After a weekend of Barbara Lynch-ing ourselves through Boston, WineChap fears that we’re one meal away from succumbing to the gout. For those who don’t know the city on the hill intimately, Barbara Lynch is to Boston what Daniel Boulud is to New York. Lynch has mastered an array of different dining formats, from lunch counter to oyster bar to white tablecloth, proving that her brand of French-cum-Italian cuisine is as beloved in jeans and a t-shirt as it is in a suit and tie. And the wine lists are clearly captained by some well-versed talent—Wine Director Cat Silirie. The ones we pored over were quite brief, but boasted plenty of personality and value.
Here’s our brief recount:
Friday: Accidental binge at No. 9 Park wherein almost every dish is cloaked in foie gras. We left dazed, wandering the streets, trying desperately to maintain blood flow to the heart. The foie fallout was so instantaneous, so catastrophic, that half-glasses of Huet Le Mont and Brundlmayer Sekt were left abandoned due to lack of internal space—a rare and deeply troubling scenario.
Saturday Morning: Confusion ensues after waking up in an overcoat and beret. It’s official: an alcohol hangover has nothing on the stuff of food. After regaining the will to live, a chicken is wrapped in pastry dough (a recipe from Lynch’s recently released cookbook, Stir) and set aside, somewhat apprehensively, for dinner.
Saturday Afternoon: Around 1pm it becomes clear that food will have to be consumed, regardless of what the colon is trying to communicate. And so we stumble, bleary-eyed, toward South Boston for our second bout of Lynching at Sportello. No foie here, but the fabulously unhealthful gnocchi with butter, mushrooms, and peas still manages to prompt gastro-intestinal nostalgia for the night before.
Saturday Dusk: After a walking tour of Boston cemeteries—plotting where we’d prefer to be buried after tonight’s dinner—cheese and wine are purchased at Boston’s answer to Murray’s: Formaggio Kitchen. We make a quick pit stop at yet another of Lynch’s creations—The Butcher Shop—to pick up a few baguettes and drool over the charcuterie for sale.
Saturday Evening: The bird wrapped in a thick croissant is consumed, tasting of fancy chicken potpie. Chateau Soucherie Anjou Blanc, Puffeney Trousseau, Faillenc Saint Marie Corbieres, Coturri Albarello, and mass quantities of Amaro are all consumed.
Sunday: A knee-jerk craving for charcuterie is deemed irresponsible, finally. We board the bus NY bound vowing to consume nothing but broth and salad for 40 days and 40 nights.
A Barbara Lynch-ing In Boston
After a weekend of Barbara Lynch-ing ourselves through Boston, WineChap fears that we’re one meal away from succumbing to the gout. For those who don’t know the city on the hill intimately, Barbara Lynch is to Boston what Daniel Boulud is to New York. Lynch has mastered an array of different dining formats, from lunch counter to oyster bar to white tablecloth, proving that her brand of French-cum-Italian cuisine is as beloved in jeans and a t-shirt as it is in a suit and tie. And the wine lists are clearly captained by some well-versed talent—Wine Director Cat Silirie. The ones we pored over were quite brief, but boasted plenty of personality and value.
Here’s our brief recount:
Friday: Accidental binge at No. 9 Park wherein almost every dish is cloaked in foie gras. We left dazed, wandering the streets, trying desperately to maintain blood flow to the heart. The foie fallout was so instantaneous, so catastrophic, that half-glasses of Huet Le Mont and Brundlmayer Sekt were left abandoned due to lack of internal space—a rare and deeply troubling scenario.
Saturday Morning: Confusion ensues after waking up in an overcoat and beret. It’s official: an alcohol hangover has nothing on the stuff of food. After regaining the will to live, a chicken is wrapped in pastry dough (a recipe from Lynch’s recently released cookbook, Stir) and set aside, somewhat apprehensively, for dinner.
Saturday Afternoon: Around 1pm it becomes clear that food will have to be consumed, regardless of what the colon is trying to communicate. And so we stumble, bleary-eyed, toward South Boston for our second bout of Lynching at Sportello. No foie here, but the fabulously unhealthful gnocchi with butter, mushrooms, and peas still manages to prompt gastro-intestinal nostalgia for the night before.
Saturday Dusk: After a walking tour of Boston cemeteries—plotting where we’d prefer to be buried after tonight’s dinner—cheese and wine are purchased at Boston’s answer to Murray’s: Formaggio Kitchen. We make a quick pit stop at yet another of Lynch’s creations—The Butcher Shop—to pick up a few baguettes and drool over the charcuterie for sale.
Saturday Evening: The bird wrapped in a thick croissant is consumed, tasting of fancy chicken potpie. Chateau Soucherie Anjou Blanc, Puffeney Trousseau, Faillenc Saint Marie Corbieres, Coturri Albarello, and mass quantities of Amaro are all consumed.
Sunday: A knee-jerk craving for charcuterie is deemed irresponsible, finally. We board the bus NY bound vowing to consume nothing but broth and salad for 40 days and 40 nights.
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