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Dinner at Blue Hill, or: How I Learned What It Must Be Like To Be A Famous Person

It used to be I was just a glutton and that was that, but now I'm a glutton with a web site. Writing a food blog is a funny thing... all is well and good when I've got my foodie hat on, but when I'm wearing my "it's 10pm, I haven't eaten dinner, and all I have in my kitchen is some coffee ice cream, a packet of garam masala spices, and that jar of sugar-free candies my dentist gave me for my birthday" hat, I can't help but feel like a bit of a fraud when I get on the phone to the local Chinese place and order up some of those pork dumplings drenched in sesame sauce. Especially because that sesame sauce is probably just melted Skippy peanut butter.

Blogging about food also breeds the compulsion to photograph whatever I eat - if people can't taste what I'm talking about, they should at least be able to look at it, right? But this can be problematic, too. For one, most of my family and friends think it's weird. Also, there's no way to be subtle about taking photographs of my plate in the middle of a restaurant (and consequently, strangers also think it's weird).

Deciding to leave the camera at home can be hard sometimes, especially when it means that it'll take me more than a week to find just the right words to describe a particularly stellar meal, but that's exactly what's happened since Dan and I were lucky enough to enjoy a seven-course tasting menu at Blue Hill last Tuesday night.

It's Pronounced Bo-HAHN-Glayce

When I was in North and South Carolina over New Year's, I spent a fair amount of time (maybe more than enough in a certain person's pork-loving opinion) railing against Smithfield. Especially after hearing from D how, in the summer, you could drive for stretches at a time on the highways of North Carolina enveloped by the horrible smell of hog farms, I couldn't help but rib him just a little (so to speak) for his love of the other Smithfield's Bar-B-Q sandwich, which I'm just guessing contains the first Smithfield's pork.

The problem with all this was that I was a complete hypocrite. While I didn't end up eating a Bar-B-Q sandwich, I did succumb to something just as bad for a person who is trying to remain comfortably on her high horse: Bojangles' Famous Chicken 'n Biscuits. In my defense, chicken on a biscuit seems to have been an integral part of D's life while he lived in North Carolina, so in an effort to connect with my loved one I took it upon myself to experience a Cajun Filet biscuit sandwich with a side of seasoned fries. Big of me, I know.

The sandwich and fries were decent but weren't too filling. Either that or the emptiness I felt was simply the hole where my soul used to be (more likely). No matter... I'd gotten a literal taste of D's formative years, and that counts for something, too. So, as every classy lady will do for her gentleman friend when a special occasion rolls around, I ordered D a very special anniversary present this month.

So I don't really drink beer. But I think it classes up my wine glass just fine, thank you.

Birthday Outing #2: Boy Feeds Girl

I've had a very long love-hate relationship with the North End of Boston.  While its narrow side streets and historic buildings give it a certain Old World charm, I've made the mistake too many times of trying to drive (and therefore park) in this neighborhood.  Every Bostonian save for the ones who actually live in the North End will attest to the area's innate ability to enrage even the calmest driver, thanks to throngs of pedestrians trying to navigate said narrow streets (most of which are one-way, often in the direction opposite from the one you need) and an unreasonable amount of exclusively residential parking.

Luckily, Mamma Maria has valet parking.  After a little sitcom moment in which we could see the restaurant down a one-way side street but had to drive for another ten minutes before we could actually pull up in front of it, Zak and I left my wheels at the mercy of the valet and stepped inside for dinner.

Mamma Maria is a two-story restaurant in a converted townhouse in North Square, an area that feels particularly historical thanks to its cobblestoned streets and most significant site, Paul Revere's house.  The steep staircase at the entrance ends inside the door with a narrow hallway that leads to the first-floor dining area and a set of stairs going up the the second floor, which has a number of dining areas (from a private alcove to a 50-person dining room).

Part of the appeal of Mamma Maria is that, though it serves Italian food, the restaurant still believes in focusing on local and seasonal ingredients.  From their website:

We focus strongly on the local foods of New England and find authentic Italian dishes through which to showcase them. In the fall and winter, our menu features more northern Italian and mountain dishes. In the summer, our menu veers to the south - allowing us to highlight local produce and the abundant and diverse summer seafood market. Mamma Maria believes that an Italian restaurant can only be "authentic" when it exploits its own regional specialties. As any real Italian will tell you, the best food comes from his very own village.

We sat on the second floor in the main dining room, which has a dark painted ceiling that makes it feel very cozy despite its relatively large size.  I could barely contain my excitement when I opened my menu.  How on Earth is a person supposed to choose between things like pan-seared pork tenderloin with Gorgonzola Dolce, grilled loin of Vermont lamb with corn polenta-filled grape leaves and caramelized Maine Chantenay carrots, and pan-seared local Halibut with salsa verde, Oregon morel mushrooms, and English peas?!