I know it's been around for a while, but people have been begging me to go to the Harvest Vine recently. Not with them. They go without me and then rave about it, begging me to follow in their stomach's footsteps. I admit it's a romantic destination and there are few in my life who would romance me. Few meaning one. So on Friday night, specifically chosen as "special date night" since I was to flee the following morning for a week-long vacation to California, Bugs and I walked out of the apartment holding hands and wearing dress shirts to catch a cab to our 8:30 reservation.
"I'm so glad putting a nice shirt on over jeans means dressing up in Seattle," Bugs said as the cab pulled up.
"I'm so glad we live in a neighborhood where we can walk to the corner and catch a cab in a minute."
Yes, forget about interrogating eyes and heeled hipsters with your fashionable food (such is the world when one leaves Captitol Hill!). Our server whisked us down a stone stairway, through a labyrinth of small rooms that made the good-sized restaurant feel hidden and intimate. Sitting just an iron-worked bar away from the booze-filled one (why do I always envy the bar patrons at nice restaurants, who I envision as both spendy and spontaneous?), Bugs claimed the wine list first while I ogled the food menu, revisiting friends' and family's recommendations in my head. At times I do wish someone would bring two wine menus for our table (and yes, sometimes I do get so impatient I ask for my own). Bugs has to pore through it, cover to cover, like his Neal Stephenson novels. He commented on the abundance of Lopez Heridia wines, a tasty Rioja producer, and of sherry. Most of the wines were a double mark-up, pretty standard, though some topped out at triple retail.
Our friendly and handsomely bearded server brought us a palate cleanser of apple and fennel sorbet with fennel and parsley oil. Green and sweet like good wheatgrass, the sorbet was somehow creamy and crave-worthy as well. I arouse from my last green spoonful, wondering if food might be the fast lane to heaven.
I assented to Bugs' wish to order the 2005 Muga Reserva Rioja, though he grumbled a bit that the 2004 was unavailable. A delicious decision at $55, and not a bad markup from $25 retail, we loved analyzing it while waiting for food to arrive and then observing the changes with time and food pairings.
"Who will taste?" The wonderfully bearded and helpful man asked innocently. Bugs simply frowned his mustache a bit, fully prepared for the seriousness of the ordeal, and raised a pointed finger like a student affirming his presence in class.
"Yes, him," I said, deferring to the expert at the table, though I do enjoy the first taste when I select the wine, or better yet, when a taste is offered to both of us like at our neighborhood favorite Table 219.
From his askance glance as the waiter uncorked the bottle to his screwed up face as he tasted and discerned the quality, I loved him, like I only love my Bugs. One of the truly special things about date night is admiring your lover in public.
The nose on the Muga smelled of cherries, blueberries and eucalyptus, the latter fulfilling a broader sense of the herbal, medicinal and alcoholic.
"A little coconut," Bugs whispered, his nose buried deep in the glass, lifting his thick-rimmed glasses. And then I smelled it, too. Was it a subtle note, only obvious once pointed out, or powers of persuasion? Almost impossible to know in the wine world because in such a land citizens are often engaged in some stage of drunkenness.
Focusing again, I felt the smooth dry mouth feel, running my tongue through the broad tannic background. It finished black, with hints of soil, dark cherries and cocoa chalkiness. As the alcohol and medical smell faded, the acidity of the fruit broke free. I felt citrus on the back of my throat and a pleasing astringency on my tongue. The rich tannins, sharper acids and alcoholic sweetness all balanced on a hair.
The Guisantes y bee gedarte, fresh peas with Marcona almonds, burnt lemon vinaigrette and ash-rubbed cheese arrived at our table. Though the flavors I forked up eagerly were bright and delicious, I would have preferred the peas just a little more plump and crisp, less cooked, but the nuts almost made up for it with their crunchy texture. Indeed, the dish hinged just as much on texture as it did on taste. Bugs, not usually a nut fan, commented on the spectacular almonds.
"That's because they're texturally important," I responded, savoring both their snap and sweetness. The ash on the cheese brought an essential bitterness, balancing the peas, baptized in their oil and lemon bath. I mopped up the last of the grassy olive oil, staining the bread and table cloth green. And so our waiter presented us with clean plates and forks! Such a surprise after Corson Building, where I paid twice as much to eat four times as many courses on the same dirty plate.
Next we ordered the clams with bacon, onion confit, chorizo and cream sauce ($10). The smoky pork slid around and over the juicy clams, the tenderly-textured dish rendered spicy by the onion and chorizo compote. Though it didn't pair the best with our Muga, the pork and seafood plate evoked a spiciness in the wine that we otherwise would not have noticed.
"I like how the waiter isn't pouring our wine," Bugs confessed, leaning over the table. I'd noticed it subconciously and greatly appreciated the lack the service, too. Of course, just then a gentleman (not our server! not on my watch!) must have overheard us, thinking we were sarcastic, and promptly filled our glasses. We really weren't being sarcastic! We just like to swirl our wine, really. Please let us fill our glasses at our own speed. At least the lights dimmed. Mood lighting is always better with bacon. Or is that the other way around?
I was then served and immediately devoured the blood sausage, which I later recounted in great detail to my very German and very blood-sausage-loving Oma. The crisp black exterior gave way to a rich but delicate interior, entirely reminiscent of bread pudding or a soft bread stuffing delicately flavored with fennel and nutmeg.
For dessert we ravaged an Espellette pepper chocolate flan, the spiciness just warming the creaminess and sweetness, further flavoring our 1989 Colheita by Porto Kopke.
As one of the last tables lingering in the stone-walled wine cellar of Harvest Vine, we said goodbye to the romantic lighting, rich food and surprisingly cheery air, leaving the stones to grow cold with the night. When the 11 didn't come, we hailed a cab (it took a little longer than on the hill) and made our way back home to say our goodbyes to each other and do anything but let the bed grow cold like stones.
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