The Bluebird Tavern, 317 Riverside Avenue, Burlington, VT
Carissa: The Bluebird Tavern opened this pat July, owned by Sue Bette, with Aaron Josinsky, previously sous-chef at Shelburne Farms, taking a head chef position in the kitchens. In what was previously “Tortilla Flats,” a rambling, brown stucco building, The Bluebird Tavern has made its new nest. The lighting is low; the atmosphere relaxed, like you just fell off the road and into a little English pub tucked up against the pavement and river. Sit on the patio, if you can—even though we’re going into nights that are getting cold and would require you to eat with your coat on, like I did, there’s a delightful Vermont jungle feel as the sun sets over the wrought iron and brick walls with wide windows that overlook trees and greenery.
For a menu that changes every day, I noticed that a few of the “share” entrées and the “snack” appetizers were dangerously similar in meal composition: who is to say that the “snack” of lamb meatballs, harissa, and yogurt would make less of a meal than the entrée of Bluebird bacon, turnip greens, and apple cider? The wine list, however, would make my father drool and my under-21 self weep.
Alli: I didn’t grow up in a foodie-family like my lovely co-Kitchen Bitch. I wasn’t raised with lamb and fancy cheeses. I grew up on chicken pot pie and burgers, apple crisp and whoopee pies. Walking into Bluebird, sitting down, and taking a look at the menu was intimidating. I didn’t know what the hell kohlrabi was—by the way, in case you don’t either, I Wiki-ed it; it’s a German Turnip and supposedly like a sweeter broccoli stem—and, much to Carissa’s dismay, I’m not a particularly adventurous eater. It’s just not the way I roll. She might drool over the prospect of chicken livers, veal tongue, and fried rabbit, but I’ll stick with things that don’t scare me at night, thanks.
Carissa: I ordered Boylan’s Black Cherry Soda to go with my lamb ribs—the soda looked like a deep red wine on ice, and I thought it would pair with the lamb well. Lamb and cherry; you just can’t go wrong with that.
I was surprised when our waitress didn’t ask me if wanted my lamb dripping blood off the bone, or charred black. Trust the chef? What? What if he—gasp—cooked it well-done? This Romanian Princess doesn’t do well-done; I like my meat wet. Bloody, dare I say.
Alli: There were plenty of things that didn’t look too scary, though: poutine, fried herbs, and gravy; mackerel, chorizo, and olive oil fingerlings—those are fingerling potatoes, not appendages of slow waitstaff—double burger and frites; papardelle (turns out it’s pasta!), lamb sausage, tomatoes, and mint. And, thinking back on it, the kohlrabi-gingered apples-walnuts-mossend blue meal probably would have been a kickin’ choice that I’m going to dream about longingly tonight. If you didn’t learn from Carissa’s anecdote about how trusting the chef turned out to be the best choice she’s made all year, let me assure you: it will be the best choice you make all year. If you don’t know what to order, ask your server to recommend something and just say yes, no matter what it is. Or you could even tell the chef to surprise you. Trust in Aaron Josinsky is trust well-placed.
In the end, I went with flatbread topped with house labneh, arugula, a grated, hard cheese, and falafel. It all paired perfectly with my Pear Ginger Ale, and, in case you’re wondering, pear is the perfect ingredient in ginger ale. Whoever discovered that is, in fact, my hero.
Carissa: Our bread came out accompanied by the eponymous little round circles of Vermont Cheese & Butter Company cultured butter. Bluebird gets two thumbs up for that choice alone. It’s butter that will change your life. Children, we are in Vermont. We are surrounded by cows and dairy agriculture. There is no reason to be eating bland butter when you can eat butter that tastes like grass and milk and cow and sun and snow and autumn foliage.
Alli: The very fact that we both recognized a couple pats of butter on sight and visibly lit up with excited approval demonstrates the truth to our claim that it truly is life-changing. You’ll never again think of butter the same way.
Carissa: The cheese board came to us on what looked like a fraternity’s long-lost spanking paddle wielded by an old friend as I instantly recognized Vermont Ayr’s signature rind and a salty bleu cheese that my father had brought home one or five times. I am at home with cheese. Cheese is one of my (many) delicious vices, and there was cheese to indulge in. Two hard cheeses, one a cheddar; two soft cheeses, including a triple-crème that was divine; and the bleu were accompanied by cranberry-sized pickled yellow tomatoes that burst with flavor, an oozing honeycomb, and an otherworldly fabulous plum jam that hit all the right notes of tart and sweet on my tongue and kept me licking at the corners of my mouth. Some of the honey had made its way over to the salty yet delicate bleu cheese, and the salty/sweet combination complimented both beautifully, making me believe one should not exist without the other in the future.
Alli: The flatbread was served on the same sort of spanking paddle the cheese came on, and, at first, looked…like nothing particularly special. Good, yes. It looked good. There’s only so much you can do to make falafel flatbread as gorgeous as this tasted, though. The bread was good and sturdy, something that held up well. There was a beautiful bite to the arugula, a slight sharpness to the cheese, and a creamy zing to the labneh that culminated in what can be described in no other way than moaningly fabulous.
Then there was the falafel. After much debating and studying, I figured out how Josinsky made the falafel: it involved magic. What he does, you see, is search out all of the most beautiful Lebanese women and he collects them in his kitchen. He then waves his spatula at them, says, “you are now falafel,” and puts it on your flatbread. I’ve never had more delicious Middle Eastern flavor, and I’ve had Middle Eastern mothers cook for me. The spices—cumin, coriander, and God knows what else—were difficult to indentify (not that I cared; you reach a point where it’s just so good that the ingredients don’t matter) because the original explosiveness is then tempered with a mysteriously complex subtlety that can only be explained by my gorgeous-Lebanese-women theory.
Carissa: The tomato jelly served under my lamb ribs started sweet like…well, jelly, and ended with a kick in the back of my mouth like a particularly feisty pepper had booted my tonsils with steel toes. The house yogurt was a little salty, but toned the tomato jelly down. But I quickly abandoned both of these to focus on the real star of the show—the lamb. The tomato jelly and yogurt were soon dismissed. The lamb could stand alone.
It arrived the lovely, hearty and moist red I love to see in my red meat. And as I picked it up, it fell off the bone. Right off of the little rib bones, and into my mouth. The gristle and fat make a lovely savory crackle in my teeth, flavor exploding every time my teeth clamped down to try to catch some more of that taste. I wanted to suck on the bones. It was the best food decision I’ve made in the past year. I had to send my compliments to the chef. They were, truly, the best lamb ribs I have had in my life. And I’ve eaten a lot of lamb ribs in my 20 years. Lamb is my favorite red meat. And he gave me a foodgasm with his. In short, he is the Casanova of the kitchen, the Ron Jeremy of my dining dreams. I have a food-crush on the cooking. You may notice we use some scandalous word-choice in here. It’s just that for us, food and sex are frighteningly similar. They make you warm, taste good, fill you up, and leave you spent and glowing. When they’re good, they’re really, really good, and when they’re bad, it’s so depressing.
Alli: Carissa was nice enough to share a bite with me. If I’d been standing, my weak knees and tingling toes would have knocked me on my ass. I refused to speak immediately after from the fear that opening my mouth might distort the dreamy aftertaste.
Carissa: Being women, we couldn’t settle on one dessert, and so, ordered two to share.
Alli: Carissa told me not to look at the menu as she read the top three desserts aloud. Resisting the temptation took serious restraint, and was a little like being tied to the headboard: frustratingly gratifying. The desserts we ordered were the mind-blowing orgasm to the menu’s foreplay.
Carissa: I could taste the espresso in the espresso-whisky torte, which was drizzled with a crème and caramel sauce, whisky-infused. The End of Summer fruit tart was…summer. On a plate. Sweet, from the thick but waffle-ish almond tart base soaked in the honey-sweet juices of the fruit, to the whipped mascarpone top. Though I was leaning more toward the fruit tart in personal preference, I wouldn’t kick either dessert out of bed for eating crackers. And the espresso torte could probably keep me up all night and happy, as Alli so kindly pointed out. See what we mean? Food and sex—all feelings one in the same.
The only snag we ran into was having to ask for our French-press coffee to be brought out again after we ordered it with our desserts. You’re not going to walk away stuffed, as is the usual American dining expectation, but you are going to walk away well-fed.
Alli: Regardless of our raving, I’ll give you the skinny; it gets pricey. I’m pretty careful about where and how I spend my cash. Unlike Carissa, I hold onto the balance in my bank account longer than the week after I get my paycheck. Normally, getting the check at the end of a meal at a place like this would send me into momentary cardiac arrest. The cheese board alone was thirteen bucks. Shockingly, though, I didn’t care what the bill was—I was so enamored with the food and the man making it that I would have gladly emptied the entirety of my bank account, just as long as he kept cooking. Please, God, keep that man in the kitchen. I’ll be his bitch.
The Bluebird Tavern is Vermont Fusion at its best. The wait staff had that friendly, attentive Vermonter manner, never without a warm smile. Speaking of the wait staff, I wouldn’t mind if the waiter who brought our cheese board was dished up and brought out on one of those Bluebird serving boards. Regardless of how intimidated I was originally, the atmosphere was undeniably comfortable. There was wrought iron and exposed brick, charming French-country yellow and blue on tiles with patterns straight from Seville in the bathroom, well-dressed folk laughing over wine, and gentle candle glow lighting. There was also a football game and a fútbol game on the two flatscreen TVs behind the well-stocked bar, a man in an Iron Maiden t-shirt right at home at the table next to ours, and Petty, OAR, Jack Johnson, Hootie, Dispatch, and Dave Matthews playing softly through the audio system. It was, simply put, a chill place.
Carissa: The Bluebird Tavern does what Magnolia tries to do, and in my opinion, what Magnolia fails at—taking local food and produce, using a few other simple ingredients to enhance the natural flavors already there, and then leave it alone to speak for itself. At Magnolia, the food tasted a bit bland. At Bluebird, they rocked it, Vermont foodie-style.
Alli: If there was nothing else I could say about The Bluebird Tavern, I’d be able to say that it gave me my new happy place. No more wide open fields of flowers and ponies; oh no. The only frustrating part was trying to concentrate on my own food over Carissa’s rather vocal foodgasms.
Carissa: I’m not normally clumsy, but instead of scoring by Michelin stars, we’re going to score this meal by how many times I dropped my silverware with a clank and rattle onto the china and it slipped from my fingers. And I dropped my silverware 4 times.
XOXO
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