Sushi Taro

With being 30, comes a revived sense of responsibility. I'd like to say that's true, as I am still at least five restaurants and multiple side events behind. The truth is, however, I'm only writing on a Saturday morning about a dinner I had more than a month ago now because I'm afraid to miss a hair appointment I've already missed once and am tethering myself to my computer until then. Thirty, schmirty.

I visited Sushi Taro (one month ago) with a new friend, one who thankfully had the patience to endure my ordering a nine-course tasting menu (and obnoxiously taking a photo of each one). The bad thing about lazily writing up multi-course meals ages after they're partaken of, though, is that I have no recollection of what I ate.

There were sea urchins, salted fishes, broths, and tempura-ed glories galore, but I'd estimate another 30 unknown ingredients that will go unmentioned. While begging for forgiveness, I present to you what I remember of a very good meal, where fortunately for me but unfortunately for you, the conversation was more memorable than the plate components.


I started off with pomegranates soaking in white wine. I don't remember what kind, but I do remember fishing out the pomegranates that didn't get swept out with the unknown wine. Next, I had the densest, silkiest bean curd I've ever had, heartied with a shallow pool of broth and sea urchin. I think. It, memorably at least, had the same consistency of my own tongue. Maybe it's good I don't entirely recall what I ate. But, I at least doubled up the photos to reduce the effort you expend to scroll. As penance.














Next, I had a fish tartare-stuffed persimmon with a shot of fruit juice with a skewer of tempura-ed... I don't know. I fail as a culinary Nancy Drew. I can better recall the exemplary tuna, salmon, and yellowtail that graced my tongue with more sophistication than an urchin and with the chewy yet forgiving tenderness that only fresh raw fish can offer.



















Then, I ate what could have credibly passed as an involved centerpiece or paintable Japanese still life. I feel less guilty, however, in being unable to recall this dish as the waitress had to repeat its contents about two minutes after she conveyed it the first time.

In the ceramic container, top left, were black edamame (soy beans in their shell). A real sea snail was in its shell at the top right (which I ate, while having cartoon-like visions of x's over my eyes). There were roasted (?) chestnuts, with nut meat soft enough to pull out of the shell in the middle. In the lower middle, I think I ate some caramelized banana (that doesn't sound very Japanese though) and I even unwrapped something from a banana leaf (I could be 0 for 2 on the final guesses). Then I perhaps had baked fish atop a bed of crusty salt on the right.



















Next, I had a type of Japanese fondue. In the small bowl on the right were fried pieces of fish, which I unsophisticatedly baptized in a a creamy soy milk broth with its own Sterno. At this point, I actively ceased trying to remember beyond the next course what I was eating. Further, every time the waitress placed a new dish before me, she giggled a little in delight at my mildly horrified eyes that yet another dish was coming that required at least 30 seconds of explanation. At that point, ingredient retention seemed futile. Next I had nigiri...well, what I could sample despite battling competing senses of accomplishment and exhauastion after a parade of plates.













Hours later, after robust discussions of work, men, and children (it's possible there may be a new blog cameo-er in the future), we had pudding with an exquisite flan-like sweet sauce at the bottom. I know I'll remember better next time because I've already gone.

30 (and Corduroy)

It finally happened: I became a grown up. Despite knowing for 29 years and 364 days that this would one day happen, I decided the final week of twentydom to eschew the hand-wringing, knitting-class-enrolling, flinging-with-24-year-olds, or Las-Vegas-Strip-indulging that previously seemed the appropriate response for a terrified 29 year-old. Instead, I ran head-long in, hurtling toward 30 and hitting four top 100s in six days. That's right.. I've been busy spending 25% of my salary (I calculated it) on bars, drinks, and requisite hotel rooms to welcome myself into a third decade but not writing a single thing about any of it.

This presents a bit of a problem, particularly for an amateur food writer with the memory of a fruit fly. Particularly fruit flies 29 1/2 years her junior. I'll cover them all, but the fact that this following week has been a parade of Netflix films, Lean Cuisines, and polishing off a magnum of generic red wine (read: three strong indicators of laziness), I make no guarantees this will be a prodigal or quick return.

But how better a way to ring in a new first digit of one's age than a trip to a fancy schmancy white-table-clothed restaurant with old friends Dotti and Eric (over medium rare venison and conversations about Paris no less) at Corduroy; a bawdy (yet classy; they are not mutually exclusive) dinner with Christine over Chiantis, Brunellos, and Calvados at Tosca; a dinner with a new friend who passed the test of patience with both food photography AND a tasting menu at Sushi Taro; and three Dotti meals (only one of which was the build-up-to-3o week; I'm behind) all around the city where we planned European vacations and the post-top-1oo project, Where the Men Are, a geographical inquiry into men-rich regions.

I'll begin with the most recent, because that's the only hope I have. Eric, loyal reader of early top 100 Proof fame, chose Corduroy and Dotti and I were glad to redux over more red wine. She and I drove in to the big city, valet parked our car, and ordered two Bordeauxs, please, at the bar, because that's what 30 somethings do. And talk about their sophisticated international travels, as we all did, over more fancy red wines. A bottle, to be exact, which of course paired well with the chewy, porous, deliciously fresh bread.


Eric started with the soup--the most impressive dish of the evening, which is a rare feat for that category of appetizer and one of the few presentations of a dish for which I wish I had had the foresight to record it. I'm truly an amateur.

The soup was served with a cracker-thin ring of cheese (I think?) that rested atop the bowl's lip. The staff, already impressive in reciting the menu-length list of specials, poured the cauliflower bisque into the reminiscent-of-ice-fishing hole in the middle.

I had the surprisingly good scallop tartare, cleverly arrayed in its own scallop shell with an accompanying cabbage salad with shiso, a charmingly punch-packing Asian green. Two tablespoons of raw fruits-de-mer, though, ensured I was starving for my main course.


I had the venison with the chestnut puree. It also had limp green beans, but I'm wiser now and didn't eat them. It had a delicious red wine reduction and the chestnut puree was nutty, albeit a bit saccharine. Sucrosey? But the venison, oh it was tender and juicy.


Dotti and Eric did better in their choice of pork, adorably served with mini-squashes. The sauce was good, despite me having any recollection of what it actually was.


Dinners like these are especially nice if they finish with a reminder of someplace else, a recollection of a beautiful memory or locale, particularly a place that was discussed over the first few glasses of wine (if you guess Paris I'm predictable). Eric was clever enough to propose the cheese plate for dessert, and we chose two (delightfully ubiquitous but unique chèvre cheeses), a few French and Spanish ones, and my stinky favorite, a bleu. How ridiculously delightful is an evening filled with conversations about France, food (we learned capon was a castrated rooster... well, it was described more delicately than that), and love? Hello 30, 14 more restaurants await.