The seasons have changed several times since my last visit. The Inn at Little Washington is framed with late summer flowers and the air is pleasingly warm.Although it is just 65 miles from densely-populated Washington DC, the Inn seems to exist in another time and place. Think Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, where magic, mythical figures and high adventure rule the night. Having spent the day hiking Shenandoah’s Old Rag Mountain – a strenuous scramble over prehistoric boulders – I am more than willing to succumb to the fantasy.
I am greeted affectionately at the door, as if I’d never been away, and taken to a table in the garden to enjoy a cocktail. Francois serves a sparkling rose wine accompanied by tangy parmesan crisps. The garden is a welcomed respite from the day’s hike, and there is a certain symmetry to the sparkling rose, the lovely flowers and the bubbling lily pond.
When I’ve finished my cocktail, I am escorted back to the dining room for my meal and seated at the same table where I dined during my last visit – a perfect corner location to view the drama unfolding before me. Sophie presents me with the evening’s menu. It reads “A Warm Welcome to Mr. Barritt,” and my eyes widen when I note the “Culinary Types” logo emblazoned at the top of the menu. They’ve done their homework. I am both astonished and flattered.
It is the Inn’s 30th anniversary year. I’ve chosen the Chef’s Tasting Menu with paired wines in order to experience as much as possible of Chef Patrick O’Connell’s famed cuisine. I munch on extraordinarily fresh Tempura Green Beans from the chef’s own garden and gaze in wonder as the procession of exquisite edibles begins.
A Tin of Sin tempts me with briny caviar atop a crab and cucumber rillette, ingeniously presented in an actual caviar tin. The salty black gems pop with the bubbles of the Andre Tissot Cremant de Jura Brut poured by Meredith, the sommelier.
A chilled pink watermelon soup – spiked with tequila – and the color of strawberry ice cream, conjures up refreshing thoughts of a lively summer picnic.
A Quartet of Island Creek Oyster Slurpees, is nothing short of a gastronomic thrill – bracing oysters topped with icy dollops of passion fruit, cucumber puree, wasabi and traditional cocktail sauce. It is accompanied by smooth, chilled Sake.
A sweet Seared Maine Diver’s Scallop is bronze and luminescent white and sits in a pool of Garden Minestrone. A crisp, Potato Crusted Tuna Wellington, with a lively Caponata Ravioli and Sauce Bearnaise is a sassy, post-modern take on the classic dish.
The elegant focal point of the menu is as striking as a trompe l’oeil painting. Pan Seared Four Story Hill Farm’s Pekin Duck Breast offers succulent rare pink slices fanned over a glistening golden sweet corn pudding. Braised cherries add a dramatic, risqué flourish.
As a single diner, I know well there can be moments of self-consciousness in a restaurant when one eats solo, but never once do I feel that I am dining alone. The staff is charming and attentive. I chat with Meredith the sommelier about my encounter with a black bear on the hiking trail that afternoon. Shortly, Sophie returns and says, “So, I hear you met a bear today?” She is from Yorkshire, and we trade anecdotes about historic sites in Virginia. I feel celebrated, honored and right at home. It is easily one of the best dining experiences of my life, where food, service and environment converge in one sublime and joyful experience.
To my left, Sally Murray – resplendent in red – and her husband have come from Alexandria, Virginia to celebrate her birthday. We strike up a conversation over his Napoleon of Heirloom Tomatoes, and they are musing about whether a chef might become bored after thirty years at the same task.
There is still more on the menu. Blushing pink Strawberry-Basil Bubble Tea is sweet, spicy and effervescent. Served with a straw, I almost feel compelled to slurp like a youngster. The sweet finale is a Limoncello Soufflé – light airy, lemony and crowned with a perfect round of frosty lemon ice cream. At last, I am presented with petit fours in a tiny wicker picnic hamper. It is then that I get the question I’ve been hoping for all evening – Would you like to visit the kitchen? I try not to appear too eager, but calmly stand, button my jacket and follow Sophie.
The double doors to the kitchen are swept open to reveal Chef Patrick O’Connell standing at the center of the room. He is tall and stately and wears a long kitchen apron decorated with Dalmatian spots, an iconic pattern at the Inn. He greets me with a generous smile and we spend a few moments conversing, while the refined, purposeful, and choreographed activity of the kitchen plays on all around us.
While I have often heard him referred to as “Patrick,” I address him as “Chef,” the term of respect we used at the French Culinary Institute. He is well-briefed on my background. “I hear you write an online column,” he says, and at this point, I am feeling a bit like I am in the middle of an extraordinary dream.
I decide to put forward the question Sally and her husband have been speculating over. “After thirty years, do you ever get bored?”
He laughs and says that such a thing would be impossible. “No half hour is the same.”
Chef O’Connell talks to me about creating a feeling of “home” at the Inn and his desire to assure that each guest has a “flawless experience.”
“You do that quite well,” I respond.
He tells me that when he began the Inn in 1978, his inspiration was the cuisine of France and he worked to adapt the techniques to achieve an American sensibility. He asks me about my writing. Do you write about New York restaurants, or recipes? I explain that I write about people and food and that I am most successful as a writer when there is a person at the center of the story. I look for the connection between people and food. He seems to approve. Too many reviewers think of the food as a product, he tells me. They don’t think about the connection between the person and the creation.
He inquires as to whether I cook, and I confess that I am probably the best trained amateur to work his way through the French Culinary Institute. He tells me that Dorothy Hamilton, the founder of FCI is expected to dine at the Inn later in the week. He describes another of my favorite instuctors, Anne Willan of La Varenne, as a powerhouse.
Chef is kind enough to pose for a picture, and after that, I decide it is time to leave him to his work. There are still many more dinners to prepare and many more guests to indulge. I’m reluctant to go. I feel right at home.
I leave the Inn grasping the menu, a talisman of all that has transpired. The Virginia summer night sky is lit with a thousand brilliant stars and at that moment, my little universe does indeed seem flawless.
Recently I traveled through the Virginia countryside, discovering the local food, history and hospitality of what is called “the birthplace of the nation.” I dined at The Inn at Little Washington on Wednesday, August 20, 2008.
©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved
A Tin of Sin tempts me with briny caviar atop a crab and cucumber rillette, ingeniously presented in an actual caviar tin. The salty black gems pop with the bubbles of the Andre Tissot Cremant de Jura Brut poured by Meredith, the sommelier.
A chilled pink watermelon soup – spiked with tequila – and the color of strawberry ice cream, conjures up refreshing thoughts of a lively summer picnic.
A Quartet of Island Creek Oyster Slurpees, is nothing short of a gastronomic thrill – bracing oysters topped with icy dollops of passion fruit, cucumber puree, wasabi and traditional cocktail sauce. It is accompanied by smooth, chilled Sake.
A sweet Seared Maine Diver’s Scallop is bronze and luminescent white and sits in a pool of Garden Minestrone. A crisp, Potato Crusted Tuna Wellington, with a lively Caponata Ravioli and Sauce Bearnaise is a sassy, post-modern take on the classic dish.
The elegant focal point of the menu is as striking as a trompe l’oeil painting. Pan Seared Four Story Hill Farm’s Pekin Duck Breast offers succulent rare pink slices fanned over a glistening golden sweet corn pudding. Braised cherries add a dramatic, risqué flourish.
As a single diner, I know well there can be moments of self-consciousness in a restaurant when one eats solo, but never once do I feel that I am dining alone. The staff is charming and attentive. I chat with Meredith the sommelier about my encounter with a black bear on the hiking trail that afternoon. Shortly, Sophie returns and says, “So, I hear you met a bear today?” She is from Yorkshire, and we trade anecdotes about historic sites in Virginia. I feel celebrated, honored and right at home. It is easily one of the best dining experiences of my life, where food, service and environment converge in one sublime and joyful experience.
To my left, Sally Murray – resplendent in red – and her husband have come from Alexandria, Virginia to celebrate her birthday. We strike up a conversation over his Napoleon of Heirloom Tomatoes, and they are musing about whether a chef might become bored after thirty years at the same task.
There is still more on the menu. Blushing pink Strawberry-Basil Bubble Tea is sweet, spicy and effervescent. Served with a straw, I almost feel compelled to slurp like a youngster. The sweet finale is a Limoncello Soufflé – light airy, lemony and crowned with a perfect round of frosty lemon ice cream. At last, I am presented with petit fours in a tiny wicker picnic hamper. It is then that I get the question I’ve been hoping for all evening – Would you like to visit the kitchen? I try not to appear too eager, but calmly stand, button my jacket and follow Sophie.
The double doors to the kitchen are swept open to reveal Chef Patrick O’Connell standing at the center of the room. He is tall and stately and wears a long kitchen apron decorated with Dalmatian spots, an iconic pattern at the Inn. He greets me with a generous smile and we spend a few moments conversing, while the refined, purposeful, and choreographed activity of the kitchen plays on all around us.
While I have often heard him referred to as “Patrick,” I address him as “Chef,” the term of respect we used at the French Culinary Institute. He is well-briefed on my background. “I hear you write an online column,” he says, and at this point, I am feeling a bit like I am in the middle of an extraordinary dream.
I decide to put forward the question Sally and her husband have been speculating over. “After thirty years, do you ever get bored?”
He laughs and says that such a thing would be impossible. “No half hour is the same.”
Chef O’Connell talks to me about creating a feeling of “home” at the Inn and his desire to assure that each guest has a “flawless experience.”
“You do that quite well,” I respond.
He tells me that when he began the Inn in 1978, his inspiration was the cuisine of France and he worked to adapt the techniques to achieve an American sensibility. He asks me about my writing. Do you write about New York restaurants, or recipes? I explain that I write about people and food and that I am most successful as a writer when there is a person at the center of the story. I look for the connection between people and food. He seems to approve. Too many reviewers think of the food as a product, he tells me. They don’t think about the connection between the person and the creation.
He inquires as to whether I cook, and I confess that I am probably the best trained amateur to work his way through the French Culinary Institute. He tells me that Dorothy Hamilton, the founder of FCI is expected to dine at the Inn later in the week. He describes another of my favorite instuctors, Anne Willan of La Varenne, as a powerhouse.
Chef is kind enough to pose for a picture, and after that, I decide it is time to leave him to his work. There are still many more dinners to prepare and many more guests to indulge. I’m reluctant to go. I feel right at home.
I leave the Inn grasping the menu, a talisman of all that has transpired. The Virginia summer night sky is lit with a thousand brilliant stars and at that moment, my little universe does indeed seem flawless.Recently I traveled through the Virginia countryside, discovering the local food, history and hospitality of what is called “the birthplace of the nation.” I dined at The Inn at Little Washington on Wednesday, August 20, 2008.
©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved
