SukhoThai

One autumn just after Yom Kippur, I swear I heard someone at Prince Street asking how to get to Sukkot High.

SukhoThai is a Thai restaurant. To my knowledge, they are not kosher and have no tables al fresco. They do, however, make a mean mango smoothie, and the coconut soup comes with lots of nice fresh mushrooms and green peppers.

You can BYO Manischewitz.

I am not Jewish, so I like ordering the spicy pork sausages which come with an excellent sweet-hot dipping sauce.

My other improvised order is sticky rice with a little bowl of green curry. Just like you would do with ugali, mielie-meal and the like, pull a bit of the rice out of the basket with your (right) hand, mush it into a ball and dip it in the sauce. Always satisfying.

http://www.sukhothai-restaurant.com/menu.php

Ma(i)son

Here are some things you should know about Ma(i)son:

• When you come in the door you won't necessarily be greeted right away. 
• The "chef's table in the back" that is "a little more private" is actually the high bar at the end of the dining room that faces the kitchen.
• The menu is on a chalkboard that may not be legible from where you are seated.
• It is BYOB.

Here is the most important thing to know about Ma(i)son: the food is lovely. 

Chef owners Taylor and Leeann Mason delight in letting each ingredient be itself, delivering tight harmonies of seasonal vegetables and herbs featuring rabbit, cornish hen, beef, boar, pasta or seafood.

Ma(i)son burrata, January 2014

The menu uses words like burrata (squeaky white cheese), chevre (goat's milk cheese), sugo (Italian pasta sauce), escarole (a kind of endive) and haricot vert (thin green beans). In a lesser restaurant it would be pretentious. Here it's simply accurate.

For $14, the handmade burrata with cherry tomatoes, basil and smoked prosciutto (or with speck and roasted shallot and fig jam last winter) is as delightful to look at as it is to devour. 

While fast food chains busily pepper their websites with "artisanal" buzzwords (smashed potatoes, anyone?) Leeann and Taylor go shopping—and bring the best tastes home for us.

http://www.maisonlancaster.com/menu/ 

 

Bulls Head Public House

Lititz is a charming town, with boutique shops in old buildings that no one bothered to “improve” in the 1960s. On a winter night with snow falling and Christmas lights glittering in windows, you might be delirious to find a bustling British pub on Main Street, complete with red tin ceilings, two fireplaces and 14 strange and delicious brews on tap.

You might, in fact, go back to Lititz the following morning just to make sure, and find yourself sitting at a dark wood bar with a hot breakfast of perfectly crisped sausage, English bacon, sweet baked beans, squeaky mushrooms, a grilled tomato and two runny over-easy eggs. Plus toast. And a bottomless cup of coffee.

Suspend cynicism for one more hour. This is not the product of some national chain's market research. Owner Paul Pendyck grew up in Liverpool and most of his decor came from England, too. In fact, Lancaster Online reports that not even the name was calculated: Pendyck simply found an old wooden sign from a British pub with big letters in gold: “Bulls Head Public House.”

Let it be.

http://generalsutterinn.com/bullsheadph/

Pour

An unlikely contender has taken the lead in my mental ranking of best high-end restaurants in Lancaster, Pennsylvania: Pour.

I say unlikely not because it's not high-end—two people can easily drop north of $50 on a couple drinks and appetizers—but because it's more of a New York-style tapas bar.

The drink menu regularly lists 20 domestics and 20 imports in bottles and ten taps from Pennsylvania to Denver, Germany and Belgium. Six reds, six whites and sparkling wines are available by the glass or bottle, and there's a healthy cabinet of port. Pour consistently mixes the most surprising and nuanced cocktails in Lancaster, playing games with Jefferson's Reserve bourbon, Blue Coat gin from Philadelphia and Thistle Finch white rye from six blocks away.

In the evening, diners spill out of a lively courtyard onto Prince Street's gallery row. Inside, cascading metal wine racks and colored lighting make the bar feel comfortably upscale—like your aunt's "modern" house on Staten Island.

But the food menu is what really astounds. In a town where frozen pastries pass for hors d'oeuvres (see "Culturas"), Pour serves exquisite morsels of perfectly paired quail, duck, swordfish and pork butt.

No, the portions aren't big. You won't take home leftovers. But the food will be worth tasting the first time.

Slow down for once. Look at your food. Take a bite. Try to identify the ingredients. Then take a drink. Then continue your conversation. This is what eating out should mean: an experience very few of us can create at home.
 
In truth, Pour may be misnamed. Even if they didn't serve drinks, you could get drunk off the food.

http://pouronprince.com/

 

Camelot Cellars Urban Boutique Winery

I held my tongue. Literally. And made gagging noises.

No, actually, my friends and I were very polite. But I felt sorry for the couples across the bar who looked like they were on dates and trying to be taken seriously. 

Then the cheese plate came out and had to be freed from its plastic-wrap cocoon in our presence, and our server forgot to unwrap the two slices of stale bread, and we were pretty sure the revealed chunks of cheese were from Kroger. 

And then the bill came out and it was every bit as much as you would expect to pay for four good drinks and charcuterie at a nice place, and my hosts picked up the tab and I felt bad for them.

Camelot Cellars. They import exotic grape juice from all over the world and turn it into crappy wine on site. Avoid avoid avoid.

http://camelotcellars.com/

Commonwealth on Queen

My brunch date and I stumbled onto Commonwealth on Queen the morning of their invitation-only soft opening. As we apologized and turned to leave, the man behind the Square register invited us to stay, as long as we gave the kitchen a little grace.

We gave them grace. After five minutes of staring at a tabletop, we learned there was no table service, so we went back to the counter to look at the menu. When my exotic breakfast order arrived looking a lot like scalloped potatoes with paprika, I held my tongue. Nor did we complain when the coffee came midway through the meal. 

It was, after all, their soft opening. But I did secretly wonder whether Commonwealth was some kind of church ministry. Nobody seemed to have restaurant experience.

Months passed. An article was published. We went back.

I ordered the Barn Burner. My date ordered the Big Ol' Breakfast Sandwich and a French press. We signed with our finger and found a table outside. 

Five minutes went by, then ten. I got up, thought about grace and sat back down. Five more minutes went by. I went inside. Sandwiches were coming toward me, so I followed them out to our table. They were cold.

Still no coffee. I was done with half my sandwich when the French press arrived. The server explained that she was in the middle of making it when they got a rush of customers. She gave us silverware.

I asked her if Commonwealth was part of a church ministry. She said not. We drank coffee. As we got ready to leave, she came back with sugar.

Commonwealth on Queen says they are a "farm to fork" cafe. Friends, local is no longer quaint, and it is no excuse for poor service. I can name half a dozen other restaurants that feature local foods, and none give me the impression they are waiting for the hens to lay before they make my omelet.

Tho' your big windows and sculpted chairs beckon me, yet I will not be a citizen of your commonwealth.

http://commonwealthonqueen.com/menu/

The Accomac Inn

Nothing says hospitality and comfort to me like the smell of wood smoke in the winter. The host took our coats and seated us immediately in a simple room with a lively fire. My barrel-aged Manhattan was strong and cold. My date's coffee came with an insulated French press and steamed milk. A variety of dinner rolls arrived piping hot. Each ingredient in the pearl barley, kale and beet risotto (smoked mushrooms, snails) tasted like itself and delicious in combination. “Risotto” was even in quotes on the menu!

When the little things are done right, expectations run high for the main event.

My date ordered the most homely-sounding thing on the menu—meatloaf with ketchup—but it came out looking like a rock star with a crispy bacon mohawk. The mild venison loaf contained a mushroom surprise, and the cranberry ketchup was a striking complement. Comfort food with a wink and a laugh.

I threw caution to the wind and ordered seafood. Squid ink risotto and saffron sauce tangled on a long plate. The humble cod was flaky and flavorful. Almonds were little nutty explosions that made the scallops taste even more buttery. It was not overdressed or overly salty. I began to wonder whether shrimp can be harvested from the Susquehanna River.

The Accomac Inn has been around since 1775. It sits on the west bank of the Susquehanna, just above Wrightsville. In the summer it serves brunch on a long screened deck overlooking the river. In the winter it hosts jazz and firelit dinners. Most of its food is grown on site or comes from local farms.

My date and I came to the Accomac on impulse after hiking Kelly's Run (near the Pinnacle in Lancaster County). We were hot and tired and wearing sneakers. Anne pulled a shawl over her Race against Racism workout shirt; I put on a sweater and tried to look hipster.

It didn't matter; no one at the Accomac blinked. We were given friendly, attentive service by a young woman who later confessed she was new. We confessed we were impostors. We stayed for dessert.

http://www.accomacinn.com/restaurant/