefs right now, we’re talking about mine. If you haven’t turned on the news lately: it’s a real stomach-churning shitshow out there. The world is in an ugly place right now and it’s not something to be ignored. But for just a moment, I will allow myself to hide away in the safety and security of my own delicious fantasy world where Chef Rio’s food is my religion, Volchy’s monklike devotion to the perfection of eggs is my gospel, and 2Tom’s Cereal Killer beers are my communion wine. They are my personal holy trinity and they’ve done more good for me than any religion I’ve found yet. So swim with me, if you dare, through a sea of cereal beers and thoughtfully paired plates and I’m sure you’ll soon agree: on this particular Saturday morning, utopia wasn’t very hard to find–it was right here in Fort Wayne.
As I write this, I’ve just come from brunch. I’m not not tipsy; but that’s okay, because you’re not not amused. I’ve got shit to say, so buckle up, buttercup. First stop is Brekky Toast: smoked ham hock, potato, micros, and blueberry agrodolce. This is absolutely one of my favorite toast applications I’ve ever experienced. If I had any complaint about this dish, it’s that the microgreens were maybe better defined as macrogreens and they made it very difficult for me to fit bites of this blissful toast into my abnormally tiny mouth. (Yeah. I’m one of those people who only uses the smaller sized spoon in a cutlery set. I’ve got Betty Boop mouth, but don’t cry for me–I manage just fine. Ayyyy.) When I let go and let my fingers get busy rearranging micro/macrogreens to my personal comfort level: this dish was fire. The potato layer on the toast was creamy-dreamy, to the point that–if I didn’t know it was potato–I could have mistaken it for a luscious layer of soft cheese or something equally, deliriously delicious. Potatoes really are out here doing all the heavy lifting. The blueberry agrodolce was the perfect tart hint of berry sweetness to balance the sinfully smokey ham hock. Paired with Boo Berries: blueberry cereal sour, this was a delightful combo. The dusky purple pastry sour had a pleasant aroma of blueberry and marshmallow, but the first sip is like a big sour blueberry punch in the face–the best kind of punch you can get! It really plays nicely with the more decadent layers going on in this Brekky Toast. Like, this isn’t your vegan girlfriend’s avocado toast. This toast is big, bold, beautiful, and does nicely with a sour blueberry beer by its side.
The Apple Salad consisted of a mix of cabbage and fennel, with sprinklings of creamy feta and crunchy cashews, all married together by a caramel vinaigrette. Was this one of my favorite plates? I’m legit a sucker for the bougie shit we call salads. Y’all don’t just get me to eat my greens: I’m begging for it. I like it, I love it. This was paired with one of the only brand new cereal beers to be released this year: Creeper. She’s a caramel apple cereal sour, named after the most recent addition to the Monster Cereal family: Carmella Creeper. I wanted to love this beer, because I’m really in my Carmella Creeper era. I’m loving caramel, I’m loving sour apple, I’m loving feminism, and most of all I’m feeling like a fucking zombie girl 24/7. This beer delivers: especially where sour apple flavor is concerned. Paired with the salad, it’s a refreshing combo. Would smash again.One of the most well-loved plates of this pop-up was the Hash Bowl. Foodslut and I both had nice things to say about this mingling of espresso rubbed brisket, soft scrambled egg, root vegetables, poblano, and peanut butter sofrito. This was a really delightful dish, but what got me doing a happy dance in my chair was how it played with the Puff Stout. Look, I did a whole write up on the cereal beers from last year, and I went into some detail about my feelings on the Puff. This is meant to be a Reese’s Peanut Butter stout, as in Reese’s Puffs Cereal-inspired. My complaint is that it doesn’t deliver much in the way of peanut butter flavor. It’s a bit like Sweet Baby Jesus from Duclaw Brewing in Maryland, but toned down–whereas I’d much prefer to be punched in the face with flavor. (Sweet Baby Jesus can punch me in the face any day.) That said: my complaint is also that Reese’s Puffs Cereal is a bit aimless and doesn’t deliver much in the way of actual chocolate peanut butter flavor. So, if the beer is meant to be evocative of the cereal: it’s doing a perfectly fine job. Where the magic happens is when you pair the Hash Bowl with the Puff stout. My friend, what you experience is nothing short of alchemy! The peanut butter sofrito elevates the peanut butter flavor in the beer–and suddenly all is right with the world.
As for the French Toast: this is the plate that I refused to share with my bestie. We each got our own. And then, after enjoying those, I ordered another plate to enjoy once more before paying our tab and leaving. French toast has long been one of my most serious love languages. I harbor such strong feelings for French toast; a torch ever-burning in my heart for it. This dish spoke my language and left my soul feeling utterly full to bursting in the most delightful manner. It’s Shop260 chocolate sourdough, cookie crumbles, and vanilla crème anglaise. Simple, right? But so good. Is anyone surprised that the French toast at this pop-up was absolutely goated? No. Honestly, nobody is surprised at all–we expect this level of excellence from the chef behind Shop260: Fort Wayne’s favorite purveyor of bagels and breadstuffs. But sheesh, I knew that their cinnamon swirl bread made great French toast, and now I’ve got real feelings regarding the chocolate sourdough being used in this application, as well. I swear: it’s sweet, but it’s also really well-rounded, sophisticated, and slightly bitter. Like, if you had a one night stand with this French toast, it would still make eye contact with you in public–without hesitation, it would be respectful toward you, and it would hype you up when you weren’t in the room–because it would want to see you succeed. The love language of French toast is a complicated one–it’s not for everyone to enjoy and, frankly, even those who might enjoy it won’t always understand it. Life is pain, but life is also pain perdu. Damn, this French toast really was the whole fucking package and I’m so glad I got to have it even once–though twice was definitely better. To pair with it, the only other brand new beer this year: Or-EEE-O. This Oreo Cookie stout is, of course, meant to be reminiscent of Oreo O’s cereal. The Oreo cookie flavor was subtle, as is the case with Oreo O’s cereal. But paired with the dazzling French toast: this stout sung.
A dish that felt particularly Indiana-centric, we had Johnny Cake: aka Indiana corn cake with spiced pork belly and macerated strawberries. The pork belly was beyond beyond–nothing like this exists on our earthly plain and, once this pork belly resides only in your memories, nothing like this will ever exist on this earthly plain again. Also, I straight-up don’t like strawberries, but I ate some because two of the people that I admire most worked hard on these plates and it would be beyond fucked up of me to not try everything exactly as they intended it. I still don’t like strawberries, but I can fully see how someone who does like strawberries would swoon for this plate. My bestie likes strawberries and this was absolutely one of his favorites. Anyone could like this plate–even a bitter, East Coast bitch. But it’s really soul-food for strawberry-loving hoosiers. It was paired with Franken Berries: strawberry cereal sour. Last year, I described its sort of red-orange hue as being the exact color of Mood Slime from Ghostbusters 2. This year, it leaned way more orange, which feels a bit bonkers given how bubblegum pink Franken Berry traditionally is. On the nose, it gives sweet strawberry, but tastes more like sour strawberry candy and marshmallows. A scrummy pairing: definitely one of the more left-of-center, inventive combos of this brunch.
Penultimately, we sampled Eggs In Purgatory: a traditionally tomato-saucy, lightly spicy, egg-centric dish. This interpretation took the traditional and was like: let’s serve it up with some of the best bread in Fort Wayne, like the Shop260 baguette, a beautiful jammy egg, chocolatey spicy mole, and pepitas–because they’re delicious, seasonal, and we all love a little cronchy-cronch. The spice-level on this dish was an absolute knock-out. Like, genuinely, well done, chefs! There was a lot of that really cozy warming spice, with just enough actual heat-spice to be like, “I’m your Daddy now,” without ever really hurting your feelings or your poor, precious baby tongue. Shoutout to Volchy, master of eggs: because when he’s practicing his craft every ordinary egg is magically transformed into a cosmic egg. Each round orb is treated with the utmost respect: like every little sphere is its own universe, worthy of all the time, energy, and adoration required to achieve unadulterated perfection. Paired with Chocula: chocolate cereal stout which is conditioned on cacao nibs, chocolate, and monster cereal. The decadent chocolatey aroma of this beer hits the nose immediately. To me, this almost smells like a garden variety stout with a squirt of chocolate syrup in it: it’s really that chocolatey and intense. The flavor is more subtle. It reminds me of the milk left behind in a bowl of Count Chocula cereal. It’s exquisite and an absolute favorite, especially when it’s balancing the heat of this dish and playing beautifully with the mole.
The last kiss before we bid brunch farewell was the Tiramisu: sweet cream ice cream atop a coffee liqueur and Conjure espresso soaked ladyfinger. The dreamy dish was dusted in cocoa powder. As always, delightful. I only got a tiny bite or two of this one before bestie took over and smashed it. This dish had no beer pairing: and that’s absolutely alright because it required nothing additional to make it shine. It was lovely on its own merits.
Similarly, there was one Cereal Killer Beer with no food pairing: The Monster Cuvee. This brand new, exceptionally bold Imperial Stout was how we finished off our experience and honestly, I’m so glad we saved it for the bitter end, because it was heavy and packed such a big, distinct flavor. The Monster Cuvee is a blend of whiskey barrel aged stout conditioned on coffee beans, blueberry muffin mix, and maple syrup. This one is only available on draft, but if you’re into powerful stouts, it’s an absolute do-not-miss! Get yourself to the taproom and give it a sippy sip or ten. But caution, if bold AF stouts are not for you, then you will feel personally victimized by this beer. I consider myself a stout princess: but I tend to lean away from imperial stouts and more toward your run-of-the-mill breakfast stout. This walked the line beautifully–but was even a bit too big, bold, and beautiful for me to enjoy more than a handful of sips. Bestie, an Imperial Stout addict, would have plugged their face into the tap and stayed all day. Your mileage may vary.
When I die, please bury me with a box of cereal and an empty pint glass: because this meal is the manifestation of my own personal heaven and I want to be fully ready to experience it again when my time comes. A crowded restaurant isn’t my idea of bliss–I abhor crowds and feel awkward having to socialize with people. (Even the really, genuinely lovely and kind ones who stopped to say “hi” to me during this brunch–I appreciate you and sorry that I’m so weird and antisocial. Please don’t read my “I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo,” vibes as me being unenthusiastic to meet you–I’m just a millennial with crippling anxiety and a bit of resting bitch face.) I pulled into the 2Tom’s parking lot early–earlier than I’d care to admit. So early, in fact, that when we started queuing up and people who’d arrived after me were in line before me I didn’t mind–that is, until the dude who was 1st in line (but like 4th to pull into the parking lot: because trust me, I was there and counting cars like an absolute sociopath) said, “If you’re not first, you’re last.” Then I wanted to start a fight. You can move the girl away from the East Coast, but once she gets riled up over absolutely nothing–good fucking luck. All this is to say that 2Tom’s was pretty well packed from the moment they opened the doors at noon. Were things a little hectic, bordering on chaotic? Perhaps. Do I believe everyone was doing their absolute best to create a sense of peace in the chaos? Absolutely. (The brunch angels were seriously busting their asses–kudos to the kiddos who slayed today.) Did any of this impact the flavor or quality of the plates served? Nope; Chef Rio and Volchy absolutely slayed this–as we all suspected they would. It’s not the atmosphere of this pop-up that I personally found to be heavenly: it was the menu that two brilliant, talented, passionate dudes came together to craft–paired with some seriously supreme cereal-inspired beers. For someone who is a bit on the anxious side, who prefers romantic solitude to droves of people, who delights in quiet moments and shrinks away from the cacophony of strangers chattering as if there’s a competition for whoever can hit the highest decibel–2Toms during the surge of an epic brunch pop-up isn’t the place for me. So imagine how absolutely ambrosial the food must be that it alone can stir my senses, carry me away from the chaos, and provide a safe haven where it feels like I’m enjoying my brunch bites in my own little world. That’s my idea of heaven. Food that’s so fucking delicous it can create it’s own magical world and carry you away to that special place in a single bite. Bravo, Chefs! Brunch has never been this cereal-sly delicious. (Ba-dum ching!)
-
Yes, Papi: there is good pizza in the Midwest…
There was a time, not very long ago, when there was a pizza spot with a glowing sign that called to new Fort Wayne residents like a siren song in the night. In my first weeks living in Indiana, I could hear its lullaby from the dinner hours until I drifted off to sleep. “Eat me, Plonk,” the pizza place would whisper in my subconscious. From the delivery apps on my phone, its ever-presence would taunt me–beckoning me, begging me to place an order–“Eat me, Plonk.” Until one night, when perhaps the whispering had escalated to insistent shrieks, or perhaps I was too weak from a pizza-deficiency, or maybe I had simply grown too curious–but, at last, I succumbed to the siren song of the cruel pizza mistress and placed my fateful order. It was a dark, stormy night when two tiny, pizza boxes appeared on my front porch. With great hesitation, I welcomed the pizza into my home. I opened the cardboard encasements and gazed upon the tepid, unholy monstrosities that lay before me. I took bite after bite in a dizzying, seemingly never-ending dance of sad sauce and unyielding cheese. I gave it my all–but it wasn’t enough. When the dance was done, my heart sank and grew cold and stony. I had not had the pizza; the pizza, as it called itself, had me. I locked myself away in my 1920’s bungalow like a ghost haunting my own home and I made the solemn vow never to bother with pizza in the midwest ever again. I said what I said. I don’t fuck with bad pizza.
That chilling tale is the closest thing to a spooky Halloween story you’ll ever get on Plonk & Pleasure. The scariest part is that it’s true–down to every detail, including my extensive bout as a recluse. That was nearly two years ago; the memory is more like a bad dream now–something that happened to someone else. The pizza place in question is defunct and I haven’t shed a single tear. I’ve been putting myself back out there and meeting new pizzas. With every passing day, new better pizza places are opening in Fort Wayne. I have my favorites, just as I’m sure you have yours. But as the pizza game grows ever-stronger in Fort Wayne, we must always leave room to add to our list of favorites. So, cuties, this is your fair warning: make sure you’ve got a blank space for “Papi.”
I don’t know if this is an East Coast kid thing, or if y’all will be able to relate, but there’s this trope that every Atlantic Seaboard babe has got a pizza place near their high school that is “the spot.” If you can leave school for lunch, you’re going to that pizza place. If you’re not heading home after school, you’re going to that pizza place. My pizza place was a few blocks from my school–but if you hustled you could make it there and back for lunch. You’d be late, but not late enough to merit anything more than side-eye from a teacher. My ex-boyfriend had a pizza place directly across the street from his high school. His place gave out free slices to kids after school in an effort to keep teenagers out of trouble. I always found this hilarious, because my ex lived in an insanely affluent area. The only trouble I ever remember kids from his school getting into was when a group of idiots found a pile of asbestos in the wild and decided to jump in it. Stupidity doesn’t merit free pizza in my books. There are so many places where free pizza for the youths would be better served. But stupid is as privileged does, I suppose. I digress–because the point that I’m trying to make is that we East Coast kids all have this nostalgic idea of “our” pizza place. It’s the pizza we were eating when puberty hit. It’s the pizza we bought with our own money. It’s the pizza that we used to wipe our tears during our first big heartbreak. Maybe the place is better in memory than it ever was in reality–so nothing can touch the nostalgia. Enter Papi to bitchslap my fond memories. Wistfulness isn’t cute. Sentimentality doesn’t look good on me. But, damn, Papi wears its nods to my youth so well.
If you were hoping that somebody would come along and put a decent slice shop on The Landing: wish granted, kiddo. With a little throw-back flare that those of us reluctantly trudging through our 30s might find comforting and evocative (while the youths might call it vintage–yikes!) Papi’s shows up as the chaotic-good pizza place of your dreams–or nightmares, depending on how boring of a personality you have. The marketing for Papi’s has been on point from day one–with most of us laughing until our guts hurt and tears unwittingly came out of our face-holes while clicking through their Instagram stories–leaving the losers to question what we thought was so funny. The cease and desist from Charles Entertainment Cheese’s lawyers only made Papi sexier to me–because I have questionable taste in men–and I don’t really see any difference between pizza and men.
Papi’s isn’t open yet, but they invited some folks around for a little soft opening. If I was being vile, I would write, “Papi’s soft opening made me hard.” And I am being vile. So, I wrote it. Because, spoiler alert: Papi’s tastes good. But the thing about a soft opening is that it’s…well, soft. You’re not seeing every single inch; you’re just getting a little peek-a-boo. You have to use your imagination a little. You have to picture how things will grow and change. You have to see the potential in the “softness,” if you will–and I think you will. I could see it so clearly: Papi’s is going to rock your fucking world. So, get ready, cutie. There’s a new pizza rat in town, and the game is strong.
I rolled up on Friday the 13th in the evening; brown paper still covering the windows, making me feel like I’m doing something sneaky and wrong by going inside. I love it–and so does the rebellious teenager that still resides in my brain. Papi’s Pizza is counter service (as a good slice shop should be) and they ran a limited menu for the soft opening, which is smart and fully respectable. Get it, Papi. There were choices to be had and decisions to be made: a classic cheese slice, Sicilian style pepperoni, a slice of Chiki’s Bacon Ranch (which is exactly what you think it is,) a slice with bruschetta and a drizzle of pesto, or the Garlic-Chili Crunch Meatball slice. I chose not to make a choice. I just got one of everything to split with my bestie. This is the only way we know how to live–like reckless pizza heathens. As much chaotic energy that Papi’s has put out into the universe through their online persona: the evening was well organized, clean, and gorgeously executed. They set up a little bar of appetizers that guests of the soft-opening could sample at no cost–kindness abounding! There was Caesar Salad, Bruschetta, Clam Dip, and a really noteworthy Cheesy Garlic Bread. It’s noteworthy because it’s basic AF and doesn’t look like it will be anything particularly special. Then it kicks you in the teeth with awesome garlicky flavor and suddenly you’re writing wedding vows about some cheese bread you just met. Adult tested, crotch-goblin approved.
Perhaps most importantly, three flavors of wings were on offer. Did we try all three flavors? Come on, you’re not brand new–we both know it wasn’t a real question. These are really quintessential pizza place wings; they will pair beautifully with whatever za you munch them alongside. The three flavors we got to try were Teriyaki, Buffalo, and Lemon Pepper. The Teriyaki had a nice flavor. The Buffalo made me genuinely happy. You see, sometimes I order Buffalo wings and then get legitimately sad because I feel like somebody secretly signed me up for a Hot Ones challenge that I did not consent to. Not all Buffalo sauce is created equally–and some people take it too fucking far. Not Papi’s. Papi’s understands the importance of consent and my wanting to eat a buffalo wing doesn’t automatically mean I’ve consented to having my tastebuds scorched to utter nothingness. The Buffalo wings have a kick but it’s entirely palatable and provides dope flavor. However, if you’re in it entirely for taste, the Lemon Pepper is where it’s at. Bestie says he’d order the Lemon Pepper for lunch and then go back and get them again for dinner and never get tired of them. So, if you’re somebody who likes your pizza with a side of chicken flats and drums, rest assured that Papi has you covered on that front.
As for the pizza, there’s a lot to be excited about. My first bite was the plain cheese because that’s how you’ve got to do it if you’re truly trying to assess somebody’s quality of pizza. Sorry, I don’t make the rules: some old guy in Queen’s named Joe probably does, so take it up with him, I guess. (Fucking patriarchy.) If you watched Ninja Turtle cartoons as a kid and got jealous about the pizza they were slamming, this is the pizza for you. Papi’s got big slices, with sweet-zesty sauce, and cheese that’s practically built for epic cheese-pulls. My first slice of the evening was just cheese, but it had me all starry-eyed and swoony like, “Yes, Papi.” The second slice on my bucket list? I’m a lover of cured meats and a square slice, so you know I got excited and couldn’t wait too long to try their Sicilian pepperoni. They’re using the little pepperoni that curl up and hold the oil like perfect little zingy-meat-bowls. Cupping pepperoni, for those in the know. I’m a fan. By the second slice, I was like, “I’m Papi now.” Third slice, I went for the Garlic-Chili Crunch Meatball: the most epic-flavored slice of the evening. It was a mistake to put this one third, because damn–she spicy. The Garlic-Chili Crunch Oil does not fuck around–and I shouldn’t have been surprised by this at all, but I kinda was. If you’re one of those idiots who blots their pizza–first of all, delete me. Second of all, do not order this pizza and ruin it with the worst habit you learned from your grandma. The oil is the point. Learn to stop worrying and love the oil. The texture of the meatballs was dope and there really isn’t another slice with this precise flavor profile in Fort Wayne, so if you can handle the heat, do it up. As for me, I’m a little bit of a baby when it comes to the spicy side of life. Last slice, I felt like Papi. This slice reprimanded, “You’re not Papi, silly girl. I am Papi–so, shut your pretty mouth and look me in the eyes when I’m speaking to you.” I moved on to Tomato Tony: we’ll call this slice Margherita adjacent. This is the Golden Retriever boyfriend of pizza slices. With its bruschetta and basil drizzle, I could get used to this slice being around and treating me so nicely. It’s cute. It’s yummy. It sends ‘good morning’ texts. It’s not the kind of slice that I normally go for–if I’m being honest, catch me in the right mood and I’m actually more of a Garlic-Chili Crunch Meatball girl–but I could sort of see things working out between Tomato Tony and me. Really nice slice; you should absolutely take it for a test drive. Finally, I made my way to Chiki’s Bacon Ranch. I don’t gatekeep pizza toppings. I’m the kind of girl who thinks pineapple belongs on pizza. (But, maybe balance it with salty meat like bacon crumbles, and throw on some red onion to round it out.) No sane person can throw me off by telling me what pizza toppings they enjoy: olives, anchovies, green peppers–they all have their time and place on pizza. I have been known to have a slice of chicken, bacon, ranch pizza here or there. But it’s not something I order when I’m in the mood for pizza. It doesn’t taste like pizza. A CBR slice is its own thing, and the one Papi is serving up deserves its moment. As I understand it, the ranch is made in house and she thiccccc. I heard the fellow foodie sitting near me gushing with her friend about how much they liked the ranch. You Midwesterners with your pizza and ranch…I don’t get it but go off, sis. We’re all still entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness–especially where pizza is concerned. Now, if you’ve read my writing before, you may have seen the common thread that I have a thing for scallions. When I cook for myself, I will use objectively too many scallions because I just can’t ever really get enough scallion flavor or crunch. Papi’s CBR slice has scallions on it and, dude, THEY’RE THE ONLY PEOPLE USING ENOUGH SCALLION. Thank you, Papi–from the bottom of my cold, dead heart–for serving me a slice with an appropriate amount of scallion. That crisp, green, oniony goodness balances the thick richness of the ranch and the salty fattiness of the bacon crumbles. You need a big-ass burst of scallion to bring light to the otherwise insanely heavy CBR slice. Papi’s slayed this one. It’s choice. I’m emphatically for it.Do you like sweet, unexpected surprises? Me too. So, imagine my joy when they started giving out free samples of their house made ice cream. That’s right; Papi’s is basically a one stop shop for a good time. I sampled their house vanilla, chocolate, and espresso. The vanilla is exceptional: creamy, clean vanilla flavor. There are present, black specks of vanilla bean throughout–so, if your kid is particularly picky, they might be pissed about the speckles. But, any foodie will tell you, that’s exactly what you want to see in a decent vanilla ice cream. As for the chocolate; I am a girl who loves chocolate but often passes over chocolate ice cream because most simply aren’t that impressive. Papi’s comes in clutch with a curveball in the chocolate ice cream game–theirs is fire. Surprisingly elegant for a pizza place chocolate ice cream: this darker, well-rounded chocolate flavor balances sweet and bitter in exemplary fashion. I will crave Papi’s chocolate ice cream. But, in truth, the espresso ice cream takes the cake for me. I mean, if you’re doing two scoops, get one chocolate and one espresso and you’ll never be sad again a single day in your life. If you’re only doing one scoop: stop being stupid and do two.
So, to answer the question that you never asked me but you should have asked so I’m going to answer it anyways–yes, Papi: 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. But with Papi’s Pizza making a home on The Landing, you won’t have to look too far for a decent slice. In amongst the muraled drywall, the hand-painted decks on display, the innumerable stickers, a hot pink neon sign, and a wall with the infamous 90s paper cup “Jazz” design–good pizza exists. And in this sacred, nostalgic, pizza-filled dreamscape there is housemade ice cream, saucy wings, and a staff of some of the most kick-ass, brilliant, talented humans that you’ll find on planet earth. If you value kindness, deliciousness, and cheese-pulls of epic proportion: welcome home. Pull up a chair. Have a slice. You’re Papi now.
-
Tolon: everyone is happy at brunch…
I went to brunch on a Sunday morning. Brunch is the liminal space that appears, like magic, on weekends between what otherwise is referred to as the breakfast and lunch hours. Brunch is a thing that people like to do, especially on Sunday mornings and especially if they drank the night before. Unlike so many, I did not drink the night before and I did not simply fall out of bed and stumble into a brunch with my nearest and dearest by happenstance. I planned for this day. My brunch was born of weeks of thought and days of preparation. I had a reservation, even though I was showing up very early in the brunching hours–because that’s what my schedule allowed for and I believe reservations are a practice that encourages mutual respect of time. (Restaurants respect the diners’ time, diners respect the restaurant’s time, and everyone wins.) I anticipated how many hours the meal might take: probably one, but certainly no more than two. I sat with the restaurant’s menu and calculated the potential cost should my dining companion and I choose to have the most expensive wine, a small plate to share, and the most expensive entrees. I even added the additional cost of what dessert would be if we chose to partake, knowing full well we very likely wouldn’t. I calculated the maximum cost, added twenty percent tip, and made sure there was enough cash in the bank account to allow for the outing. That is how I enjoy brunch these days: infrequently and with meticulous planning.
In my youth, I took for granted the nights where I’d drink to excess and wake up late (and only slightly groggy) the next morning, stumble to a brunch of epic proportions, and never once have to check my bank account. We take so much for granted, don’t we? A whole different person than I once was, I recently made the quick (wide awake, alert, enthusiastic, and sober) walk from the car to Tolon. My dining companion and I were seated in the front room, pop-art of Jack Nicholson in The Shining and a tattooed Marilyn Monroe hanging on the walls and providing excellent eye-candy. Sunshine flooded the little alcove and created a cozy, quaint environment for a late morning meal. Water was poured in stainless steel wine glasses which kept it crisp and cold. We glugged it, eagerly. Am I the exception to the rule or do we appreciate water more with age–especially deliciously cold water? I observed other diners around me: couples or small groups. They all looked exceedingly relaxed–calm, cool, lackadaisical, and so certain that the day that lay ahead of them would be sunny and unserious. They looked ready to chill out and take their time over a delicious spread. They looked happy. Everyone looks happy at brunch. It’s like there’s some cosmic rule that you can’t be sad when you’re eating brunch.
My dining companion ordered a Champagne Velvet. They sipped it and loved it, which I found really annoying. Months ago I’d suggested it to them at another meal we shared. They ordered it and liked it: but felt the need to make it entirely clear to me that they didn’t love it. But at brunch, suddenly they loved this beer–and I’m entirely certain that it’s because I didn’t suggest it and they chose it themself off the menu, forgetting that they’d tried it before. They always prefer things that they ‘find themself’ to things that I suggest. Either way, it’s an exceptional beer. While I batted around the idea of having a Bloody Mary, I thought it best to save the experience for a future taste test with my Bloody-Mary-buddy. Instead, I opted for a glass of Pinot Noir: the Belle Glos Clark & Telephone Pinot Noir, to be precise. I’ve had this wine before and it’s really cementing itself as one of my preferred Pinot Noirs. It gives all the typical things you’d expect from a Pinot Noir: red fruit and spice. But, this particular wine also provides notes of chocolate covered blueberries and, perhaps, just a hint of maple syrup drenched pancakes–so I’m fully obsessed with the layers uncovered in each sensational sip.
To start our meal, we opted for a plate of Duck Fat Frites. As our waiter said, “Everything’s better with duck fat.” Accentuated with smoked sea salt and a side of duck egg and basil aioli, these may very well be the best fries available in Fort Wayne. I said what I said, but will qualify the compliment with two caveats: 1) I have many more fries I must try before I truly call the race and 2) I love fries. Even questionable fast food fries sometimes hold a special place in my heart. Still–these frites are special. Where Tolon wins, aside from the frites’ utter perfection, is the portion size. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone somewhere, ordered fries, and then been beyond disappointed at the proportion of fries that I receive. At Tolon, the exact opposite occurred. I ordered a plate of fries and, when it arrived at the table, I was shocked to the point of an audible gasp and a muttered, “Whoa.” The portion is massive–not so massive that two fry-obsessed weirdos couldn’t smash it before the end of brunch–but huge enough that the towering plate of frites made an impact. It filled us with awe and excitement. The perfectly crisp, yet delightfully fluffy-tender frites were salted to perfection, creating an elegant balance of fatty-salty-goodness. The aioli was just delicately herbaceous enough to provide a stimulating jolt of creamy-botanic-delicousness whenever we elected to dip one of our frites, which was often.
My dining companion opted for the Nashville Hot Chicken and Waffles and was not disappointed. (Probably because they made the choice themselves and I didn’t suggest it… I’m teasing, of course.) A rectangular buttermilk waffle–we all agree, the shape of a waffle is almost as important as what’s in the batter–with two pieces of chicken perched on top. We’ll either call them “the largest tendies anyone has ever seen” or “chubby cutlets.” Either way, they sat on the waffle in all of their spicy-chile-paste-rubbed, no-bones glory. Nothing but a little whipped honey butter and local maple syrup was needed to bring the components of this dish together in cohesive-yumminess. We’ve eaten a lot of chicken and waffles in our time–probably too much. This was certainly a scrumptious execution of the Southern classic.
As for me, I opted for the Blackened Shrimp and Grits. It’s a favorite of mine, though it’s atypical of me to order it anywhere other than New Orleans. I suppose it could be said of me that I like good Shrimp and Grits and everything else is just upsetting. Nobody wants to be upset at brunch–not in this economy. If I didn’t trust Tolon, I wouldn’t bother ordering the Shrimp and Grits. A heaping pile of heirloom cheddar grits sits like an island in a dark sea of bordelaise–that classic French, red-wine based sauce you’ve perhaps eaten before with a big, juicy steak. A 63 degree egg is nested in the grits, waiting in eager anticipation to be poked or prodded so that it may ooze its liquid-gold center over the cheesy grits, creating a sauce of itself. The term “63 degree egg” comes from the temperature at which the egg is cooked in a sous vide bath. After a lengthy lounge in the warm bath, the egg white should be just safely cooked, while the yolk remains deliciously creamy and oozy. On this particular day, my egg was just slightly overcooked, resulting in more of a jammy texture. Delicious, none-the-less, but I really missed out on the benefit of having the golden-nectar of the yolk gush out and mingle with the cheesy grits. Even when we try our very best, not everything will be perfect all the time. I’ll quote myself here, “I’m human and I’m built to fuck up.” None of us are perfect–but can a single element of a dish be imperfect, a mistake even, and the overall effect of the dish still be overwhelmingly positive? To this, I cry a resounding, “Yes!” The real pièce de résistance of this plate is, of course, the shrimp: large and tender, with just a suggestion of flavorful blackening on their edges. Interspersed throughout the array of shrimp, you’ll find bits of andouille sausage–providing exciting texture and heat–and a sprinkling of green onions. I always want more green onion–but that’s a personal issue and not an indictment on the dish in any way. I have a problem. I have an insatiable hunger for green onions. At its worst, this dish is delicious; though my egg was jammy instead of oozy, I still devoured my meal. The texture of the egg doesn’t alter the absolutely superb flavors at play in this plate. With an oozy egg, at its absolute best, I’d wager this is potentially one of the best brunch plates you’ll find in Fort Wayne.
Brunch at Tolon is dreamy and I need to go back ASAP. There are menu items that call to me that I have yet to try–and I’m not sure how much longer I can wait. Once, I’d like to go just for the Bloody Mary and maybe another plate of those magnificent Duck Fat Frites. Perhaps, we could brunch together some Sunday? Here’s how it will play out: we’ll split the buttermilk drop biscuits. I’ve not yet had them, but surely they’re delicious and a reasonable way to begin a brunch. Then you’ll order the steak tacos–because I’ve heard good things and I’m very curious, but ultimately my energies are focused elsewhere. I’ll get the steak and eggs. We can trade bites, if you like me enough to do that and bask in all the farm-to-table splendor that Tolon has to offer. Another Sunday we’ll go back to try the Dutch Baby–maybe closer to Christmas time, so that afterward we can watch that Christmas episode of Bob’s Burgers where Linda orders a Dutch baby and says the classic line, “Aww, it’s a preemie, like Jesus.” It’ll be a great time. If there’s one thing of which I’m certain: brunch at Tolon is always a great time. They operate on the principle that food brings people together. Never have truer words been spoken. Together, with people you care about, sharing delicious food on a Sunday morning–how could you be anything but happy? Everyone looks happy at brunch, but everyone is happy when brunching at Tolon. -
Bravas Caramel Apple Burger: a love story…
It’s no secret that I’m a spooky season fanatic. Some girls are for the streets. I am one of those girls: but only when the gutters are full of fallen orange, brown, and yellow leaves and the front porches of houses are bedecked with mums, pumpkins, and gourds. Everything about autumn gives me life and I see no reason to ever apologize for being so completely blissed out over something so simple and innocent. If I want to wear a sweater and drink a hot PSL on an eighty degree Indiana day in late September, the only person I’m hurting is myself. Call me ‘basic’ if you must: but be prepared to cry yourself to sleep when I ‘basically’ hurt your feelings with my words and politely, but pointedly, dress you down for harshing other people’s vibes just to make yourself feel bigger–because only someone sad and deeply traumatized would behave in such an unkind manner.
When I moved to Fort Wayne, my first night alone in my house was Halloween. Usually it’s one of my favorite nights of the year, but that night didn’t go so well. I was too busy unpacking boxes and assembling furniture to partake in any of my favorite fall time activities. My front porch looked pretty pathetic and vacant. I didn’t really have a feel for the neighborhood since I was brand new–and I underestimated how many kids there would be so I didn’t buy enough candy. I left my meager offering in a big bowl on my porch. Not far into the evening, a bunch of shitty teenagers stole all the candy…and the bowl. I watched Hocus Pocus and cried myself to sleep.
A few days later, I treated myself to Bravas for the first time: and, at the time, it felt like such a big deal to me to leave my house and walk alone to the truck to grab my dinner. Not because it’s a scary neighborhood or anything–it’s not. But, everything was so completely unfamiliar and I was hyper aware that if anything went wrong, there was zero safety net–no friends or family nearby to call if I accidentally locked myself out of my house or something silly like that. If I got hit by a car, who would feed my dog? I remember putting on my big black coat and walking to the truck in gorgeous, golden, late afternoon sunlight–and I remember feeling like my coat made me look out of place. It seems that Midwesterners don’t wear coats unless they absolutely have to and I hadn’t really adapted to that lifestyle yet. (I still probably wear a coat more often then y’all do but if I’m never really one of you, I suppose that’s fine by me. I’d rather be warm and cozy than a true Hoosier.) So, I walked to the food truck, leaves crunching beneath my boots, finally having the sort of autumnal moment I’d really been deprived of all season. Bravas were still slinging burgers from the truck parked on Farfield Avenue. I secured my big, brown paper bag and trudged home to unpack my spoils.
My very first taste of Bravas included my very first taste of the famed Caramel Apple Burger. I didn’t know then, but I know now that this burger basically has a cult following in Fort Wayne: and for good reason. (Recently, someone brilliant even went so far as to do a mock-up design for a Caramel Apple Burger Cult T-shirt and I am shooketh by the utter creativity and talent!) The first time I tried it–alone at my newly assembled dining room table–it was the food that made me feel like moving to Indiana wasn’t a completely fucking stupid idea and everything was going to be okay. It didn’t make me feel at home. It couldn’t. It was new, exciting–completely foreign and different. (Apples on a burger? That’s not something you see every day. Caramel on a burger? How bizarre, how bizarre.) But it did make me feel happy, and that’s a lot…happiness doesn’t come easily to everyone. I texted my mom just to tell her how much I liked the burger because I really liked the burger. It was one of those life changing bites; a transformative taste. I won’t lie to you: I’ve considered leaving Fort Wayne more than once since moving here–but the Caramel Apple Burger is the kind of thing that makes me want to stay because, even if it didn’t taste like home the first time I tried it, it kind of tastes like home now. Doesn’t it? It kind of does.
I wish the Caramel Apple Burger wasn’t a seasonal menu item. But I also understand why it’s maybe best for it to be this way. Maybe it’s for my own good. If I could have this burger any day of the year that I craved it, I’d value it less. It wouldn’t grow in my estimation, it would shrink. Hedonic adaptation would set in and I’d find faults–though the burger is frankly flawless–but we nitpick when we grow weary of something from overexposure. It’s better to miss it, to long for it, to crave it all year long than it would be to take it for granted if it was always around. Take the infamous PSL for example: do I want to drink one in July? Yes. I crave it all year round. But, if I drank it all year round–for more of the 365 days of the year than not–I’d get sick of it and probably find myself yearning for something else…maybe a lavender cold brew. With that said, we as a culture keep stretching pumpkin spice season and granting easy access to the beverage just a little bit longer each year. Bravas seems to have taken note, as they recently announced that the Caramel Apple Burger will be available until the end of the year. Babies, that means from late September through December we can nom down on this dreamy beefcake of a smashburger. Bravas, this genuinely might be the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. (Even though it wasn’t done specifically for me–just take the damn compliment.) Genuinely, I expect this to have a positive impact on the collective mental health of Fort Wayne.
But what is it about the Caramel Apple Burger that has endeared the Fort Wayne community to this masterpiece on a bun? Why are we so tightly locked in its sticky-sweet stranglehold? How can this simple smashburger have such a vice grip on our taste buds, garner such rave reactions, demand such undivided attention, and spark witticism about forming cults–not to mention subsequent fan art depicting robed worshippers of the perfectly gooey sticky-salty-sweet burger? It can’t just be that it’s good–all Bravas burgers are good. The Peanut Butter Burger is on the menu year round; we love it. Yet, as far as I’m aware, nobody is joking about forming a religion for the simple sake of worshipping this burger. (Selling a kidney for some spare cash to buy more PB Burgers? Maybe. But a whole religion? I think not.) There’s something exceptional about the Caramel Apple Burger that calls to us, like an autumnal siren song. I think there’s magic and whimsy sandwiched between the plain white bun of this burger. Yes, hidden amongst the paper-thin slices of pickled Ambrosia Orchard apple, the cartoonishly curled-and-crispy Ossian bacon, the stop-the-world-and-melt-with-you white cheddar, the shmashed-and-shmooshed-to-shmershmection Wood Farms burger patty, and the oozy-pooling-puddling salted caramel sauce, there is magic. There’s all sorts of magic in this world, but I’m not talking about the occultist kind, or any sort of sorcery, or witchcraft. I’m talking about simple kitchen magic: basic ingredients coming together to form more than the sum of their parts. I’m talking about the magic of a bright mind. Once upon a time someone dreamed this burger into reality. With ingenuity, imagination, a little luck, and a lot of skill–nothingness was seasoned, simmered, and serendipitously sculpted into something. The Caramel Apple Burger was born. I’m talking about the most powerful magic of all–yes, you dingus, I mean love. Because we do love it–don’t we? We’re ecstatic when it arrives like clockwork each fall. We hate to see it leave at season’s end. We carve out time and make plans so that we can enjoy it as much as possible while it’s here. When it’s gone again, we think of it often and remember it fondly–for it leaves us with only happy memories.
Charles Bukowski once wrote, “Love is a dog from hell.” He was wrong about that. He was wrong about a lot of things. Because love is no dog at all. Love is a Caramel Apple Burger. It comes to us when the sun begins to shrink away, leaving our days growing darker by the minute. As leaves die and fall to the ground, the Caramel Apple Burger whispers to us, “Don’t you dare.” It drips its thick, gooey, salty-sweet caramel on our tongues to remind us that life is sweet. It awakens our taste buds with pretty-pink, tart, sour-sweet mouthfuls of pickled apple to remind us that we are still alive. We hold it in our hands–an intimate action, whether you’ve realized it before or not–until it hugs us from the inside with its cozy blankets of white cheddar cheese. Selflessly, it will carry us through the changing season into darker days. A psychopomp in burger form. A caramel-covered spirit guide. Sweet, apple-smothered company for the long journey ahead: winter. If that’s not love, what is? Love is no dog from hell. If love is a dog at all, it’s a loyal one who walks beside you with no leash, never disappoints, and always comes back to you when you need it most–keeping you warm as the nights get chillier and the leaves start to fall, then the snow. Love is a Caramel Apple Burger from Bravas.
-
Pintxo & Tinto: “Buy the ticket. Take the ride.”
I’ve had trouble writing lately…again. I still love writing; words just aren’t flowing like they used to, which leaves me feeling unlike myself. I think I’m broken. If a hundred thousand dollar English degree doesn’t entitle me to unwavering creativity, what the fuck did I pay for? Bestie says I can’t always have creative juices pouring out of my face–but I think they’re wrong. I digress: on Tuesday evening, I went to Bravas for their ticketed Pintxo & Tinto wine tasting. It was a brilliant event and I had the best of times–but I’m struggling to find the words to tell you about it. So, we’re just going to Gonzo this and hope something worthwhile appears on the page. Good luck, reader, as I have entirely no idea what direction this is heading. Godspeed. I hope you still like me by the end of this.
Lights up on a Tuesday evening: me in fishnet tights, a plaid miniskirt, black combat boots, and a newly acquired forest green beanie from Speciation Cellars plopped atop my head like the careless afterthought of a star on the highest branch of a Christmas tree of someone who no longer believes in the magic of Christmas but keeps going through the motions anyway. It was hovering around seventy outside and pretty sunny, but I had a bulky black sweater on anyway, because I had decided that it’s Autumn even if reality disagrees with me entirely. I won’t be persuaded otherwise: not by heat, or sunshine, or even my own discomfort. It wasn’t so bad: there was a pleasant, crisp evening breeze. I’ve walked to Bravas countless times before, but for some reason on this particular evening I bothered to use my mapping app to determine how long it would take me to walk there–fifteen minutes. It seemed too long an estimate for just a few short blocks: and it was. My phone is a filthy fucking liar, yet we’re attached at the hip and I depend on it for so much. There’s a metaphor somewhere in there, but I don’t have the time or inclination to hash that out right now. You’re here for the yummy stuff anyway, aren’t you? You can’t eat a metaphor: so I’m moving on.
Oversized sunglasses covered big, dumb blue eyes–an excuse to avoid eye contact with strangers–I trekked the first block past houses that look much like mine; if not in slightly more disrepair. On the corner I waved to my friend’s car parked on the street–as if it might pass the message along to her. Surely it didn’t. Oh well. (Hi, Katie Jo!) I crossed a busy street and continued my trek past houses that I will never afford in this lifetime unless someone decides that these ridiculous words of mine have serious merit and I somehow become a New York Times best-selling author. Even then: these massive, mostly brick, behemoth homes lining streets plucked directly out of Chris Columbus’s masterpiece Home Alone will probably never ever belong to me–and in fishnets, combat boots, and a miniskirt, I felt particularly out of place darting through their towering shadows as the evening sun began its descent. I saw parents eyeing their children playing in the front yard as I passed–gauging whether or not I was a potential threat. (I assure you: I’m only a threat to myself.) But, by then, there weren’t many more steps before I would reach a safe haven where I’d never feel out of place no matter what I’m wearing. A hop, skip, jump, and a few winded asthmatic breaths later and I had reached Bravas–my friendly neighborhood weird Spanish-American restaurant.
I went in and explained to the person at the counter that I came for the wine tasting, they took my name and directed me to the covered patio. Outside, they’d lined up wooden picnic tables to create one, exceptionally long dining area. There were only twenty-five tickets to this very limited event–super exclusive–and they were sold out. When I arrived, the dining area wasn’t entirely packed, but it was getting close to full. My eyes darted around the table as I approached to find a seat–my friend bought a ticket separately from me and messaged me advising that they’d be late–so in the meantime, I knew nobody. I surveyed and decided that it was all adults–I mean, of course it was adults: we don’t serve wine to children. The problem is, I still very much feel like a child: and so suddenly I felt like a child wearing a trench coat, standing on the shoulders of my invisible friend, fumbling in the presence of ‘real’ adults, as I pretended to be one of them. Social anxiety is hilarious, is it not?
I sat at the table and waited for my friend, snapping photos for Instagram. (Hiding behind a cool demeanor and a cell phone is one of my favorite things to do around strangers!) I sent a photo of the tablescape to a friend back home to which they responded, “Looks fancy!” I think fancy might have been an overstatement–but it certainly did look thoughtfully curated and elegantly relaxed. At each table setting, two stemless wine glasses, a bright orange menu with the Bravas logo and descriptions of the nibbles to come our way, a tri-folded paper pamphlet housing details about the wines of the evening, plastic water glasses, and along the table carafes of water for all to enjoy–because, when you drink alcohol, it’s always important to hydrate so you don’t die-drate. The evening was sure to be delightful and, in the slowly falling golden sunlight, I became less and less self aware and more and more excited for the adventure that lay before me. My friend, Volchy, arrived and brought with him further comfort–dude is such a warm presence. It’s no freaking wonder everyone who encounters him seems to absolutely adore him. He’s someone who I haven’t known for very long, but he always feels like an old friend–and I love that feeling! I also love being friends with extroverts–they do all the heavy lifting in social situations and I can’t tell you how much I enjoy that.
Laura from La Rioja Alta joined us this evening to provide intimate details about the wines we were sampling: an extra treat, considering how far she had to travel to be there. Well fucking done Bravas for orchestrating such a cool wine tasting event. I can assure you, when I moved to Indiana, I never in my wildest dreams anticipated that I would be able to exit the front door of my home and walk to an experience of this caliber. What they do is truly mind blowing and it’s not lost on me how lucky I am to get to experience this. Laura wasn’t the only wine expert at Bravas for the event. In addition, Devon, everyone’s favorite local sommelier (and, frankly, fashion icon) was there pouring wines and being her absolutely brilliant and delightful self. If you live locally, like wine, and don’t know who Devon is–you should.
The first bite of the evening: skewered olive, white anchovy, piparra pepper, dressed with olive oil. I often think of an amuse-bouche as a little taste to gently welcome diners to their meal and provide a hint of what delights to expect from the rest of the evening. This was not that. This first bite was delicious–but aggressive in flavor. It was not a gentle welcome, but perhaps a kick in the teeth. It didn’t say, “Hello, friend!” it said, “Sup, bitch? Welcome to the wine tasting.” And you know what–I’m not mad about it at all. There were a few extra skewers, so Volchy and I (with minimal arm twisting) each consumed one extra skewer. Briney olive, funky anchovy, and a little heat from the pepper–gigantic flavors for such a small bite. Could, would, and probably will eat this badass bite again. What a way to start an evening!
For the first plate of the evening, we enjoyed the Txistorra Chip & Gilda: txistorra sausage wrapped in potato, with aioli and cider gastrique. I want to describe this as a sausage wrapped in a potato chip–but I don’t want you to think I’m being reductive. It effectively was a fancy little sausage wrapped in a potato chip and, upon trying it, I honestly thought this was going to be my absolute favorite taste of the evening. Like, I had a nibble and was fully convinced that nothing could ever be better than txistorra sausage, in a fresh potato chip, with that well-known garlicky Bravas aioli, and a drizzle of super-sweet-yummy-yummy cider gastrique. This bite was, in my very humble opinion, flawless. (And I thought it was unsurpassable, until I tried the pork belly later…) The Bravas team really outdid themselves with the dishes for this event. Like, I know that I should probably save my praise until later in this write up–we’ve only reached the first real plate of the evening–but y’all slayed and if I don’t start emphasizing that now, I’m afraid it won’t be entirely clear by the final paragraph. Well fucking done. Seriously.
The first two bites were meant to be paired with the only white wine of the evening: Albarino. This wine was aromatically intense, holding its own against some very bold bites. With notes of peaches, apples, and quinces–this wine was refreshing and welcoming. A delightful start to the meal. There was a tiny mix up and we got our first glass of red poured with the Txistorra Chip & Gilda. In truth, that pairing also wasn’t bad–so, we got to enjoy nice wines, nice foods, and an extra little pour of the second wine of the evening. I don’t think anyone can be mad about any of that.
The second plate of the evening was the Confit Chicken: slow cooked chicken, crispy chicken skin, romesco, and fennel agrodolce. These delightful flavors were served up on little slices of crispy, crunchy bread. For the sake of easy explanation: think like a bruschetta but definitely not Italian and instead of tomatoes and whatnot you get divinely delicious chicken. The chicken was cooked to perfection, the crispy skin atop the bite was a welcome added bit of cronch, the romesco sauce was–as always–executed flawlessly, and the fennel agrodolce was delicately weaved throughout the bite to punctuate but never overpower the other flavors. I fucking love fennel–this was a really thoughtful, exquisite, graceful use of what can sometimes be a big licorice-y slap in the face. When I’m eating delicious little bites like this, and sipping tantalizing Spanish wines, I don’t feel broken at all–I feel amazing. It’s just when I have to write about them that, suddenly, I’m back to broken, and lobotomized, and my brain isn’t serving up new, fresh, delicious words. I just want you to know: damnit, this dinner was fun and I had the best time.
The Confit Chicken was served along with the Ribera Del Duero Crianza: the boldest red of the evening. Tannic, but with higher acid, it’s not dissimilar to a Cabernet Sauvignon. The wine was aged for 22 months in half-French and half-American oak, lending to its delicious palate of mocha, blackberry, and tobacco. While I tend to enjoy big tannic reds, and I did enjoy this wine very much, it was very mouth coating–which is not a sensation that I love. But, the evening was so well-organized and expertly executed: there were carafes of water along the table and, even if we drained them, they never stayed empty for long.
Crispy Pork Belly: pork belly, calabrian chile glaze, herb aioli, pickled chiles, marinated apple. This was the absolute best plate of the evening. Chef Zach’s mother, who was seated near me, suggested that this dish should be on their regular menu–and everyone within earshot agreed. The pork belly was cooked so perfectly: creating a delightfully crispy exterior encompassing an entirely soft, luscious, flavorful interior. The herb aioli, pickled chiles, and marinated apple all played beautifully together to support the perfect little bite of pork belly. After the event had ended and we were still finishing up our extra-curricular glasses of wine, a gentleman stopped by to chat with my dining companions and said, “I wish the pork belly was the size of the picnic table so we could all dive in.” So, safe to say, this was the best loved dish of the evening. The quality was unmatched, the flavors unparalleled, the enjoyment unsurpassed. Like I said earlier, well fucking done.
To pair with the best dish of the evening we had the Vina Alberdi Rioja Reserva. With baking spices on the nose, this red played nicely with the pork belly. According to Devon, our local sommelier facilitating this event, this is the Rioja she believes was used for her sommelier exam. On the palate, red fruit like cherries, and a little leather. I had a second glass of this after the event had ended and I’ll very likely purchase a bottle to enjoy in my own time. Perhaps of the wines of the evening this one was a little more basic (or should I say classic) but, it’s probably the simplicity of this Rioja that made it such an enjoyable sip for me.
The final plate of the evening was Chorizo Dates: medjool dates stuffed with chorizo, wrapped in bacon, on a bed of roasted red pepper sauce. As someone who is a chorizo lover and date fanatic, I expected this to be my absolute favorite bite of the evening. It was good–but it didn’t stop me from thinking about that pork belly. The absolute best part of this little plate was actually the roasted red pepper sauce. Honestly, the sauce was drinkable. Volchy described it as, “The sauce is Spain: the rest is delicious words that you associate with Spain.”
The final wine of the evening was the Vina Ardanza Rioja Reserva: on the palate, strawberry, cigar, and balsamic. There was no “bad” wine. If someone didn’t like something, it would all come down to personal preference. If my pockets were unlimitedly deep, I’d buy a bottle of every wine we sampled–truly, I enjoyed them all. I’m a broke bitch, so I shouldn’t buy any wine–but I’ll probably buy at least two bottles. (Probably? I’ve already got a wish list made up and plans in motion. Now sit back while I belt out “Maybe This Time” from Cabaret like I’m Liza Minnelli; just know I’m singing about Spanish wine.)
After the wine tasting had officially ended, they still had some glasses available. Volchy and I each got one and enjoyed a little nibble from Bravas’ regular tapas menu: croquetas are life. We paid our bills and said our goodbyes. Delightfully tipsy, we stumbled just a building or two down to an art gallery where Volchy has a series of egg paintings on display. I’m planning to buy some–but by the time we were finished with the event, the gallery was closed. If the food and wine of the evening had been less scrumptious, this could have been a bummer of a way to end a night. But the event was so entirely fabulous that, even though I went home without any new art, I went home happy. I can only hope that Bravas does another event like this soon: I can think of nothing that I would look forward to more. As I typed this up, I was trying to suss out with my bestie how many dining events I’ve attended at Bravas–it feels like a million, but I think it’s technically only two special events. This is to say: every dining experience at Bravas feels like an “event.” Whether it’s just lunch, dinner, some smashburgers off the truck, or an evening of Tacos with Friends–y’all seem to bring the same quality no matter the occasion–and it’s always, without exception, delicious and exciting. I can think of nowhere else in the world that I’m always so eternally excited about the food. What you’re doing is special. I hope you know that. I hope everyone knows that. It’s Hunter S. Thompson who said, “Buy the ticket. Take the ride.” The next time Bravas offers any sort of ticketed event, we should all do our best Gonzo impression: buy the ticket and take the delicious fucking ride. Don’t think twice.
Plonk & Pleasure 