Two Donkeys and a Septuagenarian

What do two donkeys, a septuagenarian, an Italian apothecary, some monks, and a D.C. sommelier have in common?  It was never a question I knew to ask, but I'm exceptionally grateful that I now know the answer.

Last Friday night, in honor of my friend Drew's birthday (that's Drewberto for those of you who knew and loved him back in the day at Le Bistro), his sister Katie organized a celebratory dinner.  At first, she had made reservations at Citronelle.  No, not because of their 60-hr short ribs (although that would have been and excellent reason).  And no, not because of Chef Michelle Richard's cooking (which would be a poor reason since he spends so little time there).  But instead because  Drew, Katie, Blake, and I - four of the evening's six revelers - had worked together under Chef Tony Pope and Tony, long ago, had worked in Richard's laureled kitchen.

On occasion, Tony would regale us with stories from the pressure cooker that was the kitchen at Citronelle.  I own Richard's cookbook.  It's entitled "Happy in the Kitchen".  But according to Tony - and others who have corroborated his stories - "happy" is not the best adjective to describe Richard in the kitchen at Citronelle.

In one story, Tony brings a brand new Global Japanese knife to work (a cook's knives are his or her dearest possession and on a line cook's salary, a real splurge!).  Richard walks by and uses one of Tony's knives to demonstrate a cut.  Appalled by how dull the knife is, Richard raises the knife high into the air and drops it, tip first, onto the unforgiving concrete floor.  The tip cracks, but Tony does not.

We've all wanted to visit and experience the restaurant behind the stories.  But at over $100 a person for the prix fixe, Citronelle, on second thought, did not seem like the best pick for our crew. 

So after a flurry of last-minute texts and emails - and a noble effort by Katie to call all of the restaurants on our list - we decided on Bibiana.  I wasn't, I have to confess, actually interested in eating Italian that night.  I had planned to prepare a very Italian meal for some friends on Sunday and was hoping for something different: Jose Andres' Oyamel or maybe Indian food at Risika.  Thank you, food fates, for not listening to me!

Chef Nicholas Stefanelli

We started with the charcuterie plate which was strong, but didn't wow.  However, it and the bottle of prosecco we ordered were a lovely way of easing into the evening.  Next we shared a few small plates.  Blake and I shared the hay smoked veal sweetbreads.  The hay flavor was so subtle, it lingered on the palate, recalling memories of the farm.  And the way they plated the dish - white plate strewn with hay, thyme, and rosemary, topped with see-through glass plate, topped by sweetbreads and sauce - created a lovely, heightened aromatic experience.

I should pause and say a little about sweetbreads.  First, I love them!  They are tender and creamy, flavorful and satisfying.  Second, they are offal, the "off" cuts of meat, the parts that fall "off" a carcass when it's being butchered - basically the organs and what-not.  Chris Cosentino - a culinary hero of mine whose restaurant Incanto I staged at one night before moving away from San Francisco (the chefs and the food there ROCK!) - maintains and entire website about offal, if you're interested.

Third, sweatbreads - in my mind - are the gateway offal.  Their flavor and texture are much more approachable than other organs.  So if you're feeling adventurous and are looking for a good place to start, here's a dish, if prepared well, that will ensure you have a good first experience (you can try tripe or "Rocky Mountain Oysters" first if you're feeling daring - but I warned you!).

Fourth, and this is perhaps the most important, for me sweetbreads emergent popularity in American restaurants embody the hope that someday soon we will remember how to respect the sacrifice made by the animals we consume.  We, unlike the rest of the world, seem to have forgotten that in addition to the 8oz of filet mignon and 16oz rib eye, there are over a thousand other pounds of usable beef on a cow, not to mention a flavorful tongue, unctuous marrow, and a tasty thymus, aka "sweetbreads".  But enough sermonizing, back to dinner...

To start, Dina ordered the ricotta.  So simple - buffalo milk ricotta, wild rose honey, chives , and almonds - yet so sublime.  The night could have ended there and I would have walked away raving about the place.

But it didn't end there.  We enjoyed squid ink spaghetti with crab meat and burnt wheat cavetelli (who knew burnt wheat would taste so good!) and an osso bucco of veal cheeks and much more.  Everyone ordered their own dish, but we passed the plates around the table, sampling a little bit of everything.


Dessert was delicious.  The Bomba al Cioccolato was just that, a divine, decadent "bomb" of chocolate.  The green cardamom white chocolate foam and cassis compote that accompanied the Semifreddo was so delicate and sophisticated.  And the kitchen sent out an extra dessert in honor of Drew's birthday.  It was the perfect way to end the evening.

Wine Dir. Francesco Amodeo

Well, we thought it was perfect until Bibianna's Wine Director Francesco Amodeo pushed the night right right past perfection.   

We had been intrigued by the dessert menus listing of Rosoli, described as "Amalfi Coast homemade digestives" and offered in a collection of three or a flight of six.  The waitress sent Francesco over to help us make a selection.  His first piece of advice?  Order six different flavors and share.  Done.  He then offered to let us sample a must-try: "Concerto".  Why so special, we asked.  Evidently there is a group of monks in Italy who have perfected this recipe.  They won't give you the recipe, but they will give it to a 77 year old woman who lives in the neighboring village.  She cleans for them.  They like her.  She can then make you a batch of Concerto.

So if you rent two donkeys, one for you and one for the septuagenarian, and travel up the grueling path to the monastery, then pay really close attention as she's making the secret recipe, then order special ingredients from an Italian apothecary, then bring all that back to the U.S., you too can proudly serve Concerto in your restaurant...if, that is, you have the patience to invest several months into a single batch.

The drink is dark, cloudy, an intriguing and alluring mystery.  The nose suggested coffee and the flavor...well, there was coffee and licorice and earth and spice...it was like light passing through a prism and breaks into so many wonderful, new colors.  There was so much nuance; it was perfect.  

Francesco asked us to wait and sample it last, even though he brought it out first and I'm glad we did.  It was so good, nothing could have followed it...nothing, except for a second round of Conerto...which is exactly what we did.  I have to warn you: there is no more Concerto.  If there had been, we certainly wouldn't have left.  But never fear, if you wait patiently until June, his next batch will be ready.

On a final note, the food philosopher in me has to ask: would the drink have been as good if Francesco hadn't told the story?

No, on second thought, I don't have to ask.  It was an amazing story, an awesome beverage, and the best birthday celebration we could have ever hoped for.  And that is all that needs to be said.