While most stories start at the very beginning, I’d like to start our story—the tale of my dinner at Blue Hill Stone Barns—with the way it ends—and that would be with a $400 check and with my friend Steven wearing chef Dan Barber’s pants.

And now, the beginning….

CHAPTER ONE: CLAP AND THE PIGS WILL COME

On a warm sunny Sunday afternoon, my friend Steven and I boarded a Hudson Valley train at Grand Central Station. Our destination—Blue Hill Stone Barns, Dan Barber’s Chez Panisse-styled restaurant, set on a plush 80-acre farm and agricultural center donated by the Rockefellers, littered with magnificently restored 1930s barns, farmhouses, and silos on the rolling Pocantico Hills.

After a short taxi ride from the Tarrytown train stop, we arrived at the main reception area, turning up a long gravel path, driving past sheep and chickens grazing in the pastures. With no one to greet us (not sure why not, as we were there for dinner and were promised a tour of the grounds), we walked into the vast European courtyard, under soaring stone archways that resembled something from an old medieval village. We strolled into the Blue Hill Café, a sweet little coffee and sandwich shop that sells salads, panini, granola, local cheeses, fruit and trail mix for picnicking on the grounds, and Blue Hill’s line of pickled vegetables, jams, and fruit preserves as well as Blue Hill t-shirts and baseball caps. It’s Westchester after all, you’ll need a souvenir.

Not sure where to go next, we started wandering around outside, which is quite an enjoyable activity on its own. Blue Hill Stone Barns is a breathtaking place that is worth a visit just for the views of the exquisite stone buildings and vibrant green hills. The air smells different up there. Sweet and musty; clean and fresh. You feel your muscles loosen under your skin. Ahhh. This is way cheaper than therapy.

As luck would have it, we ran into Dan Barber’s brother and business partner, David and his beautiful wife Lauren (she designed the interior and the great logo and menu) and their two little kids. When we told them that we thought we were going to have a tour but couldn’t find anyone to show us around, they graciously volunteered to escort us through the property. With their gorgeous toddlers in tow, we strolled through the four-season greenhouses that occupy a sprawling 22,000 square feet. Inside we found neat long rows of lettuce, spinach, endive, and all sorts of perky greens sprouting up from the cool earth, including one called Indigo Radicchio with awesome eggplant colored leaves. (A weekly farmer’s market is going to be set up to sell the excess to the public later this summer.) The kids walked around picking leaves out of the ground, offering us bites of spinach. Sweet and grainy with earth. This is what it’s about people. Teach our children to love the land, to understand where their food comes from. Teach them to care, so that we have generations who will give a damn when we are six feet under that soil. Okay, leaving the soapbox now.

After our greenhouse tours, Lauren suggested we visit the Berkshire pigs that they are raising. “Just go up the hill and take the path to the left, and when you go over the knoll (can’t say I have ever seen a knoll before) stop and clap (yes, clap), and the pigs will come.” Come again? You want me to walk over a knoll and clap? Being a bit unsure of what to expect I asked about the possibility of a pig attack, not especially wanting to be trampled by large snorting animals while dressed in a flirty new summer skirt. “No, they wont trample you,” she assured us. “There’s an electrical fence.” Good to know. And so we forged onward, ready to clap, and run, if necessary. We walked back up the hill, searching for the path and the knoll, but we could not find it. We must have looked like lost lambs when we ran into James Ford, the Director of the Center, who, coincidentally was going to feed the pigs some nuts, and who invited us to join him. (They usually eat soy and corn, but he says they get nuts as a treat.) With a plastic carton of mixed salted nuts in hand, we followed him up a steep, unmarked muddy path to the visit the pigs. Luckily, I was not wearing Jimmy Choos (probably because I don’t own any, but you get the idea). But my flip floppy-typed sandals were not exactly ideal, nor was my skirt that I had to yank up to my upper thigh to make the climb, but hey, I was not going to miss the pig feeding. When we reached the knoll (what I now understand is a small hill), we didn’t need to clap (all that practicing for nothing), the pigs heard the nuts coming a mile away and came running towards us in a big pack, snorting and squealing with glee. They were adorable, with their big snouts inflating and deflating as they sucked in wind, and their little pig tails all curled up on their wiggly butts. I was petting one of them and it was clear that we were bonding, and I asked if I could take her home. James didn’t think so. The pigs, bred and raised by Craig Kenyon, formerly of Skate Creek Farm, apparently do better in cool muddy pastures than in hard wood floored fifth floor walk up studios. Oh well. My search for the perfect mate continues.

CHAPTER TWO: SHORTS—OR CULOTTES—AND THE CHEF’S PANTS

After draining our cocktails, we moved to the dining area, a serene room decorated with smooth, cool earth tones, raw wood planked floors, and steel-arched cathedral ceilings. The room has a smooth jazz sort of vibe, like a flagship Banana Republic store—it is clean, open, light, and softly modern. You almost feel like there should be merino and cotton sweaters folded in neat piles on the long central table, but alas, only lots of tall and beautiful cherry blossoms.

The room was mostly empty as we were being seated, and we were ushered to a table that faced a server’s station in the back of the room. There were several empty tables for two facing out onto the patio and rolling hills, and not being a shy type I asked the hostess if we could sit at one of those tables. She said no, that they were reserved. I asked if she could make sure there was no way they could be unreserved. We told her we would wait on the patio so she could find out. I hate that attitude. Why tell people there are other people more important than you that are going to get that view. Why are we only worth looking at rows of plates and drawers of silverware? I was feeling really warm and fuzzy at this point. Nice.

Soon a hostess came out to tell us that we could have a better table, but there was another problem, and it was a wardrobe issue. Steven was informed that he would have to change because he was wearing shorts. We were not told of a dress code in advance, and it being an unusually hot and sunny day, he was in what I would say are more accurately called culottes or gauchos, not shorts. I believe the Queer Eye’s Fab Five, who should have been the ultimate arbiters of this quarrel, would have agreed with me. They were below the knee, they were this great linen cotton blend, and they were Donna Karan, a designer who does not make sloppy shorts. Anyway, the hostess did not seem to agree that they were culottes. She insisted they were shorts and suggested (ordered) that he change into a pair of pants that they keep on hand for “this sort of thing.” Steven was fine with it, but I was a bit taken a back. There were guys in ugly t-shirts inside and people that didn’t have an eighth of his fashion sense (he paired the culottes with a crisp white button-down shirt and cool Addidas kicks), and he had to change. But it was either change, or take the train back to Manhattan. Off she went to fetch the pants and we were left, seated out on the patio, while we waited for his wardrobe change.

Moments later, a tall French man with piercing cold eyes came out and told me the chef wanted to speak with me in a tone that was not unlike a school teacher to a seven year old who is wanted in the principal’s office. I know Dan from the business, and I was hoping he was going to tell me it was all a mistake. I left Steven out on the patio (we did ask if we could eat out there in shorts but we were informed quite succinctly that the answer was “No”), and I was whisked back to see Dan, who cooks in a wide brimmed straw farmers hat, I suppose to keep the organic earth theme going (the man looks good in straw, indeed, but is that a fire hazard?). Dan apologized about the dress code, and told me that he had some pants Steven could wear. We went to his office, where he pulled out some pin-stripped Banana Republic trousers from a bottom desk drawer. (I guess the hostess couldn’t find any pants so this was our only option.) They were sort of dirty, with mud on the cuffs and stains on the legs. “You want him to wear these?” I asked. “Yes, or he can wear my jeans,” he said as he pulled them out from the same drawer. Ah the life of a chef, pants stuffed in desk drawers, “I have had these since 9th grade,” he said, and seemed to get misty eyed. I decided on the dirty pinstriped pants and brought them out to Steven who was working his was through his second Martini on the patio.

Just then, David, Dan’s brother, walked by, and talked to us about the dress code, informing us that they had sent several parties away that night who were dressed in shorts. Way to welcome the neighborhood guys. Anyway, Steven was being a good sport about it, and he told David it was not a problem, and he asked where he could change. “In the manure shed, over there,” he offered, in complete seriousness, pointing at a square stone building at the edge of the restaurant. “Okay,” Steven answered, not skipping a beat. And off Steven went to the manure shed (now used to store extra tables and chairs, not manure) to change out of his Donna Karan culottes and into Dan’s dirty, wrinkly BR pinstripes.

To top it all off, some kids were playing down yonder by the stone shed (yonder is a word making a special appearance in my vocabulary for this edition of THE STRONG BUZZ), and a young boy walked in on Steven while he was in a state of undress, and catching him clad only in his 2-X-ist underwear. The boy said “Sorry Mister,” screamed and went running out. There was a small commotion. Steven believes the boy’s voice went up an octave. Oops.

CHAPTER THREE: A SALT SHAKER WOULD BE NICE

Now, after accidentally flashing a young boy in the manure shed while changing into the chef’s pants, we were seated for dinner. Snug in our chocolate brown corner banquette, dirty pants on, culottes resting between us, we were finally enjoying the view of the rolling hills and blue skies straight ahead. We were handed our menus, tall thin raw beige bi-folds with blue and white ticker-stripe bindings (great job Lauren). The menu is divided into four parts—Farm Eggs, From the Sea, Out Pasture, Hudson Valley Pastures. There are no apps, no entrees, all dishes seem to be the same small entrée size. Dinner can be two ($46), three ($56) or four savory courses ($66), not including dessert.

The massive, yet user friendly wine list was developed by Don Castaldo (formerly of The Kettle House) and Derek Todd (formerly of The Red Cat) and lists all wines by varietal, from cool to warm climate and includes an international selection from Austria, France, and Italy, and the New World, as well as a good selection of New York (like Lieb Cellars and Paumanok from Long Island and Red Newt from the Finger Lakes) and California wines. The sommelier offered to pick out wines to match our dinner, and we agreed to let him guide us. He didn’t ask us what price point we were going for the but first white he chose was a Fiano, and at $44 we were happy with the choice (terrific wine) and the price. Later on though, things got a little crazy.

While we waited for dinner, we were served small, warm housemade rolls, shaped like open books, with thick buttery pages of flaky biscuit dough. We tore through them in moments and when we were asked if we’d like more, the answer was a hearty “Yes, please.” These were delicious.

Mulling over the menu, we settled on a few of the egg courses (we both love eating eggs at night), and the braised bacon and roasted pig dish, and the waiter told us Dan would send us a few dishes that he thought we might like. How nice.

While we were tearing into round two of the orgasmic rolls (and I wonder why my clothes don’t fit), we were served one of the most outrageous little crocks of chicken liver patés I have ever tasted, made by Adam, one of Dan’s army of cooks. The creamy paté was spiced up with cinnamon, coriander, garlic, and nutmeg, and topped with a tiny dice of chives, pickled ramps, and Allepo pepper giving the cashmere-like paté some texture and a lush, insistent heat. It was fantastic. We shined the bowl clean.

Just then our first courses arrived—the “Maine sea scallops in the style of ceviche, with oysters, herring caviar and romaine lettuces,” and the “lightly smoked salmon, as a tart with spring onion soubise, parsley, sunny side up egg.” The scallops were stunning—sheer pearl slices of raw scallop, buttery and delicate, topped with a lively sauce made from romaine lettuce. But the coarse sea salt was a bit overpowering along with the herring caviar and masked the scallop’s precious flavors. As for the lightly smoked salmon, it was sliced in thick rectangular planks and had little discernable smokiness, or flavor for that matter; it was totally unseasoned. The sunny-side up egg was similarly unseasoned, and served cut with a circular cookie cutter so it rested atop the planks of fish in a uniform circle. It looked very neat and tidy but I prefer my eggs the way they come out of the frying pan, with unevenly shaped whites and crispy brown edges left on. The spring onion sauce was a gorgeous bright green color, and had a fresh light taste, but it was just too gentle in flavor, especially with no flavor coming from the fish or the egg. The dish was flat; it needed some hills in it.

This lack of salt issue brings me to a pet peeve of mine. There was no salt or pepper on the tables. I understand that some chefs believe their seasoning does not need to be adjusted by the diner (peons that know nothing of how food should be seasoned), and therefore they do not dress tables with salt and pepper. But I know how I like my food to taste, and I like it to have some flavor. I didn’t ask for salt because I could just see the scene with the waiter and the chef unfolding like this in the kitchen. “Chef, excuse me,” our waiter would say. “That table with the woman who wanted to change tables and the guy who is wearing your pants, they want salt and pepper now.” I was sure that request would result in our prompt ejection from the area known as Stone Barns to an area known as the train back to New York, and so I kept my mouth shut, and suffered without salt.

Salt-less, we moved on to our next course—a salad of “eleven mixed greens and herbs from the greenhouse with creamy eggs, diced apricots, toasted pistachios and lemonette,” and a “Bibb lettuce salad with warm chickpeas, soft/fried egg, almonds and pancetta vinaigrette.” The mixed green salad was terrific, dressed in a sauce of creamy well-seasoned scrambled eggs, more the texture soft, runny polenta than any sort of stiff breakfast scrambled eggs. Tossed with the eleven herbs and greens were diced apricots and toasted pistachios that added a great textural element, and some sweetness and nuttiness to the plate; the bright lemonette gave the dish a sharp hit of acid. Nicely done.

The Bibb lettuce salad, a deconstructed frisee of sorts, did not fare as well. The soft poached egg is breaded and deep-fried, a really cool idea that Tom Valenti has mastered at Ouest, and one that Dan has not. The egg yolk was thick and gooey, cooked too long, and so it didn’t run down over the greens. And while I liked the hot pancetta vinaigrette, drizzled over the salad tableside from a small cast iron saucepot, the pancetta was too strong for the delicate Bibb lettuces. It belongs with frisee or chickory—heartier greens that can stand up to such a salty meaty dressing.

For our last courses, we were served the poached chicken breast with faro, cauliflower, and ramps and the braised bacon and roasted pig with wintered Jerusalem artichokes, arugula and dried plums. Though the chicken was cooked perfectly, slowly poached so it was silky sweet and moist, it was served with a risotto-like mixture of farro and cauliflower and it was just plain D-U-L-L dull. The dish was monochromatic in color and flavor. There was no Oomph, no punctuation. I’m not saying the dish tasted bad, it just didn’t taste at all. On the other hand, the braised bacon and roasted pig dish was—other than that chicken liver pate and those great rolls—the best thing we ate all night. A small juicy loin was served with a fat square of luscious pork belly and a killer gratin of Jerusalem artichokes layered with caramelized onions and marbled with sweet dried plums. A small arugula salad with shaved circles of radish added a dimension of sharpness and spice that cut through the richness of the lovely pig on the plate. This is winner—a dish that finds a voice louder than a whisper.

For dessert, we had the sheep’s milk ricotta cheesecake that was pretty much destroyed by a boiling hot pineapple sauce that was poured over the cake tableside. The sauce was a mistake on two levels—it tasted like something from Del Monte, and it was so hot that it cooked the creamy ricotta, turning it into farmer’s cheese before our very eyes. I wanted to yell, “STOP! Leave my cake alone!” But it was too late. It was cooked. Our other dessert, however, was simple and lovely, a gorgeous garnet red rhubarb soup dotted with poached diced rhubarb topped with mint sorbet and vanilla ice cream. This dessert was light, refreshing and ended our meal on as perfect a note as possible.

It was now time for Steven to change out of Dan’s pants and for us to pay our check and grab a taxi back to the station. When the check arrived we found that our second bottle of wine—a Chateauneuf-du-Pape, was $102, a significant jump from the $44 Fiano. The sommelier didn’t mention that when he recommended it as our second bottle, and we hadn’t even finished half of it. At almost $400, and we were pissed and disappointed. The meal was not worth that kind of money. And wasn’t there a discount for being in the chef’s pants? Apparently not.

We returned Dan’s pants (Steven changed in the manure shed again, this time without a visit from anyone) then we walked out to the courtyard to wait for our cab that the hostess had arranged for us. Once safely inside the cab, we began discussing our meal (as most food obsessed people do). After a few minutes of listening, the cabbie piped up: “I haven’t heard a good review yet.” A fly on the wall speaks.

The food at Blue Hill Stone Barns is good, but it should be better (and hopefully it will). Some dishes rise to the level the ingredients; others lack a pop that could be achieved with salt, heat, acid, and contrast. Dan is an honest, earnest and dedicated chef who I admire for many reasons. His approach to food and cuisine is rooted in preservation and sustainability. He sees the big picture, connecting food back to the earth and supporting local regional produce. This should not be trivialized. He is preserving our food supply and educating a new generation of chefs to do the same. But the disconnect for me is that you don’t taste the passion he has in his principles on the plate. And for $400 (and a 45-minute commute each way), I want to be writhing with pleasure in my seat. I was touched in the right place a few times, but nothing that was going to make me scream. And this girl likes to scream.

Blue Hill Stone Barns and the Stone Barns Center for Food and Agriculture is at 630 Bedford Road, Pocantico Hills, NY, 914-366-9600. Hours: Sunday, Wednesday and Thursday 5-10pm, Fri and Sat 5-11pm; Sunday brunch starts Father’s Day, 11 am-2pm. Take the Hudson Valley line to Tarrytown (30-40 minute train ride, www.mta.nyc.ny.us for schedules and fares), grab a cab (no need to call they are usually there, but if you need a number, Annie’s Taxi is at 914-333-0434), that will set you back between $7 and $10 for the 10 minute ride to Blue Hill Stone Barns. For information on educational programs and events at the Stone Barns Center for Food and Agriculture please visit www.bluehillstonebarns.com or www.stonebarnscenter.org, or email info@stonebarnscenter.org.

Andrea Strong

Andrea Strong