Vidalia

To clear the air, we can set one thing straight: sometimes I'm not the most mature of food thinkers. For proof, scroll to the end to see my last cooking-related venture to the kitchen.

So, when faced with the possibilities of ordering a choose-you-own five course meal at Vidalia, I was clearly reduced to the kind of excited breathlessness and uncontrollable outbursts seen by elementary school kids pre-Christmas. "No one's ordering the steak tartare?" I spat, wild-eyed, at one point.

Vidalia was a variation on the Southern-restaurant theme; without the rather hokey ubiquity of greens and cheese, though, it was hard to think of the restaurant as themed rather than just deliciously crafted food--all 25 plates. After our table dignifiedly staked claim, negotiated and retracted desired choices from the menu, our waiter suggesting we instead do the autonomously-determined five course tasting menu, choosing from both a hot and cold appetizer, a fish dish, a meat dish, and a dessert--a choice that gave us more latitude to order more (and has subsequently led to a moratorium on dining out until we get a few more paychecks). The portions were smaller than the normal dishes but we each could have been rolled out at least an hour before dinner was technically over.

Since we split everything four ways it's hard to know where to start, but I'm fairly certain at dessert is best. Vidalia was charming: in the basement (which was initially unnerving as I went in the wrong entrance, took an elevator down, tried to enter a locked door, capitulated and took the stairs back up and went in the correct door), intimately laid out, and with very friendly wait staff (the bartender and the host both took an active interest in my meter-feeding exploits).

Just to emphasize the ridiculousness of this all, let's start with the 26th picture I took, the final dessert plate:


Selections I can remember include, second from the left, a toasted marshmallow, macaron, oatmeal cookie, rum ball, cherry financier, and pecan pie bite. It was excess Paula Dean style.

I had the peanut butter dessert that featured delights that slowly became evident bite by bite: the peanut butter crunchy topping on top, the seductively muted peanut butter cream below that, the chocolate covered rice balls, the dual textured crunch of the ganached cake. I was feverish.


Mike got the lemon chess pie. Even Mike who readily lambastes my raptures was rapturous.


Andy sanely and responsibly got the sorbets, which were fresh and staid and beautiful.


Kerry got the "pear pairing" which won with its wildly counterintuitive but delicious combinations: saffron poached pear brûlée; pear port sorbet; pink peppercorn frosted pear olive oil cupcake (I ensured I re-read that slowly to Kerry and then giggled); pear pecan, shortbread chocolate bar; and a buttermilk brown sugar sauce. There were moments of maniacal laughter.


I have no idea how to explain the glory of the preceding 2.5 hours, but maybe I'll group the glory thematically. Drinks: excellent. The red wine and whiskey was good but we had fancy cocktails with charming regional names: on the left, the Hatteras (sweet tea vodka, rathman and winter apricot (Austrian apricot liqueur), and ginger ale), OBX (rum, lychee, sour), a mint julep, and an amuse bouche of a warm velouté with I think sliced sunflower seeds.

To be arbitrarily thematic, I'm going to talk about bacon, eggs, and fried foods and how superlatively Vidalia handled these items. There were a variety of non-pork/egg/straight-from-the-fryer dishes, such as Kerry's braised barbecue bison short ribs...


...Or Andy's foie gras with seared tuna with a blackberry-basil salad (you heard right; criminally succulent combined with refreshingly virtuous)..


...Or Mike's chicken and dumplings, country-doughy but reminiscent of gnocchi...


...Or Kerry's Oral-Roberts-praying-hands soft shell crab fried tempura style...


But to me, it was the cholesterol bullies--the eggs--that won the taste war: Andy's crisp pork trotters with a sunnyside up egg, goat cheese grits, apple butter, and béarnaise:


His steak tartare with a slice of brioche and another sunnyside up quail egg:


And my stuffed quail, served with foie gras mousseline, mustard greens, black pepper dumplings, and apple cider jus. And an egg.


The yolks were visible, but not always the pork. Well, it was certainly evident in Mike's full-figured pork chop with a hush puppy (that had sweet hints of yellow cake).


Mike had less-visible pork products in the seared sea scallops with carrot purée, pea tortellini, crisp pig’s ear-pea shoot salad, and lemon-thyme vinaigrette:


I had frogmore stew with rockfish, carolina shrimp, lump crab, smoked sausage (I'll assume pork), confit potatoes, shellfish broth. I tasted at least 7 exquisitely unique flavors.


Finally, the cholesterol trifecta boasted its own trifecta of egg batter, pork and fried: chicken fried veal sweetbreads and waffles with asparagus, bacon fondue, lemon caper veal jus.

Speaking of poultry, happy Easter and happy 44-restaurants left.