A few months ago, my parents treated themselves to a spa visit and
overnight stay at a fancy lodge. My mother called me that evening to
report that immediately following their romantic, decadent, organic
dinner, she went directly upstairs to her hotel room and threw up.
“Was it bad?” I asked.
“No,” she explained. “It was just white-people food.”
My family has nothing against white people. Or their food. (Some of
our best friends are white.) But, being brown people, certain food
items and flavor combinations that appear on upscale American
menus—mint gelée, lemon crème fraîche,
vanilla glacé—and elaborate platings will always seem
impersonal, impenetrable, and just beyond the realm of real
enjoyment.
I had heard great things from a trustworthy source about Art of the
Table, a new restaurant in Wallingford offering Supper Club, a weekly
reservations-only dinner party (you have the option of sitting at
either a communal or private table) featuring a $48 prix fixe menu
designed around a
specific theme. I decided to take my mother out
for a nice meal (something I don’t do often enough, since meals with
her are always at home, free of pretense, occasionally free of
silverware). After looking at Chef Dustin Ronspies’s menu for the week,
“A Trip to the Farmer’s Market” (specifically a Swiss chard and
goat-cheese ravioli with roasted sweet-pepper sauce, toasted pine nuts,
and pesto), I was a little worried that we might have another
tragic “white-people food” experience on our hands.
In hindsight, my concerns could not seem more ludicrous. Mom and I
had one of the most comfortable, satisfying, quietly revelatory dinners
imaginable at Art of the Table. Ronspies and house manager Laurie
O’Donnell greet diners as they come through the door; a carafe of water
with orange and fresh rosemary sits on each table. It’s obvious that
Art of the Table’s first priority is to give diners an intimate and
nourishing experience. While there are a lot of flavors going on in
Ronspies’s food, all the dishes are carefully balanced, almost
perfectly executed, and absolutely delicious.
Our first course, zucchini fritter and corn soup, was a lovely,
detailed dish that set the tone for the meal. The
fritter—shredded zucchini, crunchy on the outside, light and
wonderfully eggy on the inside—sat in the middle of a bowl of
bright, sweet soup topped with smoked red-pepper flakes and diced
chives. My mom could not get over the perfect temperature of the
soup—”Not too hot, not too cold, just right.”
That Swiss chard and goat-cheese ravioli I was so worried about
turned out to be my favorite dish. The handmade ravioli, which were
larger and more dumpling like than I expected, were filled with a silky
mix of greens and cheese that held a surprising but very welcome hint
of lemon. The red-pepper sauce that accompanied it was spot-on (not too
sweet, thankfully), and enhanced by the small dollop of garlicky
pesto.
The poached black cod was moist and downright heavenly. While I
could have done without the braised fennel salad it sat atop (the
fennel was too soft, its anisey flavor barely detectable), the
oven-roasted tomatoes that accompanied the fish were tart and sweet and
worthy of their own dish. (Quote Mom: “Oh, I love the tomato.”)
Dessert—fresh fruit tart of blackberries, raspberries,
blueberries, and nectarines in a brown hazelnut-flour shell filled with
huckleberry pastry cream—was divine and simple, a perfect end to
a late summer meal.
From my seat in the tiny dining room I could see into the kitchen; I
relished spying on Ronspies lovingly (and, yes, artfully) assembling
each plate. He would then emerge from the kitchen to introduce each
course. Listening to Ronspies talk about his food and where his
ingredients come from—the names of each vendor, what items they
specialize in—was one of the most impressive and compelling parts
of the meal. He ended dinner by asking us to “please support local
farmers. They need us as much as we need good food from them.”
I will be back to Art of the Table. I need more food as good and
thoughtful as this in my life. 
