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The Wizard of Innby Dina GanFor the first anniversary of our marriage, my husband planned a surprise, but as usual, I couldn't wait to find out what it was. "Okay, I'll tell you," my husband said. "It's the Inn at Little Washington." "That's a great idea!" I said. "I've always wanted to go there." It was true. I'd been hearing about the fabled Inn at Little Washington for the better part of the last 15 years. Many called it the best restaurant in America, if not the world. The Inn had long been on my "things to do before I die" list. And since the first anniversary is "paper," I told my husband, "You get the bill for the meal, and I'll pay for the room." 
My husband made a reservation for our dinner at the Inn but we were unable to secure a night's stay there (with only have 18 rooms and suites, the Inn tends to get booked months in advance). Fortunately, the small town where the Inn is located has developed a cottage industry of other inns and bed-and-breakfasts where Inn diners can stay the night. We chose the Foster Harris House because out of all the other inns in Washington, VA, its website seemed the most updated with accurate photos. We were not disappointed. After driving less than three hours from Baltimore, we arrived at the Foster Harris House to find a staid but cozy two-story inn just a few blocks away from the Inn at Little Washington. It had a garden adorned with a trellis and Adirondack chairs framed by a white wood rail fence that stretched back into rolling green hills as far as I could see. Our room, The Compton, exceeded the website photo's promise. The private bath was tiled in Italian marble and had a showerhead the size of a pie plate. Soon it was time for dinner. We drove, since I couldn't walk farther than a few feet in the heels I was wearing. From start to finish, the evening was almost perfection. I had already braced myself for unpleasantness, having read reviews citing "snobby service" and "painful" waits to be seated. But we were seated almost immediately. I actually wouldn't have minded waiting longer so I could admire the flamboyant decor and artifacts in the curio shelves. I had also read that the Inn has tables that are pushed so close together you bump elbows against the people seated next to you. But we were seated in a small enclave near the garden which had a table in each corner, each one a table for two with plenty of breathing room. The ceiling was draped in a luxuriously printed fabric that made me feel like I was inside a jewelry box. When we arrived, there was another couple seated diagonally, an older couple who looked rich and stuffy and probably from Washington, D.C. But the Inn staff itself seemed distinctly young and unstuffy. 
We were handed menus personalized with an anniversary message and the day's date. It was one of those extravagant menus that make decisions impossible, with items such as "A Tin of Sin: American Ossetra caviar with a crab and cucumber rillette" and "Fire and Ice: seared tuna sashimi with daikon radish and cucumber sorbet." Instead of ordering the tasting menu, I chose à la carte and was very tempted to order more than two entrees. For the first and second courses, I ordered the "Beet Fantasia: three varieties of roasted beets, beet mousse with caviar and citrus salsa" and "A Marriage of Hot and Cold: foie gras with homemade fig preserves." The Beet Fantasia arrived on a large square white plate, a colorful presentation of pinks and reds and painterly smears of sauces. It had tiny cubes of jellied vodka, which melted in my mouth like tiny cocktails. My main course was a pan-roasted Maine lobster with baby bok choy, grapefruit, and citrus butter sauce. It was nicely presented, very tasty, and well worth the cholesterol intake. 
The only downside to the meal so far was that the wrinkly older woman of the other couple in our enclave emanated a seriously negative vibe. While my husband and I were reliving highlights of our first year of marriage, she and her husband spoke about nothing but politics. I overheard her mention something about Mexicans and Jews, and I glanced over occasionally, just daring her to say something about Asians. I felt sorry for her, though. How unhappy to discuss politics at such a romantic place. Soon, however, two other couples filled out the enclave, both out on their anniversaries, and they lifted the mood considerably. I overheard the newly seated couple next to us ask their server, "Can we have a tour of the kitchen after dinner?" And then I remembered from the reviews I had read that tours of the Inn's kitchen were a must, and I made a mental note to ask about it later. By then it was time for dessert. While my husband had the apricot tart, I chose the cheese plate and had a fun time selecting from the dozens of cheeses displayed on the bovine-shaped cart named "Faira the Cow." I told the cheese-cart waitress that I like my cheese nutty and smelly, but not moldy, and she pointed out a pecorino aged in juniper and balsamic, as well as a cheese so soft it had to be served with a spoon. I also had the Oka, which is my favorite cheese and makes me sound like I know something about fine cheese whenever I order it in a restaurant. 
Our plates were adorned by marzipan banners with "Happy Anniversary" written in icing. I realized I had ordered so much cheese I could not finish it and had to get it wrapped for later. As we were leaving, I remembered to ask for the kitchen tour.
A gray-suited man led us through a hallway to a lounge area that was more brightly lit than the restaurant. It had velvet-tufted banquets and animal-print chairs that made the room look like an upscale version of some West Village nightclub. After a few moments, we were led to the kitchen, which looked more like a movie set than a place where food is prepared. Gregorian chant music blared from the speakers as dozens of cooks wearing Dalmatian-print aprons scurried about a kitchen with a vaulted ceiling and walls painted a turquoise blue. The Dalmatian theme was a nod to a pair of mascots that once lived at the Inn, but the Gregorian chant music just seemed like another way to add drama to an already intensely dramatic scene. The gray-suited man introduced us to the chef, Patrick O'Connell. We shook his hand and thanked him for the terrific meal. It was one of those moments when you meet someone famous, someone you've seen in photos, and there's a surreal moment as your brain tries to reconcile the image to the reality. This was the Inn's creator, and the architect of our fabulous evening meal, one that I knew would take days to truly absorb and appreciate. In person, Chef O'Connell had the crazed look of a manic genius in his fiery eyes. He reminded me of Gene Wilder in the movie "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory." And like Wonka, O'Connell seemed well aware he was part of the show. |
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