Big ol’ drought. That was weird, sorry about that guys.
The Conservatory was on spring break this past week and my parents came up while I had some time off, thusly I did all the touristy nonsense that I have neglected in the six months I’ve been here. It’s been great. I actually have a couple stories that the populace might be interested in, but in the interest of actually posting something I’ll only tell one (for now).
I’ve already mentioned twice that I talk a big game about cuisine when I rarely actually delve into details and can barely afford to eat at restaurants that convienently price their items at one dollar each. This could potentially change; I’ve started to reach critical mass with music blogs (especially the prodigous output of ANABlog and On an Overgrown Path) and rather than prune this extensive forest I’ve actually retreated to foodie blogs. (Michael Ruhlman and Harold McGee are my favorites at the moment, although Ruhlman is on sabbatical until April. His post has been taken up in his stead by Bob del Grosso and the ever lovable Anthony Bourdain.)
Traditionally this is a fantastic place for one’s parents to step in, we did go to some fantastic restaurants. This tale takes place at not the best of them, but at a notable one. We braved the Freedom Trail on Monday (coincidentally the coldest day of the trip) at stopped at Todd English
‘s Kingfish Hall. I personally had no idea who the man was, but my parents proclaimed him as “the guy on Saturday afternoon”. If you’ve ever been to a restaurant titled after a dude in a different city than said dude, you already know how these places roll.
Nonetheless, I was embarassed that I was impressed by some rather entry-level plating tricks. My fries came in an oversized martini glass, the salad was stacked in a layered tower, yes yes. The food was certainly good and very signature chefy, clever variations on familiar themes. But you can tell that this was most likely a Epcot version of the real deal, separated by a few steps from Todd English himself. Like a child who’s just learning to crack jokes, it seemed occupied by making sure you knew how clever it was.
However, upon coming to this realization, my dad rather nonchalantly asks the waiter if that’s his boss over at the corner table. Sure enough, we have been in the presence of Mr. English the whole time. Alas…