I love going out for dinner, and I love trying all the somethings-new. But some nights I just want the warm embrace of what I already know.
The Wallace is just the place for a night out that tastes like a night in. A mason-jar comfort of fresh Smoked Trout is served with chunks of cool cuke and yogurt and tastes like a mountain stream.
There's nothing more romantic than a candlelit dinner. The jar of Duck Rillettes catches the light of the dancing wicks while you're spooning up tender duck smudged with smooth goat cheese and fig.
You'd eat your vegetables at home too if they tasted like they were roasted over a real fireplace. The Cauliflower is just the right amount of brown at the tips, teased by a parm-y gratin.
The Little Gem Lettuce is a spin off a safe bet - just enough flavor and flounce to entice, but not enough to overly excite. Sweet pears, savory bacon, sour-ish pickled shallot, and creamy buttermilk vinaigrette mix every known flavor into one crisp bowl.
The problem with making something familiar is that it has to be flawless or I might as well stay home and make it mediocrely myself. I've probably had every iteration of Alaskan Cod there is, and all the woodsy garnish-greens and fungi in the world can't atone for this thick, unceremoniously-seared chunk.
If I were trying to master the skillet, the Flat Iron Steak would be my lofty goal. Sink your teeth into a medium-rare morsel and let the juices lace your red-wine tongue. The trumpet royale mushrooms are just as juicy, and the skordalia conjures a pot-over-the-fireplace polenta, except it's much too salty.
The Salted Caramel Pudding is the ultimate dessert for someone who wants to stay in and sin. The so-called sugar cookie is a crumbled, crunchy contrast to the layers of flavor of an indulgent dulce de leche.
The Chocolate Cremeux is a comingling of familiar chocolate crumble with tropical notes of pineapple and an out-of-this-world coconut sorbet. Comfortable flavors with an exotic-but-not-too-exotic
We all suffer from some repressed xenophobia at times, but we often feel guilty about desiring nothing new. The Wallace walks that fine line of your subconcious, introducing the the goody oldies with just enough flair to feel like they're a little new. Combine that with mostly blissful blends and pristine polish to assuage your occasional, comfort-seeking guilt. The Wallace is a little bit of everything borrowed-and-blue, and I'll be back to borrow a little more.