This life thing is kind of ephemeral, you know? We all got dragged into cyber hell yesterday, the political circus, all that. Time to carpe diem- seize it with both hands and wring all the life out of it while we can.
But for all that, there are some things that seem to transcend it all. The Inn at Little Washington is a place that makes time and space seem as ephemeral as we are.
Dining there has always been on the bucket list for things to do in NoVA, but it is an extravagance that I couldn’t really justify as I confront the imperative of transitioning from busy-busy Washingtonian to equally busy- but unpaid- semi-retirement. My friends have been going to the Inn for years as a way-point between the Mid West and the Outer Banks where they vacation.
Donna is the vivacious daughter of one of the great friends of my life, Admiral Mac Showers. Tom is her husband, an ebullient raconteur and enterprising capitalist with an engaging curiosity about the history that has brought us all to this place in the world. Ashleigh is their marvelous daughter, and always a delight to be with.
They were kind enough to extend an invitation to join them at The Inn, and it was an extraordinary experience. The day was the usual frantic process of creating digital words, and I realized the tyranny of time and distance had its own imperative. I got a swim in at the Big Pink pool and then jumped into some presentable clothing and off in the Panzer to the wilds of Rappahannock County, feeling the madness of Arlington and Fairfax slip behind me and the road gently winding and curving to Washington, VA.
It is hard to describe the ambiance of the place. The town is beyond painfully cute. It could be Brigadoon, frozen in 1796. The Inn itself is a big block of a building that has grown with the evolving restaurant. It is a maze of little rooms, each with an eclectic ambiance all their own. We chatted for a while with a cocktail, and then were ushered back to one of two tables actually in the kitchen by Chris Castle, whose business card bears the well-earned title “Ringmaster.”
The entire process was mind-boggling.
Owner and founder Patrick O’Connell was abroad on culinary business, but he has created a smoothly functioning machine of 150 people who work in perfect harmony. He can step away for a moment and the mechanism will continue to function like a fine watch.
Patrick describes his masterpiece this way (I bought his cookbook to prepare myself for the experience):
“ For some The Inn is a romantic fantasy world far removed from the harsh realities of modern day life, for others it’s a culinary oasis akin to visiting a Michelin-starred restaurant in the European countryside. Some are surprised – and relieved – that The Inn doesn’t take itself too seriously. Guests often remark that while the interiors could be called grand they are also whimsical and wonderfully comfortable.
For history lovers Washington, Virginia is one of the few unspoiled villages left in America. They say it hasn’t changed much since George Washington first surveyed it and named the streets back in 1749. Whatever you’re seeking rest assured that our staff will welcome the challenge of living up to all of your impossible expectations. We consider it our business to make dreams come true.”
(The kitchen of The Inn at Little Washington from the vantage of our table. From the menu cover.)
Our entrance into the kitchen was another in the string of wonders, a sacred secular ritual all its own. One of the sous chefs was robed like a Cardinal and waved a censor of incense before us. Patrick, after all, is known as the Pope of American Cuisine. A soundtrack of Gregorian chants wafted from the beams above as we were seated in a corner of the bustling working space.
The service was attentive, courteous, engaged and unfailingly polite. Chris is the personable hub around which the organized chaos revolves- the “ringmaster” indeed. The sommelier- Leo? Hugo?- was a constant but un-ubiquitous presence. Tom had arranged three bottles of Bordeaux from an estate in France, each bottled a decade apart in 1986, 1996 and 2006. The Parker review had them each rated between 98 and 100+, and they were a rich delight on the tongue. The evolution of the wine through the years was extraordinary to experience, and the glasses never got quite to the bottom.
The food was presented amidst the bustle of a working kitchen in tapas-sized dishes and extraordinary in the diversity of taste and texture- and the thing that completely avoided pretense while adhering to the most rigorous of preparatory rites: whimsy.
We started with a small portion of popcorn, with chocolate truffles shaved on top before our wondering eyes, and then eaten with fingers. It served to set the tone for the experience: elegant but casual.
We plucked the mini- taters stuffed with source cream and chives, topped with a sprinkle of American caviar the same way. Then to the intricate parade of dishes:
A shot of chilled watercress soup;
A quartet of “Wellfleet” oyster slurpees;
Filet of Antarctic Sea Bass with Lemon Vodka Sauce, miniature shrimp and Pork Dumpling;
Hickory-glazed Kurobuta pork jowl with collard Greens;
Aged Gouda Macaroni and Cheese with Virginia Country Ham
Peking Paradise Duck Breast with sour cherries from their orchard, wild rice pecan pilaf and Inn-grown garden turnips;
a delicate sorbet to cleanse the palate, then:
A magnificent cherry tart with French press coffee.
Our host thought an after-dinner drink was appropriate, and we settled on Bailey’s for her, rocks, and for himself and me, 2 ounces of 23-year-old Pappy Van Winkles Family Reserve Bourbon.
I had never tasted any of this stuff, or better said, never tasted it the way it was prepared and served with an element of pure joy. The last of the light was fading as we slowly walked back through the maze to the parking lot.
The Webbs saw me off in the growing country gloom. They are smart- they are staying there for the night. I thought the 30-odd miles down Rt. 211 would be calm, but the high-beams of oncoming traffic and the undulating blacktop and snake-like meandering of the road through the low hills in the increasingly inky night got my attention.
I successfully navigated to Culpeper and through the Saturday crowd in town and was at the farm a little after ten, way past my bedtime, but the French-press coffee served me well enough. I made a mental note to really get serious about replacing the burned out security light, and had to find my flashlight in the go-bag in the trunk to find the slot in the lock on the front door. Once the lights were on, and the computer set up, I poured a generous drink of the cheap stuff I drink and sighed.
That was one for the ages. Best company. Best meal of my life.
Copyright 2015 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303