Why not do all of the things I had scheduled for my supposed "morning," I thought.
So here I am.
Yesterday, I began work at a new restaurant. I've decided that it would be inappropriate for me to list the details of where I work on this blog for a variety of political reasons, but I don't think it's inappropriate for me to discuss the food. As a Beverage Director, one of the perks of the job is the carte blanche when it comes to eating through the restaurant's menu. One has to know the food to know what wines will best complement it. And so I am required to eat.
I'll be tasting through the menu over the course of the coming weeks, still keeping my self-created dietary restrictions in mind. That's no easy feat, I'll admit, but I'm doing my best. Family meal consisted of English muffin pizzas. I did have one, but I'm pretty sure that one white-flour English muffin won't seal my fate.
But for my actual dinner, eaten at the end of service, I had lamb ribs, served over a pickled tomato yogurt. Lamb ribs are notoriously fatty, a turnoff to some (not me). They're also pretty tiny, which makes eating them feel slightly less gluttonous than eating other kinds of ribs. Or maybe I'm just trying to justify the crime.
Next up, a poulard, roasted and served with carrots, celeriac, bread, and Honeycrisp apple. Poulard is a young chicken (less than a year old) that has been fattened. The result is a superbly moist bird with rich and juicy skin and tremendous chicken-y flavor. It came cut into six smaller pieces, over a makeshift stuffing of the combined above ingredients. There was a sweet and savory quality to the dish that I couldn't help but fall in love with.
Both the lamb and poulard hail from Four Story Hill Farm in Pennsylvania, where proprietors Steve and Sylvia Pryzant raise milk-fed chickens, lamb, and apple-fed baby pigs. If you haven't heard of Four Story yet, you will. They are traditional, true to the land, and responsible for producing some of the finest meats in the northeast. Their wares are expensive and well worth the price.
All this I enjoyed with a glass of Brouilly, Cru Beaujolais from the southern tip of Burgundy. Sigh.