The City That Feeds

Just because Evan didn’t believe I would write this (see his comments), I’m writing this. But it’s not going to be long because I have to get back to my sweet new pad in South Baltimore (not Federal Hill) with its highly competitive parking and my 9 pounds of oatmeal.

So my mother and father took me to Corks for Father’s Day because I got a job and moved out of their house. My sister didn’t come because she had better things to do than eat at a 4-star restaurant and honor her father on the holiest day of the year for him, but it was all good because I didn’t feel bad about getting the wine pairings with my dinner, which doubled the price, since it was a wash.

I started dinner with a Pinot Noire because John Adams was always talking about it in that movie he was in about drinking wine. I don’t know what it was, but I know it wasn’t rail because they let me smell it before I committed. It had a subtle yet balanced bouquet and called to mind the summers I spent in Barcelona in my grandmother’s cherry orchard, a hot breeze delicately wafting hints of plum and strawberry, with a honeysuckle finish. Nah, I’m just dicking you, but it was amazing wine.

So, my father and I opted for the 4-course Farmer’s Market meal and my mother got grilled sea bass with homemade mozzarella in a green curry vinagrette. Okay, I didn’t even know you could make mozzarella at home, and hopefully it wasn’t in the bathtub because that shit’s illegal now, but anyway, the mozzarella and curry was like if the Incredible Hulk were a cheese and your tastebuds were dying of boredom and the hulk-cheese clapped his hands together and smashed that boredom to pieces. It was seriously that good. My dad and I started with a salad which was some kind of green leaf that I couldn’t pronounce and I kinda thought it was a grain or something until it came. Actually, while the lettuce-looking stuff had an interesting flavor, the salad was only okay, but that’s salad am I right? Oh yeah, so I should explain the farmer’s market thing. Apparently, Chef Jerry Pellegrino goes down to the Farmer’s Market under 83 on Sundays and gets all the ingredients for the meal from there. Also, you may recognize Chef Pellegrino from his show, Radio Kitchen on NPR. So just to put this in perspective, famous chef and NPR show-host goes to a farmer’s market and prepares you an exquisite meal that he pairs with excellent wines. Dude, that’s like Barack Obama showing up to board-game night to ask you what’s best for the poor.

Anyway, our second course was like a lasagna made out of squash. It was so amazingly good that I’m getting angry that I’m not eating it right now. If parents would prepare squash that tasted that good, or maybe get the recipe for the cream sauce, kids wouldn’t have to be such dicks about eating squash. My mom just had to watch us eat because she cheaped out and only got a two-course meal, but I would advise you to reconsider and maybe just stick to happy hour for a few evenings to save up for the freaking squash lasagna. Amazing. The wine we had was something white and crisp and nicely complemented the amazingness of the squash, but I don’t remember what kind it was because I was kinda getting drunk by this point and I’d pretty much been drinking all weekend.

So, anyway, my third course was smoked duck and my parents both got striped sea bass, or rock fish, as we used to call it before The Wire got popular. My mother said it was the best fish she had ever had and she wouldn’t lie about that. My dad ate the entire thing and said how good it was despite his being really full because he had eaten a huge brunch a few hours before even though he knew we were going out to dinner. That’s another thing. For a nice restaurant, the portions are pretty big and you won’t be sneaking out for a slice afterwards because you’re still hungry but you don’t want to look like a fatass. Anyway, so I had the smoked duck. If I had known that ducks could taste that good I would have never gotten my own place and I would quit work and spend every waking moment of my life hunting them down and devouring them. It was like eating a steak that never had mournful eyes. And there were mashed peas with it that made mashed potatoes seem aloof and kinda annoying because every bite of them was so fascinating and insightful. Ahhh so good! I must have been spoiled by my original pinot noire though because the one I had with the duck was only so-so, but whatever, I was kinda shit-faced by then and my dad and I were getting loud and out of hand, so it was good that it was time for desert.

But wait because desert was yet another pleasure explosion in my mouth with cherries floating in a luscious mint custard. I may never bother to taste again. My mom got creme brulee and it was freaking awesome too, but see, Corks drops the Spirit Bomb on you because the final wine was a muscat and the thought of that heavenly sweetness makes me want to weep and scratch myself at the misery of its absence. So I’m pretty sure that this was the best meal I’ve ever had in Baltimore. Better than brunch, better than crabs, damn near better than beer, though not as affordable, but definitely more likely to get you laid. Anyway, Corks has to be the hottest thing I’ve seen in Federal Hill since popped collars, at least until Jenna Bush moves in. So don’t be a giant douche who bumps into me and spills my Miller Light craft beer at trivia and go eat there.