Wednesday, September 16, 2009

State Road Restaurant review

After many recommendations we tried the much touted State Road Restaurant, here in West Tisbury, (the Obama's ate there!) for Tom's birthday. We warily entered the door afraid of the bourgeois that might be awaiting us, usually worth wading through bourgeois for good highly recommended food. The bourgeois was there, oh well stiff upper lip. We were haughtily directed to our corner table near the bar and "bourgeois" by the hostess, "late reservation", good thing we're not writing this for the Times, or are we? 

The interior was warm and inviting, candles etc., even if it did appear to our taste to be somewhat over thought, (Yale interior architecture?) We were quickly greeted by a waiter who asked of our requests for water, tap water with lemon thank you please. Attire was, as other waiters and waitresses, somewhat costumey with stripy plaid ankle length aprons. 

On to the food, overall good, not great, as expected. Our bread course was warm from the oven, small brioche buns, four in all, with warm room temperature butter and a mysterious white dipping sauce which was pleasant if unidentifiable, missed the description- loud music track (guitary eighties ballad, obviously the owners taste, but we were the customer!). 

Our pleasant waitress, who was pumped for her entire life story by the bourgeois older folks who were crammed next to us, brought our appetizer course of pan seared sea scallops and curried onion rings which were served on a bed of fava beans promptly following the bread course. The sea scallops were near perfection, perfectly seared, achieving a crunchy caramelized coating on the outside and perfectly cooked interior. The onion rings were perfect as well, light flaky crispy batter coating and with a sweet not overly cooked onion waiting inside. The fava beans were also well prepared, still holding their crunchy earthen goodness, not over cooked mash as they could have been. This got our hopes up, "bourgey" crowd, music and all. 

Our main course was the all- American favorite hamburger, we thought this would say something about the meals in general which it does in most high end restaurants presenting this classic. Looked good as it swooped into our table after a perfect brush off of previous crumbs by our attentive waitress. Accompanying fries were golden and thin but unfortunately had gone limp, like the lifeless body of a fallen war hero. The side of tomatoes and lettuce were perfectly red and delicious, obviously local. The lettuce seemed a generic leaf of the Boston type. 

Now to the bun. It upon inspection was a rich sienna golden brown, but when biting into it we were met with the texture of the padding from a push up bra. This fought with the perfectly done and tastey good sized burger within, which was topped with an equally nice port onion jam and Grafton cheddar, too bad about the B-cup bun. The side of, again obviously local, perfectly wilted lemon and garlic spinach was beyond reproach. After a quick exit of plates from our main course and another de-crumbing by our life-story-giving waitress (not to us- to the "bourgeys"), we were on to dessert. 

We had thought we might not pursue dessert until the words pear and galette came out, pictures of Normandy (without the invasion) and Brittany with it's lovely milk giving cows floated through our heads, we had to try. So glad we did. The galette will remain when all of the other experiences, including the bourgeois, have passed. 

It was perfectly warm and golden, not too much spice (a hint more may have been nice- eh) with pecans and perfectly crisp seasonal pears, topped with the most delightful scoop of honey ginger gelato the world has ever known- reeking of ginger and honey, producing a near drug like experience. The accompanying cappuccinos from a new looking perhaps $5,000 Faema espresso machine unfortunately couldn't compete with their god-like partner, the galette. They were scalding hot, couldn't experience the coffee, and the topping steamed milk was too deep and like the suds from babies bath water. Need a pro to work the coffee maker that sponsored Eddy Merckx. 

The bill was high, the service was pleasant, we tipped our tortured waitress (as much for her tolerance of the bourgeois as for our service), and left still floating on the cloud of euphoria produced by the galette. 

C'est la vie.

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