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Junk Ditch Brewing NYE Tasting Dinner: the perfect playground for a courageous odyssey of the palate…
New Year’s Eve is full of magic. It’s the one night of the year where humanity shares in the biggest “goodbye” and also the “hello” that holds the most potential. We collectively countdown the last ten seconds of the year while, at the speed of light, we are catapulted into the next. For a solitary fleeting moment we are a planet of time travelers–lost in space and held in eternal return and repeat. (Weren’t we just here some three hundred odd days ago?) We quietly absolve ourselves of our pasts, while secretly hoping that the future will be better. But even those of us who study the stars, or religiously read a newspaper horoscope, or consult the cards for counsel ultimately have no more insight into the future than the rest of humanity. Nobody knows what comes next. All we can control is how we greet the masked stranger that is the New Year.
Whether you’re dancing on the bar, playing beer pong in somebody’s garage, fast asleep in your bed, watching the ball drop from the comfort of your living room sofa, or out to dinner with friends–as of the stroke of midnight, everything will be different. Carriages won’t turn into pumpkins and, if you left the house wearing glass slippers, it’s likely you’ll still have the same shoes at the end of the night. It’s nothing like a fairytale. But even so, there is undeniable magic that occurs at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. As another page falls from the calendar, we’ll gaze with wonder at the blank canvas of a fresh year–yet untouched by the passing of time. With no memories to color the minutes not yet passed, we’re left with only one possibility: hope. Will this year be different? Perhaps better? What does the future hold? Call me superstitious if it pleases you, but I’m of the mind that how we say goodbye to one year may very well impact what comes our way in the next.
Maybe this past year was shit. It doesn’t matter anymore. So what if all of your dreams didn’t come true in the last three hundred and sixty five days? Who cares if you’re not quite the version of yourself you’d hoped to be by now? (And what’s the big deal if the person you thought you’d be kissing at midnight will be kissing someone else?) We’re all about to be granted one of the most precious gifts that we as humans can receive. It’s not something that we can give each other, barter with, or borrow as needed. It’s a gift that comes directly from the universe. It’s the gift of more time–days, hours, and minutes to spend both as we must and as we please. More time to, perhaps, make this next year our best one yet. I don’t think that sort of wondrous possibility should be greeted half asleep in old pajamas. No matter how the past year treated you, I hope that you’ll do your damndest to welcome the new one with–at very least–an open heart. Better yet: why not celebrate its coming! There’s no use fearing the unknown. Fear won’t help you to know it better–so we might as well welcome it with open arms. I couldn’t think of a better way to celebrate 2023 ending and 2024 beginning than with friends at Junk Ditch Brewing’s final tasting dinner of the year.
For our first course, we enjoyed Mushroom Veloute with Truffle, pickled Chanterelle, and brown butter. While Veloute sometimes refers to a sauce, in this instance it referred to a soup–a thick, creamy, absolutely mesmerizing mushroom soup. Bespeckled with black truffle and accented with local pickled mushrooms, this was not your typical cream of mushroom soup–this dish offered layers of flavor to be discovered. Intoxicatingly earthy, this velvety soup was paired with The Stump Jump white wine blend. This lush, fruity blend offered balance for the decadence of the soup and, without question, got our evening started off on a strong note. Brown butter makes everything better. It’s a basic bitch sentiment, but it checks out.
The next plate was a Kale and Date salad with pistachios, gouda, and orange vinaigrette. Junk Ditch is one of those special places that gets me to eat my greens eagerly and without complaint. A small salad of robust green kale was punctuated with pieces of chewy date, crunchy pistachios, and creamy gouda. Dressed with a bright citrusy vinaigrette, this plate stunned as a winter salad. The Paul Dolan Sauvignon Blanc paired with this plate was probably my favorite white wine of the evening. Typical of Sauvignon Blanc, there were notes of tree fruits and citrus fruits balanced by notes of honey and very present minerality. But that’s an old-school way to describe a wine. Like the rest of the wine world, one of my goals for 2024 is to try to move away from these hackneyed, unrelatable descriptions. I don’t want to keep using the language of the oppressor. What does minerality even mean, really? It’s this ephemeral quality–kind of stony, like sucking on a river rock or eating soil, but who fucking goes around doing that? Isn’t that a pica thing? Are we supposed to believe that old cishet white men have been shoveling dirt in their wealthy gobs for generations? Is “suck rocks, get rich” one of the secrets to success?
The third plate of the evening was an artful presentation of Wood Fired Carrot with Harissa, Marcona almonds, curry, crème fraîche, and crispy rice. The woodfired oven lends a flavor to the carrot that no other cooking method can truly replicate. Dressed fancifully with microgreens, this dish was certainly one of the prettiest presentations of the evening. To pair, the Parducci Chardonnay: a very light, crisp, California Chardonnay.
While everything up to this point in the evening was delicious, the fourth plate of the night was the stunner that stopped us dead in our tracks. Little did we know that by the end of the night, we would all still be hoping that we could sneak into the kitchen and snag a second plate of Crab with XO sauce, parsnip, crispy farrow, and caviar. A delicate lump of crab was topped with XO sauce (just slightly spicy and umami rich), accompanied with parsnip, flavorful crispy farrow, and topped with a thoughtful lump of caviar–my best semi-educated guess is sturgeon. This dish was an absolute delight of texture and flavor. To pair with this well-loved dish was one of the most beloved wines of the evening: even our server said it was their favorite. The Foris Pinot Noir, a lighter bodied red, boasted a complex palate of red fruits–like raspberry–a hint of plum, earthiness–like from mushrooms–and a bit of vanilla and spice. For an affordable bottle of Pinot Noir, this is definitely a joyful sip. I will probably seek out this bottle to buy for myself and enjoy. 10/10 would sip again–but don’t let my love of this wine overshadow how good the crab dish was. Babe, it was divine.
Just when I thought that I’d eaten my favorite plate of the evening, out came the Pork Belly with apple, carrot, miso, and a polenta pancake. Like, are you kidding me, Junk Ditch? Katie Jo said that she wanted this plate again for breakfast the next morning, but I want this plate for breakfast every day for the rest of my life. (No. I will not get tired of it after three days. You don’t know me. Mind your own business.) A polenta pancake was perched atop a cozy bed of (what I believe to be) a carrot and miso purée. The pancake served as a pedestal for one of the absolute best bites of pork belly I’ve ever enjoyed. I say that a lot about pork belly, but I mean it every time. It wore apple shreddies like a party hat. This was a New Year’s Eve dish for the record books–but that doesn’t stop me from wishing I could enjoy it every day of the year. The wine pairing for this was a Napa Cut Cabernet Sauvignon. I’m honestly a huge cab fan, but I think I would have preferred this wine more with a different plate. It was bold and seriously tannic which I love. Boasting dark fruits, leather, and oak, I’d absolutely enjoy another pour of this wine, but maybe with even heavier food–like a big-ass juicy steak. Your girl’s a red wine chugging carnivorous cutie. Love me; feed me steak and wine, please. (Do not fret, dear reader, they eventually did. Just keep reading.)
As always, there’s at least one dish on every Junk Ditch tasting menu that causes me to check in with my culinary moral code, but ultimately I trust Junk Ditch’s thoughtful ethical practices in regards to selecting and procuring their proteins. I’ve already given the spiel about being a meat-eater who tries to ensure that I’m sourcing my food ethically and blah, blah, blah–look through my older blogs if you want to know more about it–I don’t want to rehash an old point. What I don’t believe I’ve shared yet is my personal rule about not eating animals I’ve previously kept as pets. It’s pretty much the only rule that stands between me and a pet potbelly pig. But tonight, I bent that rule and enjoyed a Pierogi with wild mushroom, rabbit, veal reduction, and fennel. (I had a bunny named after a famous trumpet player when I was in college–my boyfriend at the time was a jazz musician. I hope I don’t have to tell you this, but never date a jazz musician. Maybe don’t even date musicians–not even the weirdo who played clarinet in middle school band. We’re all trouble.) Somehow, up until this particular New Year’s Eve, I’d managed to go my whole life avoiding eating rabbit. I braced myself and took my first bite with as much confidence as I could muster and, you know, it really wasn’t bad at all. It’s definitely not something that I’ll seek out–but it’s also something that I feel like I could fearlessly eat in the future if an opportunity worth seizing crossed my path. This dish was paired with another notable wine of the evening: the Louis Bernard Côtes du Rhône. This wine was so well-balanced; it was tannic, fruity, acidic–a bit of everything all at once, with no particular quality overshadowing another. This is another bottle that I would absolutely purchase for the sake of revisiting. While not overly gamey, the rabbit definitely had an earthy quality that was reflected in the palate of the wine, making this an idyllic pairing. It made me feel like a French peasant. A beautiful, bougie, modern day French peasant with a lover named Philippe who rides a horse also named Philippe. Maybe I don’t need a passport after all, a tasting menu is a lot cheaper than airfare.
The final savory plate of the evening was Roasted Strip Steak with potato rosti, winter vegetables, and Béarnaise sauce. Your girl is never, ever mad about a plate of steak and potatoes being presented to her. The strip steak was surprisingly tender and cooked to perfect pink perfection. I could have enjoyed three or four plates of this–but that’s a personal problem, I think. This was paired with the second Cabernet Sauvignon of the evening: a bottle by Kiona. This Washington State cab was significantly less tannic than our first cab. Velvety tannins, dark fruit, hints of leather and smoke–there are no bad words for this pairing. All I’ve got left are good vibes and high praise. When it comes to wine, Washington state’s cooler than California. I said what I said. Home of the world’s first queer wine festival, a trip to Washington state should absolutely surpass any dreams you once had of riding a wine train through Napa Valley. In the New Year, we’re no longer doing snobbery and status quo. We want more gay wine and good times.
I was beyond excited to try the dessert course after watching plates be carried to other tables throughout the night. (That and I’d heard rave reviews of the Fromage Blanc ice cream which was previously featured on another tasting dinner menu.) The Warm Donut with Persian spiced apples, Fromage Blanc ice cream, and crumble was a scrumptious way to end our evening. Paired with a Frisk Riesling, this was–without a doubt–the most beautiful way to say goodbye to 2023. Fuck kissing some dingus at midnight: the pro move is a warm donut, a bit of Fromage Blanc ice cream, and a little sippy-sip of a stone-fruit, citrus, and honey forward Riesling. (No petrol in this pour–but it’s definitely for the best with this pairing.) Kissing an idiot will leave a sour taste in your mouth. You want to head into the New Year with nothing but sweetness on your tongue. You want this dessert course to be what launches you into the future.
I think 2024 will be the year of the mushroom and the fish. These are two foods that younger me believed I did not like. When I read them on a menu, I would simply continue reading until I got to dishes only comprised of the pre-approved list of ingredients from which my brain insisted I must not deviate lest I risk having a yucky time. Over the past year, I have been learning one plate a time that younger me was flat-out wrong. Short of severe allergies, there is not a single foodstuff on the face of this planet which you can’t appreciate at least one bite of when carefully prepared by industry professionals in controlled conditions. The tasting dinners at Junk Ditch Brewing are the perfect playground for this sort of courageous odyssey of the palate. I urge you to explore with me–I promise you will not regret it. Trust your chef. With trust, an adventurous spirit, and a worthy guide we can learn to love anything–even things we once believed ourselves to hate. It’s time we taste every wonderous flavor this universe has to offer: preconceived notions be damned and promptly forgotten. Let’s let 2024 be the year that we explore and discover–with chefs as our sherpas and our tastebuds serving as our only compass. The future is a blank canvas. Let’s choose to fill it with the most delicious adventures. We’re brave enough. We’re bold enough. We can do it if we decide to. Afterall, we’re time travelers. We can’t see the future, but we can shape it. I don’t know what the next year will bring, but I know one thing with absolute certainty–my life will be so fucking delicious.
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Rocksteady Pizza Parlour: there is passion in these pies…
I’d like to believe that those who faithfully read my writing can tell the difference between when I write with passion and when I’m just phoning it in. Passion makes all the difference: because it’s the apples and oranges of genuinely being emotionally impacted by a dining experience versus feeling obligated to write nice things about some food that I ate. Maybe this is silly, but I like to think of it as the Transitive Property of Passion. Food made with passion tastes better. If a chef is truly passionate, then that should translate into their cuisine, and I should then be imbued with that passion when I consume their food. My hope is that I then harness that passion, inject it into my words, and spread it amongst all who read my writing–which is, perhaps, a little arrogant for me to hope. Still, at the end of the day, I can’t help but wish to find myself somewhere in the middle of the food chain: consuming passion, merely to pass it on to others like some contagion of good vibes. Maybe you can tell already, maybe it goes without saying, but today I ate passion. So, now it’s your turn, baby. Buckle up buttercup, you’re about to be filled with vicarious passion–because, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: pizza is a love language. Rocksteady Pizza Parlour speaks the love language of pizza fluently.
I get a bit irritated when pizza places claim to have a certain type of slice and then fall short of the promise. Don’t tell me it’s a “New York Style” pizza and then underdeliver. If you just call it “pizza” with no qualifiers, I’m less likely to be disappointed with whatever you give me. But, if I’m promised a “New York Style” slice and get anything that falls even fractionally shy of that, I now have reason to be disappointed. The first thing that I love about Rocksteady Pizza Parlour is that they underpromise and overdeliver. Nothing in their name, or on their menu, tells me what style of pizza to expect. Spoiler alert: what they’re serving up is brick oven pizza most closely resembling the beloved Neapolitan style. The pies have gorgeous leoparding with charred black, bubbly crusts–yet the dough is pillowy, light, and indisputably delicious. The ingredients are high quality. The sauce is simple and pure. The care and craftsmanship that goes into these pies is apparent right from the jump–but I’m getting ahead of myself.
Rocksteady Pizza Parlour is a new restaurant in the gorgeous lake-infested community of Warsaw, Indiana. Is there such a thing as too many lakes? Warsaw is 50% lakes, 20% people, and the rest is good places to eat. Chef Jason, of the notoriously delicious One Ten Craft Meatery, is involved in this project–so you know it’s going to be epic. They’ve only been open for a few weeks at this point and are still working to perfect service–but, despite this spot being brand new, the quality of the food doesn’t suffer even in the slightest. Eventually, the plan is to offer some adult beverages and coffee, but this will come in due time. As someone who, frankly, doesn’t really want pizza without a glass of wine–I am very much looking forward to this addition and can’t wait to go back and enjoy! They’ll even have some breakfast sandos for early risers–but this part of the plan is on pause until they can coolly, confidently, and effortlessly provide lunch and dinner service consistently at the high standard to which they hold themselves. If my meal was any indication, I’d guess they’ll be rolling out these plans soon–because I have zero complaints. They absolutely slayed. I usually save all of my “bravos” and “well dones” until the end of the piece–but I can wait no longer. Rocksteady Pizza Parlour deserves a standing ovation, a hug, and a gold medal. They speak the love language of pizza fluently. Eating there I feel heard, seen, and understood. I am full of pizza and passion. I am fed. I am sated. I am grateful. But, again, I am getting ahead of myself.
The building is stylish, immaculate, and industrial chic–fitting for an upscale casual pizza parlour. An open kitchen concept near the back of the dining area allows guests the opportunity to peep people slinging dough–making the experience feel both authentic and exciting! It’s always a joy to watch the pros at work. This element made me feel so at home. Nothing about Rocksteady Pizza Parlour feels particularly Midwestern–but surely the locals will still feel welcome there. The menu boasts an entire selection of dipping sauces: including ranch! (Not that I’ll be ordering that, but I’m sure somebody might…) Primarily, this joint offers red pies, white pies, and a few outliers. The menu is rounded out with a small but thoughtful selection of sandwiches, soups, salads, and snacky type things. My first taste of Rocksteady was the Fried Garlic Knots. In highschool, my friends and I would often go to a pizzeria afterschool and split a plate of greasy, garlicky knots. I still haven’t found a pizza place in Indiana that can genuinely replicate the garlic knots of my youth. Rocksteady isn’t serving the garlic knots that I grew up with; they’re serving something better. This might sincerely be one of my new favorite little nibbles. A basket of soft, pillowy, knotted, fried dough dusted in a snowfall of parmesan cheese. This dish is for my garlic lovers–those of us who could kill a vampire by blowing a kiss and measure cloves of garlic by listening to our hearts instead of counting with numbers. You can order any dipping sauce to accompany this treat, but there’s only one correct answer: roasted garlic aioli. Let’s take a moment to appreciate that Rocksteady serves their dips in a small dish and not in annoyingly tiny dip containers. Not all heroes wear capes; some sling pies. The roasted garlic aioli is not aioli that uses “garlic” as a mantra when it meditates. This aioli didn’t merely spend a semester in college studying the concept of garlic. This is not a basic aioli that a line cook whispered the word “garlic” into–this is Garlic aioli with a capital “G.” The Fried Garlic Knots with roasted garlic aioli are goated with the sauce. They’d make it onto my “Last Meal” menu. Garlic bread could never. I said what I said.
As for pizzas, I felt it was only fair to get one red sauce and one white sauce pie–you know, for the sake of science. For red sauce, I snagged the Rocksteady pie loaded up with sauce, mozzarella, salami, Gordal olives, roasted red pepper, shallots, and mushrooms. I want to tell you that this pie was earth-shatteringly good–but if I say that now will you still believe me when I say the same thing about the white pie that I tried? Like, seriously, the ingredients are so primo. The pies are so excellently crafted. The flavors play together so blissfully. This pizza is–dare I say–perfect. My only complaint was that I couldn’t enjoy it with a glass of wine. I took home two leftover slices and am currently enjoying them cold with a glass of Chianti Classico. This pizza tastes so fucking delicious with wine.
Now, it’s no secret that I’m a cheese lover–especially goat cheese. So, perhaps I’m biased, but I would say that the white pie that I got from Rocksteady is one of the top five white pizzas of my life. Genuinely and truly–this comes from a place of earnest passion and not just lip service or an obligatory hype-up. I’m kind of, sort of in love with the Honey Goat. This is a vegetarian pie. I can get down on a vegetarian pie. Do I typically choose to? Nah–ya girl loves salty meats on her pizza and she’s not apologizing for it. But I could change my ways for the Honey Goat. This pie brilliantly walks the fine line between being delicate and also an absolute punch in the mouth of flavor. The Honey Goat pizza is topped with white sauce, goat cheese, ricotta, carmelized onion, herbs, and–of all things–sunflower seeds. (I’m pretty confident “passion” should also be listed as an ingredient for this pie; but it’s not on the menu, so…) Words will never do this pizza justice. You just need to eat it. The only things certain in life are death, taxes, and that the Honey Goat pizza is scrumptious beyond human comprehension. This pizza may have genuinely just restored my faith in humanity, my faith in high quality pizza in the Midwest, and–perhaps above all else–my faith in love. I love this pizza.
I’m worse than just your regular, run-of-the-mill hopeless romantic: I’m a hungry hopeless romantic. Sometimes I feel like I’m lost and searching for something–always looking at new restaurants, hoping that I’ll find whatever it is on my next cleaned plate or the bottom of an overpriced glass of wine. When I walk away from a meal with a full belly–but somehow still unsatisfied and eager to continue my search–I know the food wasn’t really that good. But I can assure you, the food at Rocksteady Pizza Parlour is really that good. I left with a full belly, a renewed sense of passion for what I do, a grateful heart, and the strange feeling that I somehow received more than what I ordered and paid for. I feel satisfied. I feel heard, seen, and understood. I feel like somebody is finally speaking my language. This is deeper than the love language of pizzas–this is all about the Transitive Property of Passion. There is passion in these pies. Can you taste it already?
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Bistro Nota Italian Wine Dinner: all my Christmas dreams have come true…
I’m a simple girl. I don’t want much for Christmas. Maybe a few bottles of wine under the tree, some yummy things tucked in my stocking, and–if I’ve been a particularly good girl–maybe some fancy cheeses in the fridge as a Christmas morning surprise. My Christmas list most resembles a grocery list: an oddity for which I’ll make zero apologies. It would seem my Christmas list intended for Santa was mistakenly rerouted to Bistro Nota–because they’re the ones making all my Christmas dreams come true this year. On the Thursday before Christmas, Bistro Nota hosted their Italian Wine Dinner. The evening promised five courses and five wines. At just $100 a head, this is honestly one of the more reasonably priced wine dinners I’ve seen offered in Fort Wayne. Did I snag a reservation as a Christmas present to myself? Duh.
I met my dining companion outside of the restaurant just before 6:30. This was another Plonky and Volchy adventure. Historically, we typically don’t return to a restaurant together–once we’ve dined somewhere, we check it off the list and move on to the next, new, exciting thing. But the lure of Bistro Nota’s Italian Wine Dinner was too strong for us to resist. Even though we’ve already dined at Bistro Nota together, we had to go back to experience this one-night-only dining extravaganza. Upon entering the twinkle-light bedecked brick space, we immediately noticed that they’d rearranged the furniture. For this special dinner, they’d pushed tables together to create one long tablescape down the center of the restaurant. The booths, lining the walls, were still being utilized–but most diners occupied the long, communal table at the center of the room. The place was abuzz with anxious anticipation of what the evening held in store for us. How did the evening begin? With our very first pour.
Our coupe glasses were filled with Pizzolato Spumante Rosé Secco Brut. This bubbly was super organic and the kind of wine you can feel groovy about drinking. For those curious, Secco is not dissimilar to Prosecco–but it’s lighter and typically boasts a slightly lower ABV. While Prosecco is a legally protected term, Secco is not–so we can be a little more loosey-goosey with what we call a “Secco.” This particular Secco was scrummy; gorgeous pale, with lively bubbles in the glass. Notes of strawberry, raspberry, lemon and peach made this sip a particularly pleasant way to begin our meal. After our wine was poured and we had a few moments to take in its profile, the first course was paraded to the table: Celeriac Soup with focaccia crostini, white bean purée, and celery leaf pesto–simple ingredients coming together in such pleasing harmony that it was nothing short of a masterstroke. The texture of the Celeriac Soup was otherworldly–it was perfectly smooth and velvety in the mouth. The crostini (which came perched across the bowl of soup like a delicate, decadent, carby bridge) was schmeared with white bean puree, a smattering of celery leaf pesto, an adornment of–what I believe to be–pickled mustard seeds, several thin half-moons of celery, and microgreens. The crostini paired with the soup and enjoyed with the Secco was an incredibly dreamy way to begin our meal and, truly, set such a high bar for the rest of the evening. While the first pairing of the evening remained a favorite throughout the night: the bar was set and then surpassed. This is really all we can ask for in a coursed dining experience.
Next up, the first white wine of the evening–a pour of Poggio Anima Uriel Grillo di Sicilia 2022. This straw-colored wine seemed to be a favorite of those dining around me. It offered notes of citrus and peach, making it an ideal friend for our second plate of the evening: La Rompagna Tagliatelle–otherwise known as fresh pasta with shaved Brussels sprouts, lemon, and prosciutto bread crumbs. The housemade pasta was exquisitely thin and cooked to perfection. I’m biased when writing about this dish; I am a sucker for fresh pasta and a lover of Brussels sprouts. Anyone who doesn’t absolutely adore pasta with lemon, Brussels sprouts, and prosciutto breadcrumbs can’t be friends with me. We have nothing in common.
The third sip of the evening was Fabio Oberto Langhe Nebbiolo 2020; perhaps the most controversial wine of the evening. If I recall correctly, this wine was explained to us as basically being a declassified Barolo. Whatever name we choose to call this big red wine doesn’t really matter; it had well-integrated tannins and boasted notes of red fruits like cherries, coffee, and baking spices. For me, the finish felt very spice-forward and I was kind of digging it. I heard some complain that the finish fell a bit short of their personal tastes–and I couldn’t really fault them for that observation. But, one thing we all could agree on, is that when paired with the third dish of the evening this wine became exponentially more enjoyable: Diver Scallops served with Umbrian lentils and pea shoots; a simple dish, executed flawlessly. Now might be the ideal time to mention–throughout my meal, I never once needed to pick up a knife. Nothing served required it. I mean, obviously, I didn’t need a knife to eat my soup; but the scallops were also so utterly tender that a fork was more than sufficient to navigate the dish effortlessly. I’ve previously been personally ambiguous towards scallops. If they’d stopped existing, I might not have noticed. This dish makes me want to seek out more scallops. If all scallops are even half as good as the ones dished up at Bistro Nota, then I really need more scallops in my life.
The penultimate wine of the evening was a second glass of red: Due del Monte Rosso 2018. This is the glass that I most looked forward to trying and, ultimately, it may have been my favorite glass of the evening. A stunning blend of Cabernet Sauvignon and Merlot, this wine is Italy’s version of a classic Bordeaux. If I’m being honest, it was paired with what turned out to be my favorite plate of the evening. Call it alchemy or chefy food science or kitchen witchcraft–sometimes the stars simply align and magic happens. It was an outstanding pairing: Pork Osso Bucco was served on a bed of creamy polenta with cameo apple, parsnips, and gremolata. The pork shank was so utterly tender that, as I’ve said, no knife was necessary. By this point in the evening, I was definitely hitting a wall and could have been perfectly happy to call it quits and go home to bed. Had the Osso Bucco not been so deliriously delicious, I might have given up on the evening–but it was too intoxicating to not clean my plate.
Our final sip of the evening was Broletto Lambrusco 2021. An effervescent red served festively in a coupe–an absolutely delightful way to end our Italian Wine Dinner. This fizzy, high acid wine boasted berry notes and a hint of lavender. To pair, a slice of Olive Oil Cake with red wine poached pears–Nebbiolo, to be specific–and luscious orange curd. The cake slice was a more-than-generous end to an already hefty meal. The curd was exquisitely tart and luscious. The Nebbiolo poached pears maintained their texture and structure while still providing a nice pop of flavor.
Let’s use our imaginations for a moment. Close your eyes–scratch that, you need them to read this, just squint a little or something. Picture if you will, a year has passed. December 2024, and so much has happened! The jolly bearded dude is coming soon and by some twist of fate you and I have grown close in the intervening year. We both know that I’m on the Nice list–obviously, because I’m a perfect little angel. But you know what Santa can’t leave under a tree? A top-notch dining experience with expertly-crafted pairings in the enchanting backdrop of Fort Wayne’s most noted Bistro. You know exactly what to get me. No partridges, turtle doves, hens, calling birds, etc. Just give Bistro Nota a ring, and tell them Plonk will be home for the holidays. They can set whatever date they want, just as long as they set a place for me.
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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.
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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.
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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!
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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!)
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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.
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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.
Plonk & Pleasure 