The Bread at Little Washington

There’s a story behind every loaf of homemade bread, and this one’s got a 5 star tale.

What happens when you’re planning to bake a rustic whole-wheat loaf, and you realize that you’re out of whole-wheat flour? I’m cooking a family dinner with my friend John MacPherson, chef and co-owner of the Foster Harris House bed and breakfast in Washington, Virginia. We think it might be nice to add one of my specialties - a rustic whole-wheat boule – to the menu. The only problem – there’s no whole-wheat flour in the pantry.

What to do? The town of Washington is roughly about three blocks long with just a handful of residents. The nearest grocery store is probably 20 miles away. The obvious solution? You ring up the neighbors and see if they’ll loan you a cup or two of flour. But, there really aren’t that many neighbors …

John picks up the phone, and within minutes we’re walking up Main Street toward The Inn at Little Washington. You may have heard of the Inn - a world renowned 5 star restaurant of some notoriety.

We stroll up to the back kitchen door and knock. Inside, I spot a squadron of kitchen team members, all wearing the signature Dalmatian-spotted aprons. There is a flurry of activity and someone produces a container of whole-wheat flour. Right neighborly.

We saunter back to the Foster Harris House and I begin the bread baking ritual. The boule rises beautifully. The mahogany-colored crust is crisp and the crumb is exceedingly tender.

We dine on the patio as the sun sets, and slather the warm bread with butter and honey. It is an exceptional loaf. It must be the terroir of the whole-wheat flour.

Gladys Kravitz, eat your heart out!

©2011 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Coming Home to Chef Patrick O’Connell’s Country Inn

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

The Inn at Little Washington

Sunday, January 21 – Tonight is my big celebration – another year on this Earth. Since it’s been a year of culinary discovery, I’ve decided to mark the evening at a place that the International Herald Tribune called one of the 10 Best Restaurants in the World.

To get a bit more emotive about it, my friend Jill in Ottawa provides this little tidbit she found on the Internet – the food is so good, it will make you cry.

That’s extraordinary praise when you consider the humble beginnings of The Inn at Little Washington. The Inn opened on January 28, 1978 in a renovated garage located in a town that most of the world had forgotten. Washington, Virginia has deep historic roots. As a young surveyor, George Washington laid out the town in July, 1749. But until the opening of the Inn, the town was an intriguing footnote in the life of a Founding Father.

Chef Patrick O’Connell and Reinhardt Lynch are the proprietors of this culinary shrine, due west of Washington DC. In his book Refined American Cuisine, Chef O’Connell says that restaurants are “living theater” and that cooking is a means of communication. I agree with the philosophy wholeheartedly, and I wonder if the food will “speak to me.”

Before we get to that, allow me a slight diversion, since half the fun of any culinary adventure is getting there. The morning starts cold with just a few flurries. At the Foster Harris House, John and Diane serve a memorable breakfast of fresh fruit and vanilla yogurt, ginger scones, Puff Pastry Topped with Avocado Salsa, Poached Egg and Chipotle Cream Sauce with Paradise Bacon and two tender shoots of asparagus placed across the top. For the finale, we are served Dad’s (that’s Diane’s dad’s) Favorite Pancake with Chocolate Chips and Maple Butter Sauce. The salsa is impossibly bright and fresh with red and yellow heirloom tomatoes and finely chopped cilantro that pops like Independence Day firecrackers.

The snow flurries appear to be no cause for concern, and I gas up the rental at a filling station on Route 211 in preparation for a short excursion. An older woman, perhaps in her late fifties, pulls into the station and parks on the other side of the pump. She smiles at me as she parks, clearly recognizing that I’m not a local.

“Filling up before the snow gets bad?” she asks.

“I’m heading over to Monticello,” I reply, as I am intent on learning more about Thomas Jefferson’s gourmet pursuits.

She shakes her head and smiles again. “You’re heading into it. Be careful,” she recommends, and explains that the snowfall can vary considerably in the Blue Ridge Mountains. She tells me that she originally lived in DC, but moved out here to start an animal sanctuary and has learned the personality quirks of the local weather.

“I can always turn back, if it gets worse,” I offer.

“Be careful,” she tells me again, and gives me a friendly wave as I depart.

By the time I reach Route 29 outside of Madison, Virginia, the snow is thick, and I’ve skidded twice. The countryside looks like something out of Currier and Ives, but I see there is now a dense layer of snow on each cow in the field. I decide to heed the friendly stranger’s advice. She is perhaps the guardian angel of my culinary pursuits. Thomas Jefferson’s culinary story will have to wait for another day. A fender bender could really ruin my dinner plans, so I turn back towards Washington.

It is slow going on country road 231, but eventually I make it back to the Foster Harris house by about 12:30, car and body intact, content to sit with a glass of wine and watch the snow fall from the window. John prepares savory curried chicken sandwiches on toasted bread, pours red wine, and he and Diane and their young son and I spend a delightful afternoon chatting about culinary pursuits, food, wine and favorite restaurants. The snow continues to fall into the evening and the flakes get larger. It’s really quite beautiful if you have no where to go and one of the best restaurants in the world is just up the street.

About 6:00 p.m., I step out on the porch, open my umbrella and set out by foot to the nearby Inn at Little Washington. I walk, down the center of Main Street, resembling Mr. Tumnus from the Narnia books, a lone figure crunching through the snow by lamplight with umbrella in hand. Just up ahead, the warm glow of the Inn beckons me closer.

Inside, I check my coat and I’m escorted to the Living Room and served a glass of Brut Champagne. I’ve entered a wild imaginary land, the décor an exotic explosion of Tales of the Arabian Nights, Kismet, and Sunset Boulevard. There is velvet, golden tassels, fringed lamps, tapestries and tables adorned with miniature elephant tusks. I settle into a neon-blue velvet throne and snack on Pineapple chips dusted with Cajun spices and Parmesan Crisps as I take it all in.

The effect is one of being swept away by a cyclone and finding oneself in the Land of Oz, although carried away by a snowstorm is probably a better analogy. I am about to meet the cast of whimsical characters who will lead me on this culinary journey. Simon escorts me into the dining room, wishes me many happy returns for the day, and I nestle into a perfect corner table among a cluster of small pillows. Ross presents me with a personalized menu that that is inscribed with “Happy Birthday” and the date at the top. I am conscious that I have been thrust into a grand theatrical adventure, not just as an observer, but a wide-eyed journeyman at the center of the action.

Miniature appetizers appear as if by magic – intense dollops of flavor to be sipped off white spoons, such as Parmesan Cream, Red Beet or Tuna Carpaccio. There are also crispy Tempura green beans in a silver cup with Thai dipping sauce and a pristine white porcelain tea cup filled with warm red bell pepper soup perfumed with the intoxicating scent of Sambuca.

I spend some time studying the menu, as the choices are extensive. There is a
Chef’s Tasting Menu, and many dishes under First Courses, Second Courses and Entrees with ingredients that are either exotic, artisinal or regional to the local Virginia countryside. I make my selections, and engage the knowledgeable and friendly wine expert, Sabato to create a series of pairings. He asks me if there is any particular wine I would prefer and I put myself completely in his hands. “We’re going to travel the world,” he tells me.

The first course is Carpaccio of Herb Crusted Baby Lamb with Tabouli and Rosemary Mustard. The paper thin circles of lamb are layered in a concentric pattern on a large platter. The lamb is milky, grassy and herbaceous and Sabato pours a clean, citrus-flavored Riesling from Australia.

A Fricassee of Main Lobster with Potato Gnocchi and Curried Walnuts arrives next. The succulent chunks of lobster flesh and melt-in-your mouth pillows of gnocchi are paired with a slightly spicy Viognier from Washington State.

I’ve had to do some personal soul searching over the main course. I’ve heard raves about the sweetbread entrée, and while I want to be adventurous, I’m just not sure. Ross solves the dilemma and offers me a tasting before my entrée. Sabato pours an Australian blend of Shiraz, Grenache and Mouvedre that smells of fragrant holiday spices. The tasting of Veal Sweetbreads Braised in Ruby Port on Pappardelle Pasta with Huckleberries and Country Ham is sublime with a sweet caramelized crust, and tender center that frolics with the savory ham and delicate pasta.

My Main Course is a bounty of flavors of farm and harvest. The Seared Four Story Farm Duck Breast on Turnip Skillet Tart with Wild Rice Pilaf, Brussels Sprouts and Chestnuts, is brilliant pink, fanned across the plate, and glistening with tiny pearls of Brussels sprouts. Sabato lines up three reds, from Spain, Italy and France to frolic with the duck. Simon the maitre de glances over, grins and says, “Sabato likes to play!”

I forgo the sweets for dessert in favor of the cheese course. Robin rolls out a honey-colored cow named Faira on wheels. She moos as she inches towards me, a tray of enticing cheeses on her back. Robin cuts me at least six slices describing each cheese, and he ends with a spoonful of molten-soft cheese from Burgundy which is like ambrosia. Having consumed the last morsel of cheese, I am presented with a wicker basket of sweets and a yellow marzipan banner with the words “Happy Birthday.”

With the celebratory feast concluded and my palate in near ecstasy, I am taken behind-the-scenes for a tour of the kitchen. I marvel at the sleek green custom built ranges and the scene of kitchen wizardry that continues this late in the evening.

Shortly after, it is time to bundle up again and step out into the snowy Virginia night. Like in all those fanciful adventure stories, I must finally leave this supernatural place and its wonders, but the culinary magic of the Inn at Little Washington will continue to enchant my memories.

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved