I can’t tell you where I ate this meal. It’s a secret. What I can tell you is that it took place several weeks ago on one of the nearby islands; that there were pigs and cows and goats and chickens there; and that the late-season blackberries were hanging bloated and heavy on the vine. I can tell you that before dinner, we watched a cow get milked, but the fetching little Nubian goat was milk-shy and unable to perform in front of a crowd. I can also tell you we ate inside a spotless little cookhouse, at a long communal table, and it was yummy.
Since the dawn of the new millennium, chefs have been making a big deal about the local, small-farm provenance of their ingredients. To bring a restaurant to the farm, well, that’s just a natural extension of this impulse to eat off the land. The secrecy of the establishment only makes things more fun (and also keeps our host from having to apply for health and liquor inspections). Such non-restaurant restaurants are big right now: We murmur about this one in West Seattle, that one in Ballard, or the wild success of Ripe, Portland’s once-underground series of family meals that gave rise to a mini-chain of restaurants.
Our host at the farm isn’t serving secret suppers to finance a restaurant; he already owned one in Seattle for years. Instead the communal dinners at the farm allow him the pleasure of a restaurant (serving people good food, sparkling conversations) without the runaround of credit cards and city codes and payroll taxes. With just one other cook, he prepares and serves the meals himself. In his bygone restaurant days, if a customer was unhappy with their food, he could blame the kitchen. Now, if he’s clearing a plate and someone hasn’t finished their zucchini, he’s crushed.
The meals also pose a culinary challenge: Can our host come up with nuanced menus week after week using only what is available on his land? He’s palpably excited by his self-imposed restrictions, and can’t rely on the flavor-boosting tricks of a peanuty satay sauce or balsamic vinegar. Instead, radicchio may need to be roasted in blackberry juices. Or what happens if you roast a leg of lamb in hay? “It’s incredibly moist and it tastes like hay,” says our host. “Only you can’t tell what it is since you don’t know what hay tastes like…” And when things are simple, there is no place to hide. “If we’re serving green beans with butter they better be good green beans and good butter and they better not be overcooked.”
My own dinner there was simple but quietly cerebral; every bite was informed by the farm. That is to say, the chicken was particularly chickeny, the tomatoes heady tasting—not just fresh tomatoes, but late tomatoes, just this side of overripe. Most of all, I fell in love with the farm’s goldenrod-colored butter that spread thickly on my focaccia and pooled around my ricotta gnocchi. Beyond this issue of freshness, there was a certain resonance that went along with meeting the goat who gave her milk (in the privacy of the early morning) for the cheesy squash-blossom filling, and a passing poignancy from knowing the lovely roasted chicken may have been the sibling of one I just saw strutting about outside.
This somewhat melancholy awareness is encouraged by our host. He makes a point, for instance, to introduce his guests not just to the obvious muscle cuts of his livestock, but to the whole beast. Last week, lamb tongue and brain went over surprisingly well. On the other hand, telling the guests that the prosciutto he was serving came from a pig named “Cookies and Cream” evoked squeals of squeamishness. “They sure like eating the prosciutto, though,” he mused.
As the farm-restaurant’s season draws to its November end, our host has taken on more autumnal produce like cauliflower, rutabaga, apples, and quince, even homegrown tobacco that he rolls into after-dinner cigars.
As with all such event dinners, you are at the mercy of your fellow guests when it comes to conversation. But it’s worth risking awkwardness to participate in this earthy experiment. Too bad I can’t tell you how to make a reservation. 