No Kudos to Kitchen - Boston

I don’t know what it’s like to have siblings, but most people I know do know what it’s like. Some have siblings that are very much like them and together they shape each other into the different but equally amazing paragons that they grow up to be. In terms of restaurants, sisters like Gaslight and Aquitaine are as timeless as the Brontes. They seem to be raising their little Union Bar and Grill sister decently well so I guess Metropolis is the forgotten third Bronte…I think her name was Anna?

Compared to Kitchen, Union had a definite edge. With two prodigal sisters, it was hard to be anything less than good. But with unpolished sisters like Grotto and Marliave, I had my doubts about how Kitchen would fare.

The Salad Verte was surprisingly good. I expected a bowl of Iceberg, which is really just a fancy, over-priced word for water, but instead, the buttery bunches of Boston bibb were as shocking as the rare episodes of The Wonder Years when Wayne was actually nice to Kevin. Sadly, delicious dishes at restaurants like Grotto and Marliave and now Kitchen are always a few hairs from a full head.  The vinaigrette dressing would have been perfect as a dubious dusting, but sadly, the pools of acerbity nestled within the folds of lettuce were the undoing of half the salad.

The bacon-wrapped Scallops were so dense and rich they were enough to be an entrée. The scallops were well-seared, and I’m just not the kind of girl who complains about bacon. The pork belly, sadly was drown in a salty, stinging barbecue, as if the dish needed to be heavier, this one was about as appealing as Meg and Chris Griffin.

The Hamburg Steak wasn’t at all burnt, but it burns with all the fury of an emptied pepper shaker. The Roquefort butter was an awesome way to douse the flames, but the amount of pepper in this exquisitely-made steak was about as unfortunate as the downhill slide of the Olsen twins.

The Tournedos Rossini may use the same kind of meat, but it’s about as different form the hamburg steak as the Olsens are from each other. Where Mary-Kate is a hot mess of pepper, the beef tenderloin contains all of Ashley’s polish at a perfect medium-rare, topped with a seared-to-bone-dry nibble of foie gras. Despite their differences, an Olsen is always in good company, always rich in love though lacking in polish, complimenting each other like a good side of creamed spinach.

The Crème Brulee is a little too sweet and a little too watery-creamy, as wishy-washy and in-all-ways excessive as the Kardashians. And it doesn’t even have a famous daddy.

The Cheese Plate featured a triple cream, a gorgonzola (if I remember correctly), and a crowning Cabot Clothbound Cheddar. The cheddar was one of the better cheeses I’ve ever had, with the texture and dryness of a parmesean. It’s hard to believe that something so not-louder-and-slower is domestically made, and the fig jam is the hub of the wheel, the Wilma of the Flintstones.

As my meal progressed and culminated, it became abundantly clear that Kitchen is cut from the same imperfect cloth as her sisters. A baby with endless potential, it seems that Kitchen is going in the direction of being just another chip off the same old block. It’s nice to have some consistency within the family, and we all know that Sibling Rivalry (across the street) sucks, but for once, it might have been a welcome change to see just one rebel deviant in this mediocre family.