"You have to take exit 7A."
"Are we trying to get to the Taconic? Because I used to take it to Vassar all the time."
"I think we missed the exit. You should turn around."
"Do we get XM Radio in this thing?"
"It's something like Pocahontas Hills or something."
Five adults, one compact Mazda Zipcar, and some scribbled Mapquest directions and we were off to Blue Hill at Stone Barns, fifty minutes from Manhattan, just past Tarrytown. At least, Mapquest said it was supposed to take fifty minutes. Mapquest is, of course, not advanced enough to remind us public transportation whores that thousands of Manhattan workers are also trying to make it in time for dinner. Which meant an extra...hour...stuck...in...traffic. We also took a brief tour of the charming roads just outside Yonkers searching for a phantom exit during a navigation miscommunication which I, being a completely incompetent driver, could not participate in.
Our reason for leaving the confines of our fine city? My friends Winnie and Chris are deep in the weeds of wedding planning and Blue Hill at Stone Barns was a contender. I'd probably never get a ride (much less one with a designated driver -- Winnie is allergic to alcohol) to Pocantico otherwise, so Doug and I joined the lovebirds and Winnie's sister for a 7:30 p.m. reservation at the end of 2005.
We couldn't see much in the dark as we took the exit off the I 87. The sparse lampposts reflected orange light off the little ear-shaped lake the car skirted on the way to the main road. Finally, we mozied up the long driveway to the Stone Barns estate. But we were half an hour late. We figured it would be fine -- they must get tardy travelers all the time. Besides, how many people could possibly want to drive all the way out to the boonies for dinner besides us nutters anyway?
As it turns out, plenty of people do. A valet parked Beemers and Benzes up the hill; taxicabs made Uies after dropping off their sharp-dressed cargo. We passed a conspicuous garden to the left of the paved walkway until the passage opened up onto an enormous, hushed square courtyard. The stone barns loomed high on all four sides, and the cement underfoot was dark and shiny from the evening's showers. We could see chefs in their whites milling around the enormous kitchen in the distance. Trees wrapped in Christmas lights twinkled flirtatiously in the wet dark.
We were awakened from our starry-eyed reverie by a hostess who beckoned us into the warm restaurant. Fifteen people stood comfortably at the bar and in the waiting area, cozying up to the flickering fireplace and sipping cocktails on the shabby chic loveseats. The lofty ceilings and walls of the converted barn were painted in J. Crew neutrals -- chino, ecru, and dove gray set off dark hardwood beams. Every accent was picture postcard perfect, from the chest high Christmas tree made of pinecones to the pine garlands framing the windowpanes. I was under the place's spell. But would the food live up to the warmth and precision of its home?
Our waiter came over to explain the options: You can order two, three, or four courses, or the seven course farmer's feast. The menu is fashionably divided not into courses but categories: the greenhouse, ocean, handmade pasta, and the pasture; you can choose your courses from any of the sections, and the kitchen sends the dishes out in the appropriate portion sizes and order. In the interest of doing a broad survey of what the kitchen can do (and not just because I am a gluttonous whore), we decided on the farmer's feast.
Blue Hill, both the one in Manhattan and the one at Stone Barns, puts the focus on fresh ingredients from small-scale local purveyors who support sustainable agriculture/livestock. This, of course, poses a challenge for any cook in the dead of winter. How much could those sunless greenhouses possibly churn out in the cold?
Brussels sprouts, for one. Turnips. Carrots. Apples. Fennel. Winter squash. Aromatic emerald flags of tarragon were suspended in chic parmesan cracker lollipops. An earthy jewel red roasted beet mash simulated an iron-rich meat tartare between the tiniest sesame-crusted buns in the fanciful "beet burger" amuse bouche. A focus on seasonal ingredients is great not only because the ingredients are the least fussed over, but also because the palate takes comfort in sweet roots and heartier fare when it hunkers down for the winter, just as it revels in the ephemera of young lettuces in the spring. Eating seasonally feels and tastes right as rain.
Lightly curried cauliflower soup matched the warm creamy tones of the room. It felt as velvety and fortifying going down as a good eggnog. The ruby shrimp lolling in the center were cooked so gently that they seemed to retain a sweet ignorance of their imminent consumption. This first course soup was much better executed than the first amuse bouche, a shot glass of warm chick pea soup which Doug said was like "liquid hummus."
The appetizer course was a knock out -- the gentlemen in our party received a flat cylindrical pile of Maine crab swimming in a vibrant green pool of edamame vinaigrette and topped with a beautiful quenelle of sweet-tart white yogurt sorbet, while the ladies received a crisp scallop on a bed of slivered fennel and apple, surrounded by pearls of saffron tapioca that mimicked the look of golden caviar. The flavors were fresh and bright, but the element that elevated the dishes even further was the sensual play of textures -- creamy icy sorbet with the lump meat crab, the slippery tapioca beads against the crisp salad.
I am the kind of person that likes my raw fish raw and my cooked fish cooked; this business of seared, half-raw fish is not for me. So I thought the fish courses were impeccable. I loved the impossibly tender, arctic white poached cod luxuriating in a green lobster turnip sauce freckled with black herring roe. The tropical-hued but delicately moist Atlantic char was also incredible, with crisp skin, crushed fingerling potatoes and an intriguingly fruity almond caper sauce.
For the pasta course, the chef sent us farro with pureed squash, turnips, and beets, topped with a 120-minute egg gathered in the morning. Or maybe it was a 120 degree egg. Whatever it was, it was barely cooked, so the albumen was translucent white and the yolk was golden and oozy. This was probably my least favorite dish; I found the candy sweetness of the squash puree a bit overwhelming with the barely warmed runny egg. It was almost like eating a bowl of sweet, earthy oatmeal. But Doug pointed out that it was a nice respite before our imminent meat course.
By this time I'd had a nice tall flute of cava and a glass and a half of a deliciously smoky syrah, so when five runners descended upon our table at once from each person's right side with five radiating, heavy glass plates, I pretty much squealed at my plate of Berkshire pork. There was a tender and mild sausage half moon, a judicious cube of pork belly, and several petal pink, melting medallions of pork loin, with shooter marble sized brussels sprouts and a creamy stripe of parsnip puree. Even better was the silky, simple seared venison loin, as dark and red as sin, with a beautiful hunk of mahogany venison sausage and sugary batons of glazed carrots. Chris just about put the walls up around his plate.
I could have stopped at the palate cleanser -- a glass of apple cider gelee, painted with a grainy white apple mousse and topped by a quenelle of green apple sorbet in a celebration of the local fruit. It was a perfect encapsulation of late fall in the Hudson Valley, cool against cold, tart against sweet, ice against gel, green against white against tawny. After something so crisp and awakening, it was a little harder to enjoy working through the dense, sleepy "tiramisu" -- coffee gelee layered with light ice milks, espresso chocolate biscotti crumble and praline hazelnuts.
Service was wonderful -- warm and easy without being presumptuously chummy. And it's such a luxury to be in a place roomy enough so that you aren't eavesdropping by default on the conversation at the nearest table. One note to the house: Dan Barber's cooking deserves better coffee.
The private dining room was cozy and classy, with plenty of sparkly crystal and a grassy perch any bride would be happy to swoon in. Prices for private events are actually reasonable, though not quite as reasonable as we originally thought, so Winnie and Chris are still exploring other options. I'm thinking it'd be a lovely place to have an "I'm not getting married so I might as well blow the money on a fancy dinner party" party. You know, when I finally find that lottery I've been meaning to win.
In any case, we all agreed that it was one of the best meals we'd had in years, and we're not an easy crowd to please. I, for one, was completely seduced. Look, Blue Hill at Stone Barns is not the kind of place you'd go to for exotic preparations and obscure ingredients. But it's important to be reminded of how good and whole an apple is, or how interesting a sparingly adorned piece of fish can be. Blue Hill at Stone Barns celebrates what is near and dear, and its execution is as direct and effective as a simple declaration of love.
Blue Hill at Stone Barns
630 Bedford Rd.
Pocantico Hills
Just past Tarrytown
914-366-9600
Actually, I was interviewed for this article on dinner whores too. I gave Mandy Stadtmiller some choice quotes -- I'm not sure why she didn't use them. Some amuse-bouches from our interview for you: 
