Home on the Range

After a gift of a shot glass of red grapefruit juice delightfully flavored with fresh mint, we were tempted by a special of fried oysters, and intrigued by a salad featuring seascape strawberries macerated in sweet vermouth with mache, shaved fennel, almonds, and chantilly cream (!), but we settled on three other first courses. Three nicely trimmed, fat, oily roasted sardines, dotted with a light sauce gribiche incorporating pickles and eggs as well as mustard, were set atop wedges of grilled levain bread, interspersed with lightly oiled baby red dandelion greens and a whole grain mustard vinaigrette. A stack of three plump baby back pork ribs more than passed muster, dripping with a sweet hot barbecue sauce and sided with a sharp coleslaw that Peter said was better than any they'd had on the barbecue-and-coleslaw-intensive trip to Nashville they'd just returned from. With a side of creamy grits or roasted cauliflower, they'd do for dinner. I loved my delicately battered nubbins of fried baby artichokes, more delicate than the spiky Jewish-Italian version I'd expected, sprinkled over a simple, equally delicate salad of wild arugula in a lemon-thyme vinaigrette. All three dishes — even the artichokes — went well with the inexpensive $29 Anne Amie Willamette Valley (Oregon) riesling Peter chose from the list. Our glasses were first rinsed out with a bit of the wine, an unusual ritual that I correctly guessed was to eliminate any possible taint of detergent from the glass.

Anita had hesitated between the Idaho white trout and a ravioli dish that sounded so good we decided to share it as a second course. They'd thoughtfully plated it for us: two tender ravioli each, filled with fromage blanc and Meyer lemon confit, dressed with strands of red dandelion and jeweled with emerald-green fava beans.

I could find no fault with the mains that followed. I enjoyed the trout, served lightly sautéed under a blanket of sautéed ramps and lots of chewy oyster mushrooms, with cornmeal "croutons" that were like perfect toy blocks magically made of grits. The creamy grits under Peter's fried chicken, a leg and lovely moist breast of Rocky Jr. free-range chicken, were equally magical in their beige cloak of giblet gravy. I wanted another crack at that chicken, charmed as I was by my own pink seared duck breast surrounded by potato gnocchi sprinkled with prosciutto, with a triple salute to peas: set on a bed of sweet pea coulis, adorned with whole peas, and under a thatch of pea shoots.

We were replete, but still seducible by a dense, dark Scharffen Berger chocolate tart in a cookie crust, a strawberry-rhubarb crumble with vanilla ice cream and a sprinkling of mint that brought to mind the flavor of the tiny drink we'd been treated to a couple of hours earlier, and a beautifully garnished plate of Oregon goat milk gouda served with thinly sliced ripe pear, toasted cranberry walnut bread, and a swirl of honey. I was as dazzled by Maverick as old Sam would have been.