Kitchen Bitches: Get Around (The World) At Duino! (Duende)

Duino! (Duende)

10 North Winooski Ave.,

Burlington, VT

Carissa: “Cheddar cheese and kimchi inside; dude, it’s so good,” said the guy from the next table who was wearing the same wool Gatsby hat that my grandfather and father used to get from Conte of Florence for golfing. Make no mistake, ¡Duino! (Duende) is not for the faint-of-hipster heart.

Alli: There’s a wide, open doorway connecting ¡Duino! (Duende) to Radio Bean, allowing all sorts of things to waft through the spaces between: the scent of coffee and beer melding with garlic and spice, chatter, music, and yes, hipsters.

More palatable things come through that doorway, though. The whole night, we were serenaded by two lovely female fiddlers with misty sunlight, smoky-breakfast-tea voices. They played a set of reels and ballads alike, obviously very talented with a bow, that set the soundtrack for our meal. There’s definitely an upside to being connected to Radio Bean. You get all the live music, great food, and entertainment (yuppie-observing), but far enough removed that you actually have a two square inch buffer around your person at all times. And you get damn good food.

Carissa: The exposed kitchen gives you a great opportunity to watch your food being prepared, as well as to scope out the prep chefs. As I said to Alli, “If the extremely pretty person preparing our food is a man, I totally dibs him.”

Alli: The kitchen is impressive in its tiny size, proving that the chef is good at what he does. If he can work in such a small space, imagine what he could do with real counter-space. It’s almost bar-like. And being able to watch the chef slicing and sautéing and plating…it’s a total tease. I caught him lifting the cast iron pan from the flame, use his hand to waft the steam toward his nose, and breathe deeply. He handled the food as if it demanded respect and adoration in equal parts. It was beautiful (Carissa’s convinced that’s because he is beautiful).

Carissa: ¡Duino! (Duende)’s faded sort of charm with chandeliers above the high round tables and stools and a burgundy theme is reminiscent of old-time speakeasy vibes, complete with the Nickel Creek-esque melodies that were going on that night through—literally—the hole in the wall. After fighting through the menu like Saint George with the dragon and making your final choices, you actually get to eat. But the menu might be what’s possibly the money-maker for ¡Duino! like running books and illegal card games used to be for those speakeasies of old—loaded with inventive, scrumptious street foods from around the world, none more expensive than $12, and with good portion sizes—and by god, I mean real plate sizes— ¡Duino! (Duende) has carved out a late-night or quick-bite niche with a sit-down restaurant floor for itself in Burlington’s dining scene, something not easily accomplished.

Going into fall and crisp, cold nights, their Cider Snap is the hot alcoholic drink you want to wrap your hands around to warm them from the nip in the air outside. A concoction of hot rum and mulled cider with a circle of orange suspended in the clear stein, the rum hits you first, then the mulling spices, with a final citrus zing from the orange. It’s got automatic machinegun speed and accuracy going through the flavors, one right after the other.

Alli: For me, the Cider Snap was warm from the inside out. It was softer than an AK-47; you get a hug from the rum, a kiss from the spiced cider, and a wink from the thick orange slice wedged in your mug. But yes, in that order—always in that order.

My drink, Reed’s Ginger Brew, was a thick, viscous soda low on carbonation and huge on taste. It’s made the traditionally, with real ginger and spices and honey. It’s not as “crisp” and fizzy as Canada Dry. It’s sweet and pungent with just a little spice from the ginger, flavors that settle on your tongue in noticeably different parts. (Off the record, it would be perfect with a little bit of Jameson.)

Carissa: Elote is the Mexican street food’s answer to corn on the cob. Grilled with buttery “mojo” aioli and cheeky Mexican spices so zingy they make the corners of your mouth tingle—from which I could pick out cinnamon and chili powder—the corn itself was sweet and juicy. My one complaint of the evening was that unlike my first ear of corn, my second was not properly de-silked enough.

Alli: The elote was smoky and rustic. The parsley sprinkled generously over the two ears gives it a solid green kick to go with the medley of deep spices. The only problem with serving corn on the cob at a restaurant like this is that it is not at all dignified to pick the skins of kernels out of your teeth for the remainder of the meal. Especially if you’re sitting in the half of ¡Duino! (Duende) arranged near the large windows, where the entirety of North Winooski and Pearl can see you trying to floss with your fingers.

The Duende salad is a little sweet, a little tangy, and a little bitter with a variety of textures all in one bite. Atop the fresh, hearty green bed are shredded carrots, crunchy sunflower seeds, and crispy beet shavings. The honey-hops dressing is tangy and creamy, probably made with greek yogurt, sweetened with that honey, and deepens with the nuttiness of the sunflower seeds. It’s wonderful.

Carissa: (Duende)’s take on Quebecois poutine with cheddar cheese instead of curds and a mix of two distinctly different sweet potato and russet fries is genius, fresh, and invigorating. The brown gravy that it’s smothered in is so homey with hints of onion and sage, and the fries themselves were just as crunchy and salty that they’re stiff competition with Bluebird Tavern’s for tastiest fries in Burlington. Fo’ real. I think I liked the sweet potato fries in the gravy the most—it had that diabolical flavor combination of sweet and salty going on that’s a killer for most women. Together with the Cider Snap, you’ve got the perfect heavy warm-you-from-the-inside-out and sticks-to-your-bones (and your ass,) fall and winter meal.

Alli: Although I was concerned when the plate of poutine, typically thick fries smothered in gravy and hunks of cheese curd, came out as two-toned shoestring fries with shredded cheddar, I have to concede. It was fantastic. The russet fries were a little too salty with the gravy and the cheese, but the sweetness of the sweet potato fries cut that saltiness really well. And the best part was that because it’s a lighter poutine, it doesn’t settle in your stomach like a couple of mud bricks.

“The Maduros are extra good today,” our waitress bubbled when she set my plate down before me. “The plantains we got this morning were perfect.” True story. The sweet plantains for this dish are lightly pan-fried and dusted in cinnamon and nutmeg. The dense starchiness is cut by the thin, light, cream-and-mint dipping sauce pooling in a little saucer on the side. Carissa preferred the maduros without the mint-cream-concoction, and I can understand why: comfort levels. This dish is perfect for apple pie cravings. It’s starchy, almost doughy, enough to satisfy a pie crust craving, and the sweet plantains are spiced just right to fill in for the apple filling. But don’t forget, this dish isn’t dessert. Sprinkled over the plantain slices are charred onion slivers, adding that salty, smoky level to the sweet. Between those and the infused cream sauce, you get a slightly uncomfortable jolt; the variations aren’t quite rebellious enough to really pull away from that tie with mom’s apple pie. However, those onion slivers and that mint dipping sauce is exactly what brings this dish up to par—it’s taking what you know and love and adding a new twist. As soon as you accept that, you’re in the hands of a subtle genius.

Carissa: I got spoiled on plantains when my best friend’s Jamaican dad cooked them for us in

London. Duino’s maduros are the best plantains I’ve had since, and I’ve tried making them in the chaos of my own kitchen—always ending up drying them out or over-frying them. These squished through their fried crusts like too much succulent plantain flesh is inside to be contained.

By the end of our meal, I was so satisfied that I could have

fallen into a dead sleep on my bar stool. You get a sense of comfort here from all over the world, both in the food and the preparation of it, that in turn makes you feel all is right in your little corner table of the world. Coming from the girl who doesn’t date, you could take me here for dinner, totally fine. ¡Duino! (Duende) is romantic in a faded, chintzy way, and it’s cheap. You’re not going to break anyone’s wallet here. Maybe that’s why it’s so popular.

Alli: It’s a total paradox, having a street-food restaurant, but it works. Street food is simple, quick, comforting, and cheap. And, more often than not, some of the best food there is because of it. It’s why people go to New York for soft pretzels, Fenway for franks, Spain for churros, Belgium for cones of frites. It’s low key, which makes it easy to love. Which, I agree, makes it perfect for a date. But seriously, it’s about the food.

As an end note, the menu at ¡Duino! (Duende) seems to change frequently. Check in often to keep up with and make your way down the menu and live music from Radio Bean. All in all, it’s a good Repeat Restaurant. And just to reiterate, this would be a good restaurant to take your, ahem, favorite Kitchen Bitches.

XOXO

Dates I Might Actually Survive

See this? I would go on a date for a dish of what is to your left. Really. Let me explain.

I spent a wonderful Sunday morning a few weekends back having brunch with my mother, when I looked around Penny Cluse Cafe and realized that I was actually enjoying myself, out and about, before noon on a weekend morning. I then noticed the couples and tables of friends sitting around us, and reached a startling conclusion over a bowl of the most fabulous chicken and biscuits I have ever had: I would let someone take me out to brunch. In fact, I'm pretty sure that a brunch date would be the best date that you could ever hope to have me agree to.

I know, I know, I know-- I self-professedly hate dates. Dates make me as-- if not more-- uncomfortable than my yearly visit to the gynecologist. Like, you could not pay me to go on a date. (Well, I don't know. I have over a cool half-grand in vet bills to pay right now, so you probably could auction me off. But that is besides the moral point.) But here are the fine points on why a brunch date is an ok-by-me "real date" alternative:

A.) I don't actually like most breakfast foods. But you can bet the 6 dollars and 50 cents that it takes to buy a large serving of Penny Cluse's chicken and biscuits that after a night of um, exercise, I wake up damn hungry.

B.) If you're being a gentleman and driving me home the morning after, if you suggest a brunch spot on the way back to my place, I will usually be up to making that stop. Unless I am ridiculously hungover. And then please, don't even talk to me. It's not you-- it's my headache.

C.) Brunch is usually cheap. I will purposely order something under $10 to spare you. I honestly feel like spending more than $10 on a meal for a date in the morning is insane. I also honestly feel like spending $20 on a date's meal in the evening is equally insane. Also, asinine.

D.) The coffee is usually better than what you make. Or, more conveniently for me, they actually offer me coffee, if you don't.

Possibly the only downside to this whole brunch-date idea is that the morning after, I tend to look like someone who was just released from an intervention program, I smell like a pleasantly shameful blend of latex and you, and I'm wearing what I wore yesterday, just a little more stretched out than it was the morning previously or should be. Not generally my favorite time to make a foray into public, but really-- for those chicken and biscuits, I would. (You should be sensing a theme by now. Even if you don't go with me, go try those. Actually, on second thought, please take me with you. Look-- I'd date you. Maybe just that once, and maybe it's just my latent Southern heritage from my mom's side of the family coming out, but still. That's progress!)

What are some other dates I would willingly go on? Art gallery openings or shows. Concerts. If I were comfortable enough with you to see me red, panting, and sweaty outside of the dark of a night-time bed, hiking. Probably the best way to win my heart would be to take me dancing. It's one of my favorite things, but because I have never had a partner, I've never been able to learn the forms I really want to: Latin, ballroom, tango, etc. So you guessed it-- take me to a tango class, and I would literally be putty in your arms. If putty had two quick and nimble feet and hips made for swiveling, that is.

And even if I were on the fence about you, I would definitely attend a live football game with you. Especially if I could drink beer while there. I would whole-heartedly invest in those 9 hours or so to figure out how I really felt. I'm not promising anything here like someone could go from a frog to a prince with 2 Pats tickets, but I certainly would let you give me your best shot at changing my (then open) mind.

XOXO

Foodie Love.

My favorite Florentine waiter, Nicolai, has now met my parents.

Does this make this a serious culinary relationship? It is more than most of my exes and men can claim to. Yet again proving that this is a family you can get closest to by wining and dining together. Tonight it was a bottle of Trebbiano d'Abruzzo and free shots of lemoncello.

XOXO

"Of Course It Is."

I fall in little love here every day. It's a good lesson for a girl who's never said Those Three Words. Some days it's with a passer-by on the sidewalk. Others, someone I actually talk to-- a vendor, a waiter, or another student.

A different man every day-- that is my plan. Not as in, 'a different man every day' in the Biblical sense. No, thank you. As I once said, I really wish I were having as much sex as people assume I do. Because, let me tell you, when eating heavenly pear and cheese ravioli is the closest to a purely physical experience you have had in the past month, life is pretty sad, my friends, and you are NOT a-knockin' boots on the regular. 'A different man every day' as in, I would like to meet, talk to, and potentially flirt with, a different man every day. My own special way of getting to know the locals. I am an incorrigible flirt, and part of my self-designed work-plan is to get better at opening up and actually talking to people, so, why not keep myself occupied doing something I can't help as much as I can't help breathing, and also stretch my solo-emotion-zone comfort boundaries? That's my debatable (dateable?) goal here. Breaking hearts, taking names, and integrating myself with the culture.

Last night, it was my waiter at Coquinarius. (Coquinarius-- possibly the best meal I have eaten here, even better than the Bon Appetit restaurant in Venice. Mixed salad with Gorgonzola, pear, celery [which was not ingested-- can't stand the stuff. It's food that takes more eating it than it puts in you. I mean, what sort of wickedness is that?!] and walnuts paired excellently with a crisp, bright, and lively Pinot Grigo and the infamous pear and cheese stuffed ravioli.) It took me half the meal, but I eventually realized I had taken an instant comfortable liking to him because he looked like the Italian version of The Small Man, one of my favorite young professors from last semester. (He also chain-smoked Camel Lights out front of the restaurant's front stoop, too, so that bumped him up a few 'general likability' points.) He was attentive and possibly the most brilliant speaker of the English language I have met while here, and by the time I went up to the front of the restaurant to pay, we struck up a conversation. He asked me if I wanted an aperitif, on the house. You never, ever need to ask me if I want free liquor twice.

"Si! Grazie!"

"Do you like anise?" he asked, and I was nodding before I even processed, because, my adorable little waiter could have asked me if fresh lamb's blood was ok, and I would have "si"-d him to death and happily guzzled it down. A minute later, as he tipped the bottle toward me, the scent of something came riding over to me on the air currents like an ungodly chariot of death. Liquorice. Anise is liquorice, you dumbfuck. As in, that liquor that after an unfortunate experience in London junior year of high school, you swore to never drink again. As in, I don't even eat liquorice candy. As in, I think it is the black tar of plague, pestilence, and the putrid.

And yet, I reached forward, grabbed the first shot, and downed it. For you, adorable Italian waiter-friend, I will drink liquorice flavored demon water. The second one quickly followed. The room tilted a little bit.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“Carissa.” We shake. His hand is very, very warm, and I feel tiny hairs on the back of it, where the pad of my forefinger is pressing. “And what’s yours?”

“Nicolai.”

“Of course it is.” It’s out of my mouth before I can even filter it. Two glasses of pinot grig and anise, you’re a bitch. He gives me a quizzical looks. It didn’t translate, but he knows enough to be confused.

“It’s a good name,” I tell him quickly, trying to cover.

“Yes,” he agrees. “The best name. No…” He gives a little laugh and shrugs. “Will you be back?”

“I’ll be back a lot,” I tell him, no lies there. “The ravioli were molto bene. Very, very good.”

“Si. My friend says that they are like little bundles from heaven. Come back again, very soon.” I watch as he bangs the register keys, and suddenly, my total of 29 Euro is somehow, magically, 24 Euro. He winks at me.

You, sir, are a little bundle from heaven. Hello, waiter—check, please? I’d love to take you home in a doggy-bag.

"I think you are very brave," he tells me as he hands me back my change.

I push 2 Euro back at him, and he pockets it. "Pourquoi?" I ask, out of habit, not meaning to mix my French and Italian, as I inevitably do at least once a day. I have always heavily favored "pourquoi-- for why?" over just a simple "why?"

"You are here alone," he says. "Not many girls do this."

If you only knew the half of it, Nicolai. If you only knew the half of it.

---

Hindsight of this experience?

Do not ever, ever let me drink liquorice flavored liquor again. I hate it, and no matter how cute you are or how free it is, I still shouldn't have it.

Date your waiters. Seriously. They know good food and where to find it. If nothing more, you'll get a few good meals and some table-side conversation from it.

XOXO

Italian Escapades: My 18th Night of Mayhem in Italy, Gone Native in Carnevale, And Other Assorted Excitements

For my 18th night in Italy, I went to see The Wailers in concert, smoked Italian doobies, got caught up in a front-row mosh pit, touched 3 of The Wailers and got an autograph, ran across a 7 lane highway on the way home and was almost hit by a speeding moped, jumped some Jersey (Sicily? Do you think they would be called Sicily barriers over here? Is Sicily the Italian equivalent of New Jersey?) barriers, and coined the term "Unholy Cannoli." Just another day.

Robin and I got to Flog Auditorium (quite roughly the Italian version of Higher Ground-- same size, same atmosphere, but much more relaxed, in fact, non-acting, security,) an hour early, and stood in possibly the most miserable weather conditions I have ever waited for doors to open. And I waited outside for Busta to start in just a t-shirt last April in Vermont.) It was damp and drizzling. The trees dripped down on us. I went to go find a beer to find to improve my general disposition, and was greatly relieved when I got back to find that whelp, this being a Wailers concert, it was incredibly easy to score some weed. So score away. Also, once inside, our early arrival resulted in center-stage spots 1 person back from the stage. And this put us right inside the center of the cloud of smoke as the audience proceeded to hot-box the auditorium.

Second-hand smoke at concerts has got to be one of my favorite things. I love getting high on other people's time and money. So sue me.

If I had questioned it previously, I now know where I can find every Italian man I find attractive: At a Wailers concert. From dreadlocked, to hipster, to the young Italian Johnny Depp look-alike who was tripping on E and loved everyone and everything with a sort of infectious child-like humor that reminded me of the bastardized lovechild of Devendra Banhart and Russel Brand, who I spent the 3 hours of the concert pressed up against (3 hours well spent), it was a collectively attractive and fun crew. Until some of the drunk soccer boys and tripped-out electro-scene girls thought it would be a cute idea to start a mosh pit.

Now, there is a place and a time for a mosh pit. At an alternative or punk or metal show, yes. If you're seeing ICP or Sick Puppies or MOP. If you're under the age of 18. If you're a 185 pound man over six feet. But if you are a 125 pound woman under five-foot-four, mosh pits are not fun scenes. Losing my Gianni Depp in the melee, I locked myself to the jersey-clad back of the soccer boy in front of me, and shoved elbows back into the bodies that crushed up against me, fighting to keep standing. (First rule of mosh pits: DON'T FALL DOWN. Unless getting trampled seems like a good time to you.)

However, this mosh pit succeeded in pushing me even closer to the stage (literally back-humping this poor boy,) so that I was able to A.) touch the lead guitar, B.) Shake hands with the keyboardist, and C.) Get an autograph. So. I can't say that it wasn't a huge pain in the ass, overall.
Cabs were nonexistent from the concert, so Robin and I hiked the 2 miles back to our apartments. Thanks to the weed and the drinks, I couldn't feel my knees (long story short: years of horseback riding and jumping is not conducive to good cartilage in your knees, which is not conducive to all the walking I've been doing here, which results in massive amounts of pain and me hobbling like some of the black-clothed bubbies here), which came in handy for the sprint across the 7 lane highway in which a speeding moped nearly mowed me down, and again when we had to jump two lanes of concrete barriers to get across said highway to our street. Robin nearly drank from a dog's water fountain in the park. I had massive munchies and was trying to convince him that it was a good idea to go to the Secret Bakery to get "Unholy Cannoli" and "Debonair Eclairs." I thought it was HEE-LAR-IOUS at the time. The next morning when I woke up, very slowly and fuzzily and in lots of pain, I was really glad he put his foot down and said no.
Saturday morning found me waking up at the ass-crack of dawn at 5:15 (after going to sleep at 3:30 AM) to pack, have a quick wake n' bake session, and get on a bus at 6 AM for a weekend in Venice. I was able to buy gummybears, my favorite munchie food ever, at the rest stop, took pictures of the sunrise, and slept some more before walking up and stumbling onto a boat to Venice. It was also a good thing I slept through most of it because I have realized something: If I die while over here, it will not be from a kidnapping/rape/murder. It will be because of Italian drivers. Take a Boston driver. Make him snort copious amounts of speed. Perform a partial lobotomy. And then put him behind the wheel of a BUS. That, my friends, is terrifying. And I am living in a country full of them. Crossing streets and getting in cabs and buses and the such. I am literally playing Bussian Roulette.

This is what you need to know about Venice: It is easily one of the most beautiful, unique, and creepily romantic places in the world. It is so old and seeped in popular lore that at night, when lights reflect on the moving water in the canals, you will believe without a doubt that you are in a Poe story. Especially if it happens to be Carnevale, and all of humanity is running around in masks and costumes in Italy's mashed-up version of Halloween, April Fool's Day, and prom. I bought a mask, and my roommate Raquel, Robin and I took to the streets at night to find a restaurant featured in Bon Appetit and get in on the fun. We ran into a desk of cards, a set of bowling pins, an army of walking garbage bags, sperm that I ran away from, and some attractive young Ghostbusters that had it all over Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd. As soon as I heard the theme music coming from the boombox one of them was carrying, I was off and running toward them, camera flying behind me. They were young, charming, funny, friendly, sweet, and tolerated our photo shoot with them. In short, they are my new best friends. Almost everyone we met, excluding only the really drunk twenty-something men who only approached Raquel and I to ask if we were with Robin, as in, if he was our boyfriend, and walked away when we quickly repeated "Si" a few times (Robin was big pimpin' that night, fo' sho'-- male friends make the best joint bodyguards/decoys), was incredibly nice and friendly. More English is spoken there; less cigarettes smoked. Carnevale is basically one big, deliciously decadent and light-hearted romp. I was so glad I got to be there, and am definitely going back again at some point in my life. Actually, I would live in Venice for about a year, easily. I fell in love with it, even more than Florence.
My un-Valentine's Day was perfect. I tried to remember what I did last year-- I think a Girl's Dinner and then I went home, smoked straight to my face, and passed out early-- but it is one of those many Lost Memories. (This hints very strongly that smoking copious amounts of greenery was involved, even if dinner out was not.) This year, we were on tour boats to Murano and Burano and Venice for most of the day, and once we got to Venice, Robin, Raquel, Brian and I ran off to find calamari and a gondola ride. The gondola ride around sunset was easily one of the most un-romantic romantic things I have ever done in my life, (squeezing my gondolier's biceps included,) and as we took the tour boat back to the bus station (after almost missing it and being stranded in Venezia-- not the worst thing that could happen, in my opinion,) the sun set in rainbow hues with a blood-red, huge sun setting on the horizon. Blissful couples were unapparent. We took the bus back to Florence, and I crawled into bed with Pineapple Express, Baci chocolates, and more gummybears before passing out. In other words, unadulterated, Single Girl bliss.

Looking back, I find that I've been surprising myself numerous times. Probably one of my favorite things-- surprising myself. Usually, I am exceedingly hard to surprise. (See: Jaded. Cynical. Guarded.) Usually, I would die to be actually (positively) surprised. It just doesn't really happen for me. But there I was, finding myself surprised as I watched a hand-- my own hand-- reaching for the door of a cab last Thursday night. And like an out-of-body experience, leaning in, and asking the cabby in pidgeon English/Italian if he could take us to Flog Auditorium, and for how much. There I was, forefinger and thumb pinching a tight little jay as I inhaled while listening to "Everything's Gonna Be Alright." There I was, dancing with a room full of totally chill strangers and listening to the late, great Bob's songs in a cloud of haze. There I was, drunk on wine and life by 2:15 PM. There I was, in a gondola, looking up at the golden light on marble palazzos. There I was, flirting with a Ghostbuster holding a leafblower. There I was, eating some of the most delicious ravioli in a butternut squash sauce with sugared black truffle in a restaurant that Bon Appetit called "the best in Venice." There I was, flying by the seat of my pants, running from cars and mopeds and for trains and boats and buses, asking absolute Italian strangers for directions and tickets and ganja and photographs and phone numbers and recommendations. I'm living a charmed life, I know it, and I'm grateful for every moment of it.

I am finding that I am doing nearly everything I said I wouldn't do in Italy. And it's thrilling. The moment I stopped sweating it was the moment the world opened itself right up to me.

XOXO

The Kitchen Bitches Do Bobcat Cafe and Brewery.

Alli: Bobcat Café and Brewery is nestled on Main Street in Bristol, Vermont. Bristol’s mission statement reads something like: “We aim to be the quaint, Rockwellian, New England town where all our residents know each other’s names, our town hall meetings are always full, and our picket fences are always freshly painted.” It’s a picture-perfect scene on a chilly October night in small town Vermont.

Carissa: As you’ve probably already read from Flannel vs. Flannel’s review of Bobcat Café and Brewery, this Bristol hot-spot in infamous for its homemade brews. But Alli and I decided to tag along for the ride with the boys after we got a tip that the food was equally exceptional. Seeing as I was raised “on Kobe beef and pâté—since the womb, trained to only recognize good food,” as the Arts and Entertainment editor of the Current noted, I had to get in. Plus, being with the boys of Flannel vs. Flannel and Friends, we got to witness Man Law in action—pint glasses are ok to share a sip out of, whereas drinking out of the same beer bottle would be a “no.”

Alli: All of Bristol’s fifty or so residents are either tucking kids into bed or congregating in the brewery. In our twenty minute wait for a table big enough for the six of us, we saw a whopping three cars drive by. The only sound in town is coming from inside, the glowing light spilling out onto the sidewalk in front of the big windows marking it as the warmest place on the street.

Carissa: The ambiance inside Bobcat was Vermont woodsman meets French Provencal bistro hostess. Rough-hewn table surfaces were polished to a high shine, and the lighting was dim but cozy.

Alli: This is my domain. Carissa gets her fancy-schmancy gastropubs and French fusion cuisine. Bobcat, the kind of place that plays Nickel Creek and serves down-home, New England country cooking, is mine. For God’s sake, our table is literally my childhood kitchen table. The whole café feels like home, and I suspect that it’s not just a product of the furniture. There’s a steady volume of chatter and laughter and a sense of amity floating through the peppery air. The wait staff laughs and jokes with the diners, and doesn’t say anything when the 21+ portion of our dinner party shares a sip of site-brewed beer (all in the name of a good review). If there’s one thing that Bobcat does exceptionally well, it’s good company (and great beer).

Carissa: The curry in the butternut squash soup I got as my appetizer was a kick to fall’s ass. It opens your nasal passages right up, and the great slightly sweet bread they offered, when dipped into the thick, bisque-y soup, tones both down nicely.

Alli: Carissa’s curried butternut squash bisque kicked a little, but it’s the kind of warm that you want on a brisk fall night, like holding your fingers almost too close to the flame after coming inside on a cold day.

Alli: I started with the Vermont apple and cheddar salad. I can legitimately call this a “cute” salad. A fan of perfectly sliced apples and an adorable little pile of toasted walnuts framed a hill of greens. I got soft-eyed when I knocked over the lettuce and saw the cubes of Vermont cheddar hiding in the corner. The greens were crisp and flavorful but not bitter or strong, and the ginger cider vinaigrette was phenomenal. The sides paired perfectly with the salad, adding a crunch or a bit of crisp sweetness or a hint of sharp creaminess layered throughout bites, adding the depth that I’m convinced every salad should have.

Carissa: As the queen of the “baby salad with extras,” I really enjoyed the apple and cheddar salad. Slightly warm and limp arugula in a ginger cider vinaigrette appeased me, but I am not a fan of warm nuts…roasted nuts, that is. The roasted walnuts that accompanied the salad were no exception. After having one, and then another for benefit of the doubt, I left the rest on the plate.

Carissa: The broth of the steamed littleneck clams we got to share as I took Alli’s clam virginity exploded in my mouth and knocked me outta this world. It was cheesy, and salty, like seawater from the same bay they got the clams from. The clams themselves were sweet and both soft and chewy, with pale pink flesh. However, the slices of garlic clove in the broth were not my favorite, though the chunks of bacon were a nice flavor additive.

Carissa: Henry, our Arts and Entertainment editor from Maine, dug into the bowl of clams with his fingers. “I don’t know what anyone ever taught you—you eat steamers with your fingers.”

Alli: As an entrée, I ordered the Misty Knoll Parmesan Chicken Lasagna. First rule: throw out everything you ever thought you knew about lasagna. Otherwise, you’ll be confused and potentially disappointed by what will be placed before you. It’s lemon parsley ricotta, roasted vegetables, roasted vegetables marinara, and misty knoll organic chicken between lasagna noodles, topped with a small pile of greens slightly wilted from the rising steam and grated parmigiano reggiano, with a balsamic demi-glaze circling the plate.

Alli: Now, let’s get this straight: this ain’t yo mama’s lasagna. This is Vermont harvest lasagna. The roasted veggies gave it a hint of wood smoke to contrast on your tongue with the zing of the demi-glaze. The marinara was heavy and meaty from veggies pureed with a thick red sauce. It was so good that I forgot about the chicken until I cut into it—right there, in the center of my lasagna, was a breast of fried chicken sprinkled with sea salt. Yeah, fried chicken. Like I said, forget everything you ever knew about lasagna, because the crispiness of fried chicken in between sheets of pasta smothered in smoky marinara with chunks of roasted vegetables is genius. Absolutely phenomenal, especially because it wasn’t heavy; all the crisp, none of the grease. And, even better, the portion is home-style, too.

Carissa: The braised duck I ordered for my entrée was so succulent. So moist. So pink. It was almost like a pulled pork, but it was duck, so, SO much better. The orange and cranberry preserves crowning it were almost as good as the jam at the Bluebird Tavern. The mushroom crepe under it was a new idea to me, and well done, the woodsy, earthy flavor complimenting the sweet and savory-ness of the duck.

Carissa: Since we went with the Flannel vs. Flannel crew and Company, we occasionally got sips of what they were reviewing. Though I found heaven on beer, or beer on heaven with the fizzy Heller Bock, my favorite was the Porter “Twan” got—it started out with a bite, smoothed out on my palate, and then came back for a second round of deep, almost chocolatey taste and gave me goosebumps with its goodness. Is it any surprise women want the sweet stuff?

Carissa: Speaking of which, Alli and I split a maple crème brulee for dessert. It was so maple, so Vermont, so lovely, from the torched sugar top to the custard that overtook the crust when broken into like an oozing lava flow of dessert. It was sinful. I would have sold my soul for more. The texture was so smooth and light, unlike some brulees that get grainy. The maple taste waited until after the crunchy sugar dissipated to tickle your taste-buds like a particularly teasing French maid. I myself was called a tease for only offering a small taste after raving and moaning about it.

Alli: The maple crème brulee is like the soft, slow stroke of a fingertip. The more you explore, the more you uncover. Thank God there’s a church next door, because it’s sinful and I’m going to need absolution.

Carissa: Final verdict? By the time Bobcat started closing down around us—yes, we shut the place down—and I threw in my napkin, I was blissed-out on comfort food. Comfort is what Bobcat provides, from the food, to the atmosphere, to the friendly and accommodating wait staff with a good sense of humor, to what the boys were feeling after a few pints. It is warmingly good, honest food—but we’re never going with the boys again because they’re far too distracting.

Alli: By the end of the night, I had dropped my silverware an extraordinary number of times, we were all stuffed, our sides aching from laughter, Flannel and Flannel & co. had enough to be a little buzzed, and us Kitchen Bitches were drunk on good company. That’s what you get at Bobcat. Great food, great beer, great atmosphere, and great company. It’s well worth the drive.

VISIT IT.

XOXO

Kitchen Bitches Do The Bluebird Tavern: Twice As Tasty

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