Unconditional Love for Uni - Boston

I've been thinking and writing about love lately (see my last oh-so-cynical-me review on Grotto), and I thought it would only be a natural progression to a love letter from here. I already wrote my own version of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's one-hit-wonder to Tom Colicchio. But that was when I thought love was an obvious thing. Gazing into Tom’s eyes and feeling the barbs of his harsh-but-fair tongue during a Top Chef marathon is a literal recipe for love, no substitutions allowed. But that was the old me. That was before I learned to appreciate that true love is more subtle, and that was before an extraordinary man named Ken Oringer sneaked up on me. Ken, you are the quiet cornerstone on which I built my love for writing restaurant reviews. Toro was my first true restaurant love, and you are my classic love story that never gets old. I'll be your Barbie, you be my Ken.

Your appetizers shine like your warm brown eyes, and that's where I lose myself. The sweet pineapple and sharp jalapeno go with the Sake Sashimi much like you go with me. We go together, and together we taste like we've always belonged this way.

The Poke had a nice savory sesame, but the marinade was on the heavy, overpowering side. My love for you may be overpowering, but may we never cancel each other out.

The Chirashi is as winning as your smile. Pickled mung bean adds a crunch and the not-so-gingerly (Am I witty enough for you?) trumps the run-of-the-mill pickled palate cleanser any day. The bed of wild rice is tougher on the teeth, but it leaves the teeth no less white and the resulting smile no less winning. The branzino is a white wonder with just a single drop of spicy topper. The branzino is white as my teeth, the tuna is as red as my lips, and the salmon is the glow that lights up my entire face when I think of you. The afterglow lingers long after the fish is gone.

The Pork Belly and Soft Shell Crab Buns are the splitting image of your adorably shaggy hair. Unfortunately, the look works far better for you than for the buns. Although the pork was perfectly braised and the soft shell crab a crispy dream, the sauces were as excessive as my current declaration of undying love, with heavy hoisin and cloyingly sour avocado mayo. An aside: Good news David Chang, I may be staring into Ken's eyes, but it's your buns I'll be thinking of.

Now, back to the Ken and I. The Green Cardamom Flan is as green as our new-found love, as tasty a dessert as I’m sure you’d make. Our love is a spark ignited by the sweet corn ice cream, a flame that burns strong through the night, a love that lasts, not a fiery blaze that extinguishes as rapidly as it starts.

The Black Cocoa Cremeux is as rich and deep as our love, the jasmine ice cream as pure as my affection, the sesame cake as unspoiled as my hope that we will beat the odds together.

Mr. Oringer, if I ever see you, I would probably avoid you. This review is cheesier than queso creama, icky-sticky-sweeter than fresh-off-the-honeycomb miel, and sappier than an untapped winter maple. You've brought out the starry-eyed giggly girl who dreams of drama and happily ever after in an age where Cinderella googles her Prince Charming before the match.com ball. You've not only convinced Rapunzel to let down her long hair but you've also convinced her that it wouldn't hurt a bit to have a full-grown 200-pound man swinging from her head. Your food is a masterpiece more chiseled that the statue of David, and all intricately carved details of your legendary plates coalesces into an unforgettable bliss. You've restored my belief that a chef can be flawless and you've turned my fairy-tale fantasy of an artisan chef incapable of creating a bad piece into a reality. All that really matters is that you've put the stars back in my eyes; four stars, to be exact. One for each eye and one for each lens of my rose-colored glasses.