Before you read what I have to say in the next paragraph, I must make one point very clear. I am a city rat. (I mean this in the nicest way.) I was born and raised in New York City. I was on the subway before I could walk. I was mugged by the time I was 13. (Those were the good old days.) My Dad, who lived on the Upper East Side and could not cook anything but Stouffer’s Spinach Souffle, used to take us to Maxwell’s Plum for dinner several times a week (I am dating myself, I know.) My Mom who lived in Queens used to pile my brother and I onto the subway and let us run free at the Museum of Natural History and then climb the jungle gym in Central Park before dinner at the Museum Café. I love this town, and I don’t believe in leaving it unless it is for transcontinental travel (read: a meal in Barcelona, Madrid, or Paris.) I understand that there are other cities, like San Fran, San Diego, Phoenix, Chicago, Minneapolis, New Orleans, Boston, Denver, and the like, that have redeeming qualities and nice restaurants and all that (and I have visited them for work on various occasions), but I am in love with my city and I travel only to get the story and come home to my chaotic streets.

So, if you had told me last week that I would have driven out to Greenwich, CT (a place I have only read about only in back issues of Town & Country while waiting to see my dentist), for a dinner and that I would enjoy more than I have enjoyed many a meal in New York City, I would have quite clearly told you that you were obviously deranged and deluded and that you should seek immediate psychiatric care.

But alas that is precisely what happened to me last week. I traveled to Greenwich, CT and had a mind-blowing meal at a place called Gaia.

Gaia (the Goddess of Mother Earth) is the stateside debut of restaurateur Marlon Abela, of London’s MARC restaurant corporation (he recently re-opened the private club, Morton’s of Berkley Square). For his first US project, Abela (a smart fellow indeed) hired Chris Palikuca, formerly director of operations for Daniel, and Sign of the Dove) to run the front of the house, and plucked a young, creative, fiercely gifted (and hot) chef, Bjorn van der Horst, from his post as chef de cuisine at Picholine (with training at multiple Michelin-starred spots like Les Jardins de Opera, Robuchon, Louis XV and at all of Ducasse’s restaurants in Paris), and snagged the underrated Michael Moorehouse, of Ouest, Tabla, and Picholine, to create desserts.

Gaia is located on Greenwich Avenue—a quiet, squeaky-clean rue littered only with jewels and haute couture. The restaurant occupies a modest, cream colored two-story building that was built in 1917 as a bank by Raphael Guastavino Jr., the son of the famed Catalan architect who built the archways in the Oyster Bar and the vaulted tiled ceilings under 59th Street bridge that are now contained in Guastavino’s restaurant. As you might expect, Guastavino Junior had the same talent for magnificent tiled archways as his Dad, and Gaia is a visual masterpiece, decked out in neutral earth tones with soaring 25-foot tiled ceilings, sky-high pillars, dazzling archways, a wood-burning fireplace on the upper deck and wide, cozy banquettes you can sink into and easily never rise from. (Do try and resist the urge to take a nap; you don’t want to sleep through this meal.)

You may have already heard rumblings about Gaia because it is starting to get a reputation, in the same vain as Ferrran Adria did with his foams, as it is known as the place where the chef cooks in jars. The idea came to the chef when he was dining out in London and was served an amuse bouche in a tiny mason jars. While brainstorming with his partners about the Gaia menu, he suggested that they try to actually cook food in the jars, and not just use them as serving vehicles. Months went by, and 160 jars later, Bjorn had perfected the process and developed his menu of dishes cooked, sous vide-style, in sealed mason jars for hours and hours in a hot water bath (165F to 195F), like you would prepare canned goods in the old days. This process breaks food down, bringing it to buttery softness and magnifying its flavors. As I write this, I am craving a jar of Bjorn’s hedonistic mac and cheese ($18) made with winter truffles and sinful gobs of gruyere, or perhaps a jar of duck leg confit ($12), almost silky from being braised for half a day in its own fat, or a jar of his rich foie gras terrine heavy with sauternes, and marbled with macerated figs and grapes ($20).

As you might expect, jar cooking works especially ingredients that take well to slow, pressure-pot styled cooking. So it is no surprise that the chef also cooks braised short ribs (with turnips, carrots, orange confit and red wine, $22), and pork belly (with sauternes and honey, $20) with this jar method. Other jars are in the “sides” category, my favorite being the artichokes barigoule, slow-cooked until firm but tender and saturated with olive oil, lemon and white wine ($9). Spring menu jars are set to include vegetarian lasagna, rabbit a la moutarde, foie gras terrine with rhubarb, and clams with chorizo.

But chef Van der Horst has talents beyond the seal-it-submerge-it-and-store-it mason jar. He can still fling a sauté pan with the best of them. (All those years training at Ducasse in Paris paid off.) I loved the Hudson Valley Mallard duck breast, seared to medium rare, sliced and draped over roasted pears, caramelized salsify and dressed up in a syrupy port sauce ($26). I thought his seared wild striped bass—its crispy skin forming a crust over its sweet white meat— set on a small dice of cubed celeriac and potatoes in a light, silky champagne cream sauce was brilliant. I was also charmed by a plate of pan seared sea scallops—plump Diver Scallops from Maine— caramelized to an amber gloss (perfection) and served on a blanket of dark, exotically spiced lentils ($26).

Rounding out the dining experience is an extensive wine list and a fabulous French sommelier with the devilish charm you expect from a man who is going to ply you with liquor. (That Stephan is good). The service is knowledgeable and seems to be there when ever you need them and absent whenever you don’t, a trick many a staff has not mastered.

Now, don’t even think about skipping dessert. (All are $8.) That would be a very, very bad idea. If you are making the trip up to the nosebleed state, you might as well go for the whole hog. Pastry chef Michael Moorehouse is quite a talent and he also gets in on the jar-act, with a creamy, light-as-air cheesecake coated with a layer of gooey caramel flecked with sea salt, just the right amount of salt to give the sweetness a wake up call. It is a simple dessert, like a basic black dress, that in the hands of a visionary (Zak Posen, for instance) is reborn. If you can leave just one bite over, you might as well peel off your skin now because clearly you are not human. This dessert is magnificent. Other desserts are not jarred, but are just as good, like the fantastic spiced molasses bread, a fluffy slice of cake the size of a small paperback book, topped with a crust made from sheets of caramelized bananas, served with a scoop of rum raisin ice cream. Moorehouse is clearly one to watch, preferably sooner, rather than later. I hope you make a plan to take a road trip to try Gaia. It is worth leaving the City, and that is a statement I do not make very often.

Gaia is located at 253 Greenwich Avenue, 203-661-3443. I have no idea of how to get there but I assume you drive north on 95, or take MetroNorth to Greenwich. Giving the restaurant a call would be a good idea.

Andrea Strong