I distinctly remember the first time I tasted a properly cooked scallop, the perfect slip of its sweet flesh at once familiar in its trace of the ocean, and yet more wonderful than anything I'd ever tasted, from the sea or elsewhere. I remember the gently ashen char where it had been seared on each side, and that first wholly satisfying bite of the firm, yet yielding white belly beneath. That this pearly piece of heaven was even remotely related to the blandly rubbery versions I'd had before was difficult to register. It was a defining moment in my personal culinary history: the scallop upon which all future scallops would be judged.
It seems fitting then, that another, more recent, defining moment in my culinary history also involved a scallop. Well, two scallops, to be exact. The revelatory mollusks in question were of a Maine diver ilk, lightly seared and enhanced by black trumpet mushrooms, fava beans, fried chicken skin remoulade, and crumbles of pumpernickel. It was bivalvic perfection on a plate, the creamy richness of the remoulade emphasizing the delicate salinity of the scallop. This time, however, the scallops were part of a larger defining moment, as they comprised only the first course in what may be the most plainly delicious meal I've ever had.
Of course, I'd had high hopes for Blackbird, the critically acclaimed Chicago restaurant that has been consistently ranked amongst the top restaurants in said city, and easily falls within the top 50 or so restaurants in the country. So I suppose I technically should not have been surprised by the inventive, yet minimalist, cocktail list. The understated, but clever decor (each table is graced with diminutive yellow daisies in an opaque white oblong vase, evoking a golden-yolked egg). The pared-down, but diverse wine list. The friendly, but unobtrusive service. None of it should have been a revelation. Technically.
Pleasure, however, isn't technical -- it's sensual. And though I'd heard consistently positive things about Blackbird, my senses weren't quite prepared for the tenderness of a perfectly pink pork belly, gently marbled with fine white lines of fat, bathed in a warm gumbo-flavored consomme. Imagine the most perfect piece of bacon in the world, except cut as a thick slab, and less aggressively salty, almost sweet to the taste. My senses were equally unprepared for the way a prawn can taste like buttered seawater when perfectly grilled, or the crisp of an ethereal cornbread, unhindered by the usual dry grittiness that has marred my affection for the cornbread of meals past.
As an appetizer, I chose the aforementioned seared maine diver scallops with black trumpet mushrooms, fava beans, fried chicken skin remoulade and pumpernickle. A seemingly strange combination that somehow tasted far "sleeker" than the description would suggest, as the flavors unified in each bite. The pork belly in question was part of a brilliant entree of braised organic pork belly with grilled spot prawn, boiled peanuts, sugarsnap peas, cornbread and gumbo consomme, a sly nod to low-country cuisine, pared down and dressed up, yet no less satisfying.
By dessert, my face was warm with pleasure, aided only slightly by the fizzy champagne cocktail and Cabernet Franc I'd had with my meal. And yet, somehow, the most inventive part of the meal was yet to come. Having already savored two courses, I knew to order the most interesting-sounding dessert, confident that Blackbird could do no wrong, even (perhaps especially) with counterintuitive flavor profiles. It proved to be a worthy strategy. The sweet pea sponge cake I ordered came with a licorice-infused mascarpone cream, candied bacon bits, and carrot-flavored sorbet. Weird? Yes. And completely amazing. It was springtime in a dish, and a combination of flavors that I had never before encountered.
There is something to be said for the familiar - comfort food, Mom's cooking, steakhouse classics, and your neighborhood diner. These things are romanticized for a reason, and they're the things I find myself craving over and over. And yet, there are those meals - meals like Blackbird - that remind me why I'm interested in food in the first place. Challenging our preconceptions of what we think we want to eat. Stimulating to the palate, and yet somehow, devoid of the gimmicks and superfluous molecular antics that plague so much upscale dining. Eating at Blackbird was tasting that perfect first scallop all over again, and somehow finding it even more perfect than before.
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