So last night, I went to Beck, near McPherson Square at 11th and K. Twas a third date if you count a spontaneous midnight cheese sandwich rendezvous. Our first date was simply coffee and a cupcake. So because it would be our first real night out, I was looking for a trendy, yet private, quiet place that would inspire conversation; a place where I could test the boundaries of my companion’s foodie-ism; and a place that could couple casual with elegance so no matter my date’s comfort level dining out, we would both have a wonderful experience.
Brasserie Beck met all of those requirements so away we went. We were greeted at the door by debonair host Ric Nelson who exudes hospitality. I met Ric quite a few years ago through a mutual friend and not only did he remember my first and last name, he remembered my profession and other details. That’s the kind of guy you want at your front door. Two positive snaps so far!
We passed the bar with the largest selection of Belgian beers outside of Belgium—exciting me to sample something past my go-to Hoegaarden. There in plain view was also the raw bar where I immediately began craving mussels. Delving further into the cavernous space, we passed the open, yet glassed in kitchen with its large butcher block table where the finishing touches are expertly administered.
We were seated in a secluded table for two by the window, sanctioned off by a rich, dark wood divider. Mark, our overly attentive waiter, delivered the beer and wine list. B perused one while I roamed the other. We settled on a bottle of O’Reilly’s, a 2009 earthy Pinot Noir from Oregon; and to start, 2 Weihenstephan, a very drinkable Belgian wheat beer from the world’s oldest brewery. While the beer list earned the comment “It’s cheaper to drink here than the bar!” from B, I didn’t have the same impression from the wine list. If you’re going to order a bottle, expect a very limited (as in 1 selection) of bottles in the under $50 price point from each grape. The sommelier needs to diversify his list because momma doesn’t do the $300/bottle, even on half price night!
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| Veal Sweetbreads |
Mark came back at least 3 times (I’m trying not to say the word bother), but bothering us to order. We finally made it clear that we were in no rush. Hovering waiters make stars disappear from my final review grade usually, but his playful and knowledgeable demeanor won me over in the end for a decent tip. I particularly liked his beer education as our selection required a unique pour that I was convinced would result in wet shoes.
As we enjoyed our beers, we ordered the crispy veal sweetbreads with path valley squash risotto and sage butter. It turns out B was testing my foodie-ism too. I’d never sampled sweetbreads, whose fancy culinary name doesn’t mask the fact it is either a thymus or pancreas—neither of which spark salivations for me. But fry that up with the right seasoning and put it over the richest risotto I’d ever had and I was in heaven. Who knew? They were crisply breaded with moist interiors that melted on my tongue.
I had wanted, desperately, to have one of the many mussels selections – the Chapel Hill Farms Veal Bolognese in particular – but that’s the kind of thing you share. My dinner companion, though, can’t eat shellfish. Oh the things people have to give up in life – it’s terrible Mariel!
Moving along, we each enjoyed a salad. Mine was the slow roasted beet salad with whipped pipe dreams goat cheese and caramelized walnuts over mixed greens. I can’t pass up a roasted beet, but I wasn’t a fan of this cheese. It had good flavor, but the texture was off. It was like eating a dollop of sour cream on a salad. I’d have preferred something more solid.
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| Pork Special |
Neither of us was overly excited about most of the specials as the chef was making his way through a use-every-part-of-the-animal-from-tooth-to-tail cookbook. Included this evening were pigs ears and spleen, or gall bladder, or some other completely inedible thing for an American – even one with as broad a palate as I. I had tried sweetbreads. That was enough of a step into learning to eat the strange body parts of the cloven hoofed. All I could think of is a blazing lightning bolt from God “And the Lord set a mark upon Cain…” as the bolt splits open a baby calf, exploding its innards, its green, mucused spleen landing on my plate, white napkin folded in my lap as I fork it with my pinky out.
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| Duck |
Dessert, though, was priceless. A pear tarte tatin with this decadent, rich caramel slathered over it. My mouth is watering just thinking about it again. Blotto!