The Pig in me

What can I say about The Spotted Pig that hasn't already been said? Well, for starters, you can get a table in under a half hour, on a Saturday night no less, if you're willing to eat early. And you can subsequently get a seat at the bar if you follow the early bird schedule. As you mosey up, full of yourself and the several plates of food recently set before you, thinking "we should order another bottle of wine cause if we just got two glasses it would be wasting money," you'll find a space as another couple dances in the opposite direction toward a table.

But best of all, this: The Spotted Pig, a two-star Michelin gastropub in the Village, serves the biggest heap of crunchy, chewy, salty and steamy hot shoestring fries known to man or pig. Let's just say if I lived in New York, and you couldn't find me, know that I'd be chin-deep in a bowl-full of fries with my cell phone turned off. This, as those French tire experts will tell you, is serious bar food.

I'd been wanting to eat in April Bloomfield's restaurant ever since I read that Frank Bruni waited in the maelstrom (they don't take reservations for anyone) just to end up, 20 minutes later, folded up into a doll's size chair shoved under a doll's size table with a circumference so narrow it seems the servers must bring the dinner plates one at a time to avoid an entree sliding straight into a lap. Even if I lived in New York, I'd never be able to afford eating at enough of his chosen reviews to figure out whether we have similar appetites. (I'm more of a $25 and under girl.) But I enjoy his writing and his willingness to think outside the menu from time to time. More importantly, the Pig's menu sounded worth the wait.

As it turns out, the wait was short and dinner long. I'm not even sure if I can remember everything we tried. The devils on horseback came first, swarthy strips of bacon wrapped 'round warm and juicy dried plums and fruit. The foot-tall stand for the oysters with mignonette was as theatrical as it was necessary -- the half dozen Beau Soleils hovered over the deep-fried prosciutto balls with tomato and ginger sauce. The fried balls were our least favorite of the meal. (I've been waiting years to write that sentence.) The oysters were delicate and juicy, and the sharp mignonette somehow brought out the salt and tinny goodness in them. When I put one in my mouth, I could smell the sea.

Sauteed ramps with a fried duck egg arrived, its yolk big as a fist staring and daring us to forge on. At this point I'd begun to forget how much I'd ordered, in part cause we were halfway through a bottle of Condado de Haza. The ramps' garlickly tang softened the richness of the egg, a wonderful breakfast to be had halfway through dinner. And, finally, dinner, seared mackerel with vinaigrette, which, to our surprise, came with a smear of homemade mayonnaise. My feasting partner, sadly, does not share my perversion for mayo, so I quickly saved parts of non-corrupted fish for her. And then did everything I could not to dip my fingers in. Though at the Spotted Pig, I really don't think they'd care.

With this finale came the fries.Thin and wispy, they were the kind you could pluck away at, one at a time, for years and never grow tried or full. (They also proved perfect for a little flick through that mayo.) I felt a little remorse that we'd wasted so much room on "real food," exotic eggs and slabs of bacon and all. I cannot begin to imagine how many potatoes went into our serving, or when the poor schmuck who peels them has to get up each morning. Let's just say they would not have fit under the oyster stand.

I have immense respect for a person or a kitchen that can fry properly, food cooked to a tender crisp with almost no traces of grease. It's a skill that I find terribly hard to do at home on my own. Perhaps it should be incorporated into political debates. Whoever can produce the best onion rings wins. For now, I'm saving my vote for Ms. Bloomfield.