Last night we enjoyed an evening of gastronomic theater at Stone Barns at Blue Hill. (I was going to chose “Life Event” on the status line, but was afraid my enthusiasm might be mistaken for something else. This was, however, a once-in-a-lifetime meal; and Murghk was nowhere near the kitchen.)

This is NOT your typical dinner at a really fine restaurant – it IS just like going to great theater and being fed at the same time.
The adventure began several weeks ago when we were able to obtain a dinner reservation for a party of three at the shamefully early hour of 6PM. Our vehicle was met at the entrance by a vartlet who checked our names against the expected guest list, took the keys and told us to follow the candles to the dining room.

The maitre d’hôtel met us in the bar/reception area, in front of a roaring fireplace flanked by comfortable chairs and offered to take our coats. No coat check ticket. We were then offered the opportunity to sit, warm ourselves and perhaps imbibe an appropriate adult beverage – or be escorted to our seats for the first act. We chose the latter and were ushered into one of the most beautiful dining rooms I have ever seen. The tables were large, well-spaced, and beautifully set, for a good reason which we soon discovered.
Before we could even notice that the standard restaurant breadbasket was absent, our captain began her opening monologue. The small booklet next to our napkins was not, she explained, the menu. It was an almanac of the comings and goings from the barns and gardens throughout the year. The only menu choice was either a five course, eight course or twelve course presentation – with or without wine pairings. We opted to choose our own wine, and after careful consideration, chose the eight course feast.

A brief word here about the only dissonant note in the entire symphony. As our cohort’s resident oenophile, I believe that there are exceptionally enjoyable wines which do not require the exchange of pictures of Ben Franklin with the sommelier. It is true that Ben loved his grapes, but Tom Jefferson actually practiced viniculture while Ben was a city boy. The exchange therefore of perhaps even a short stack of several Jefferson portraits might be more appropriate. To be direct, the paucity of bottles under $100 was a disappointment. That said, I ordered an Eola-Amity Hills Pinot Noir – the 2009 Louise Vineyard from Cristome and was transported! A really fine sommelier can make you forget the right column of the carte du vin faster than the sound of a popping cork. The wine was delicious, perfectly balanced on the edge of crisp and fruited with a luscious, lingering finish hinting at licorice and cedar. (It was soooo good that we drank a second bottle during the course of the evening….)

The reason for the generous spacing between the tables rapidly revealed itself. The waiters (yes- more than one attended upon our table), bus boys, and captain danced around the table placing and removing glassware, plates, silver and serving pieces in the most intriguingly choreographed manner. I suspect that the long leadtime for a dinner reservation is intimately connected with the staffing – teams of waiters dealt with several tables at a time, but because each table was at a different point in the meal, every dish was delivered and removed with no sense of hurry or delay. Location may be the key to real estate, but for dining, timing is everything. Stone Barn knows that – and delivers.

Our captain explained that the overture was designed to be consumed using the fingers. A presentation of the most miniaturized vegetables appeared – set on tiny spikes rising from a block of wood looking liked a venerable 2×4. The vegetables might have looked small, but their flavors were intense. Similarly the three stalks of locally grown fennel which arrived moments after we finished the asparagus and poached egg yolks which followed the mini-veggies.

There was a delicious, and surprising combination of pork liver pate sandwiched between little tiles of bitter chocolate, a “beet burger” slider bursting with vinegary flavor, followed by “the party in a pear tree” which I can only describe as sweet and savory, crisp and soft slices of various fruits and vegetables. Each was only a tiny bite, but so flavorful that they seemed bigger. Raw kale sliced paper-thin into circular “tortillas” which one could fill with a shrimp, a mussel, and several finely chopped vegetable relishes, and a yogurt mustard that was a revelation to the tastebuds.

The silverware finally arrived, and so did a Maine divers scallop, briefly introduced to what must have been a really hot flame. It was the best I have ever tasted in my life. The portion of lamb which followed was small, but mighty, the skin crisped and the underlying meat fragrantly moist and just pink. There was a crusty, dense, satisfying bread, served with locally churned butter that came from free-range cows, and had just the tiniest hint of hay from the cows’ winter diet. I remember a brioche with a marmalade which melted in my mouth – but exactly when it arrived is lost in the pleasurable mists of the wine. I must have swooned briefly because the next thing I remember was the cheese course – two different interpretations of cows’ milk – but so distinctive I could have been persuaded that one was a sheep in cow’s clothing. The cheeses were served with a quince and something preserve, and long soft pretzel sticks. Finally, it was time for desserts.

No, that final “s” is not a typo. The hypothetical eight courses included six savories and two sweets. One was a chilled sweet yogurt with green apple compote. The other, if I recall correctly, was a lovely two-spoon sized mousse. As the final dishes were whisked away, the captain presented a list of disgestifs, eaux de vie, and ngacs (calvados, cognac and armangnac) – as well as an assortment of teas and coffees. The decaf cappucino was a perfect finish, especially because another alcoholic beverage would have impaired my navigation. Not content to leave us with any room at all, the most delightful tray of itsy-bitsy sweets miraculously appeared. My personal favorite was the dark chocolate wrapped around a tiny dollop whipped cream.

The bill is presented in a discreet little envelop, probably to prevent one’s guests from suffering indigestion. The tariff is on a par with front row hit Broadway show tickets purchased from a scalper, but at least you don’t leave hungry.
As we walked out of the dining room, our coats suddenly appeared, as if by magic. And, lo and behold, the car was waiting at the end of the walkway, the seat warmers already on and the heat on.
What a way to go.