I've been meaning to wax lyrical about Taste.
There's this tiny little town called Plymouth, you see. A dot on the map in Amador County. And inside the tiny little town is a tiny little main street. And on the little main street is a little wooden porch, with two men sitting on what may very well be rocking chairs next to an old white ice box. And down the road a ways from the porch is a door, and on the door there is a fork.
The fork, unlike the town, is large.
If you see it, pull it toward you. Because inside the door is this:
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| Local hand-labeled wine flights (try it, like it, visit the vineyard tomorrow) |
|
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| Corn soup with prawn, chorizo, and chive |
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Fresh-caught sablefish with Del Rio Farms heirloom cherry tomatoes,
black pepper, watercress |
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| ...alongside giant raviolis stuffed with shrimp and crab and yellow corn |
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Rack of lamb, blackberries, sweet corn, barley, thyme, arugula, watercress,
blackberry puree, corn puree, food coma, mental elevation of chef to demi-god. |
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Chocolate sponge cake on a chocolate-painted plate, dark chocolate mousse,
honeycomb, chocolate-covered honeycomb, caramel |
In other words,
go there. Eat. Drink. Be merry. Worth a trip just for dinner, or go for the day. A picnic in wine country and a few hours of tasting is a decent way to wait for culinary bliss.
