Chicago's Alinea does the ultimate Christmas mouthful

You can tell what kind of restaurant Alinea in Chicago is just by looking at their website; the homepage is one of those high-concept deals where they expect you to mouse over every blurry shape to figure out how to find the menu.

(And it's Flash, so don't even bother trying to check it out from an iPhone.)

So it's no surprise that they came up with an extra-creative dish for the holiday season.



This, my friend, is a cube of goose confit with prunes soaked in Armagnac, tempura-fried in goose fat, skewered on a sprig of juniper.

Wanna make it at home? Looks pretty straightforward.

We went to Hell, and it was delicious

I was going to start with something clever.

So our friend Dante needed help locating his girlfriend ...

So we always said we wanted to spend winter somewhere warmer ...

But really, it's this: JJ Gonson, the creative culinary genius behind our amazing Halloween feast, was staging Dante's Inferno in ten courses, with help from people at the ART's Donkey Show (which is exactly how Shakespeare would have done A Midsummer Night's Dream if he'd known about disco balls).

How could we not go?

The Donkey Show's dancefloor was fitted out with round, eight-seater tables, and we were assigned seats at one. We chatted with our new dining companions, drank a little water, nibbled on bread rolls. And then we looked at the evening's menu and realized: We were in Limbo.

In which case, Limbo is not such a bad place to be. Our fellow diners included a music teacher, two (count 'em!) recording studio owners, and an artist who makes very cool plates. And on top of that, the bread was from Clear Flour.



And then the room darkened and a spotlight fell on our MC for the evening.



He explained that we were entering the second circle of Hell: Lust. And suddenly a couple dressed in black began to dance a passionate tango, while our waitstaff, roses clenched between their teeth, hissed and moaned and served the next course.

Some people think of Lust as deep decadence: chocolate fudge cake, or butter-drenched steak. But this dish defined Lust for me: a fresh Duxbury oyster in a shot glass with a green apple mignonette, the soft texture and earthy, briny taste of the oyster dancing its own tango with the sharp, bright taste of the apple.



We were just starting to understand how integral the waitstaff were to the show. Throughout the night, they changed outfits and personas, becoming demons in each subsequent level of Hell.

(Note to self: Hell has some adorable personnel.)

As we descended to Gluttony, the MC brought out Cerberus, the three-headed dog, for "an eating contest ... with himself!"



While Cerberus bayed and snarled over an enormous bowl of beans, our suddenly sullen waitstaff started slopping our own portions into plastic(!) bowls, topping the beans with a pork rib, and handing out oversized utensils.



The beans were sweet and lovely and exactly what beans should be. The pork was finished with an apple cider glaze. It was the perfect dish for Gluttony, because I could have eaten nothing else for the rest of the night.

But we were moving to the next circle: Avarice. The MC hosted a game show called "Hoard or Squander?" and the waitstaff became his lovely assistants.



One of the guys from our table was pulled onstage to play; he managed to squander away a Ferrari, was cheated out of eternal happiness, and ended up with a bowl of mud.

But the food made up for it: a fantastic flan, made with turnip — yes, turnip — and maple syrup, and served with a Taza chocolate sauce and a side of celeriac mash. The textures and flavors were surprising and unusual and went together perfectly: hoarding with the subtleness of the celeriac, squandering with bold, rich sweetness.



And then things started to get ugly.

See, the wait-demons, now wearing grunge flannel, were rocking out to Chris De Burgh's "Don't Pay the Ferryman", which seemed appropriate — when the song screeched to halt and was replaced by this abomination.

Ohh, the demons were mad. Wrathful, even. Wailing in anger, they slammed down sturdy mugs of kale salad in front of each diner.



Their wrath was our gain, though; the slightly bitter kale was fantastic, and perfectly balanced with the "grapes of wrath" dressing, which was light and sweet. The Boy thought this was the best dish of the evening.



Next up: Heresy, illustrated theatrically by three thigh-high-boot-clad nuns performing a bump-and-grind routine, and culinarily by a lovely lobster salad, sandwiched between puff pastry, and finished with a sauce of pumpkin and chili.



I confess that I didn't understand what was heretical about this combination. But I also didn't care.

By the way, check out the cool purple shadow on the above shot. As with any good theatrical performance, lighting was an integral part of this experience. Some courses had bright white lights; for others, the room was appropriately dark, or bathed in red. It made photography a challenge, but greatly enhanced the atmosphere.

And then ... Violence.

Imagine this beautiful but terrifying song, being lip-synched by this crazed creature, who is crushing beets and smearing the scarlet flesh all over his body:



And then the demons serve blood-red goblets of fresh sauerkraut, topped off with chilled beet juice, using Gustav Doré's illustration of the Violent, tortured in the Rain of Fire as placemats.



Well, that was certainly a palate-cleanser.

Time for a little levity, in the shape of Fraud. This was my favorite: the demon-staff, sporting ridiculous fake mustaches and equally fake French accents, announced the arrival of the next course: beef Wellington. An oversized carving knife was brandished; a silver serving-dish was brought out in triumph; and with cries of "le beeef Wellingtohn! Ahhh, le beeeef Wellingtohn," the demons presented us with ...



Tofu Wellington.

Mind you, it was lovely: the (local) tofu was creamy, the mushroom gravy was rich and deep, and the sprouts and turnip and potatoes were delicious. And every now and then, a demon would lean over and ask, "'Ow eez the beeef Wellingtohn, madame?"

And then we reached the final circle of Hell: Treason. I suspect Dante had his own reasons for finding this the most sinful sin of all.

JJ Gonson is known for being passionate about locally sourced produce, organic ingredients, the Slow Food movement and sustainability. So it's not surprising that for her, treachery = junky fast food.

The dish at level nine was Beelzebub's Beelzeburger. Of course, the bun was fresh and the beef was fantastic, juicy and perfectly seasoned. And it came in a bag bearing a quote from Sally Fallon.



While we ate, our demons danced themselves crazy to an awful, awful song. DO NOT CLICK THIS LINK. Just don't.

Oh yeah, and then Satan appeared.






And as we beheld this spectacle, our mouths full of bread and meat, JJ's husband began to play heavenly sitar while an acrobatic angel indicated the way of our ascent.



And then we had dessert.



A light, fluffy meringue on a pool of crème anglaise, finished with a dollop of intensely fruity, memories-of-summer preserves.

We emerged dazed, and not just because we'd eaten so much. The entire event — the food, the detail of the presentation, the theatrical interludes, the perfect pitch of the in-character waitstaff — everything came together seamlessly and gracefully for an unforgettable night.

I can't imagine how much work went into making it happen. And I hope I get to experience something like it again.

Now THIS is a chicken pot pie

Last time, I wrote about the bland, gluey disappointment that is a Harrow's chicken pie. But I realized I had to put up or shut up, lest I seem like a hater.

So last night I made chicken pot pie from scratch. Went like this:

Chicken stock (okay, that part was pre-made) in a pan with black peppercorns, bay leaves, fresh sage, thyme, oregano.



In goes the chicken breast, which poaches for about 20 minutes.



The breasts come out, and in go diced carrots and celery, plus white boiling onions, for five-ish minutes. And then they come out too.



And the chicken is shredded.



And then a roux sauce, which I love because it begins with melted butter.



The stock is strained and used to make the roux.



And then the chook and the veggies go into the sauce, along with fresh rosemary and frozen peas.



Pastry time.

Full disclosure: I had completely intended to use the Good Wives puff pastry I'd picked up the week before. But while rootling around in the back of the freezer, I found something labeled "Be-Ro ruff puff, 12-21-08." Which left me with two questions:

1) Is year-old frozen pastry still good?

2) Why do I have absolutely no recollection of making pastry a year ago??

Obviously I'd used the time-honored recipe from North-East England's premiere flour distributor; I just had no memory of doing so.

Anyway, it defrosted well and was perfectly pliable. And so there was pie. Into a 350-degree C oven for 25 minutes.

See, Harrow's, when I say "chicken pot pie," this is what I mean:





Any questions?

Sixty years of Harrow's chicken pot pie. Why?

When I heard that Harrow's Chicken Pies was opening a second location five minutes' drive from our house, I was intrigued.

This family-owned business has been selling their pies in Reading for 60-some years (or 50 or 70, depending on which page of their website you read), longevity that suggested quality.

On Saturday, we got a coupon in the mail for $2 off an order. As it was getting toward lunchtime, and they promised takeout pie, we decided to head over.

The store is on the intersection of Rtes 16 and 38 in Medford, next to a Dunkies and across the street from a Dunkies. It's a small space, mostly occupied by coolers filled with pies of different sizes. We opted for two individual pies with vegetables (you can also get them without).

Now maybe I'm crazy, but to me, "takeout" means "to eat immediately." That's the point; that's what distinguishes a takeout pie from a frozen pie, which is evidently meant for consumption at a later date.

However, it turns out that if you actually want a hot pie, you have to call in your order a half-hour ahead of time, which is how long it takes to heat one up.

(Note to Harrow's: there are now clever machines called "micro-waves." You might could look into them.)

So much for our plan of grabbing a quick pie for lunch. As we were already hungry, we ate something more immediate and postponed the pies until dinner.

And so, that evening, we sat down to chicken pot pie.

The first thing we noticed was the pastry: it was incredibly short and flaky and a little sweet. And about as thick as a postcard.

The second thing we noticed was the sauce: pale, thick, bland, glutinous. I'll just come out and say it: wallpaper paste.



There were several generous chunks of chicken:



And, as promised, vegetables: uniformly diced carrot and cubes of al dente potato.



It's quite possible that Harrow's is the epitome of the Boston chicken pot pie; that its success lies in an understanding of the preferences of its customer base.

(That it was voted Best in New England by the Phantom Gourmet is a clue in itself.)

But to me, chicken pot pie shouldn't be nondescript; it should be a celebration. It should begin with a mirepoix; there should be pearl onions and peas; the roux should be perfumed with rosemary and thyme.

And the pastry — either puff or pâte brisée — should be thick enough that the exterior is crisp, while the underside becomes a soft sponge that soaks up the flavors of the filling.

At some point soon, I'll show you what I mean.

Thanksgiving at Rialto (again)

Last year we had Thanksgiving at Rialto and it was fabulous: a cozy corner table, flawless service, excellent food.

So this year we decided to go back.

Okay, let's get the bad stuff out of the way first.

I know I should be thankful that there are enough financially sound people to fill a restaurant at Thanksgiving. And I know this is a time to get together with family.

But still, there we were, sharing space with a party of three, yelling at each other despite sitting next to each other; and a party of nine (four of whom were bouncingly under 6 years old). Yay.

(If you've been following for a while, you know I have issues with people who don't use their indoor voice in a restaurant.)

Similarly, I know I should understand when the lunch rush means things get a little backed up. But still, somehow we were overlooked, and our server didn't notice we had no first course until everyone else was finishing their second. Our second course arrived before the first; our third arrived before the second.

But enough complaints, on to the good stuff!

First course: a rich, creamy roast-chestnut soup with a garnish of diced pear, parmesan and celery.

Next, I had tiny taleggio and fig tarts, cheese and fruit and pastry dancing together perfectly.



The Boy went with bite-sized pumpkin and sage ravioli, served with scallops:



And then instead of going for the turkey dinner, he had duck two ways on a bed of lentils (that sounds a bit rude, doesn't it? Tasted rather juicy, too ).



I stuck to tradition.



The meat was tender and moist; the mashed potatoes were creamy velvet; the stuffing was a thick slice of bread pudding.

Best, though, were green beans finished with shallots, and a light, citrusy cranberry chutney.



And then dessert, which came with the unexpected accompaniment of comped Moscato D'Asti. We assumed that was to make up for the upside-down service (though it was never explained).

My dessert was a lovely apple and quince tart, with generous chunks of fruit, topped with maple-cinnamon ice cream.



The Boy was the clear dessert winner, though; his honey-ricotta cheesecake was a light, fluffy, gently perfumed cloud.



So while Thanksgiving at Rialto was a slight disappointment this year (mostly because we were rather unrealistically expecting a re-run of last year), it was still a fantastic meal.

Still, we've decided that we'll spend next Turkey Day at home. That way, we also get leftovers.