The host whisked my three dining companions and I to a table with even dimmer lighting than the lobby (headlamp optional). As we perused the menu, I was happy knowing that I looked good while pondering over the salmon or the pasta. The artful understated “v” and “gf” lettering denoting which dishes were gluten-free or vegetarian was a far cry from Yale dining’s menu cards. Maybe we should adopt Heirloom’s soft beige motif for aesthetic appeal?
Typically, I shy away from Restaurant Week dining because it’s usually rife with unimaginative menus, but the dishes on Heirloom’s prix-fixe menu hit all the right notes. The three appetizers—a kale salad, mushroom soup, and “simple farm greens”—are all vegetarian, and tasty if not particularly exciting. The four entrée options (spring pea falafel, caprino rigatoni, salmon, and pork belly) could please omnivores and vegans alike. Both my blissfully rare (by request) salmon and Korinayo Thompson’s, TD ’18, pork belly were perfectly cooked and complemented, in Heirloom style, by some restrained but bright vegetable sides.
Desserts—either strawberry shortcake panna cotta, butterscotch pudding, or a lemon sorbet sundae—didn’t satisfy my usual desire for salty-sweet in desserts, but hit good flavor and texture notes non the less.A poppy and graham cracker crumble resting on lemon curd won my vote, and the toasted marshmallow atop the pudding was a fun if ungainly touch.
After we each paid our separate checks, I couldn’t resist those lobby armchairs. I sank into a window seat, and spent the next two hours reading War and Peace. No sly, judgmental looks from the concierge this time. I had earned it.
Young urban professional that I am, I made a reservation (via phone! Several days in advance!) for dinner at Harvest during New Haven Restaurant Week. I expected decent food, jokes about Box, and excellent people-watching — love those floor-to-ceiling windows — but instead, I found myself at one of the more contemplative meals of my life.
The evening began in somewhat dilettantish fashion. I started with the shaved Brussels sprouts on top of a Parmesan risotto cake, because I like vegetables almost as much as I like feeling trendy. Cheesy and delicious, the appetizer lulled me into a false sense of security and satisfaction. I began to think that one could go to Harvest for the food.
Things went downhill with the main course. I’d chosen the wood grilled salmon with roasted baby carrots, fingerling potatoes, and beet vinaigrette. After I’d ordered, I started to wonder why all the side dishes were miniature vegetables instead of regular size. Why did the restaurant need to infantilize its customers? Would regular sized sides (tongue twister) have broken the bank? What does Harvest have against babies and fingers?
Lost in thought, I nibbled on the bread and olive oil the waiter had brought to the table and nearly choked on a very small olive. Admittedly, that was entirely my fault, but I had barely recovered when I noticed an oddly convex plastic circle draped over one of my tiny potatoes.
I fished it out and held it up to the light, wondering what exactly had been lingering in my fingerlings. Sticker backing? Sequin? Contact lens? Visions of party themes gone awry and half-blind chefs fumbling through the knife drawer danced in my head. More out of amusement than annoyance, I asked the waiter, who assured me that it was a fish scale and whisked away the plate. Little did he know I had already taken photos, next to a finger for scale (journalism!).
My dining companion and I proposed ridiculous uses for the shiny plastic circle until our dessert arrived. I’d ordered the Nutella-filled crêpes, described as “crapes” on the menu, and I was thrilled to discover that they did not live up to their unappetizing name. The caramel ice cream that accompanied the crêpe contained several dark shapes easily recognizable as chocolate chunks, a welcome respite from the earlier UFO conundrum.
All in all, the food at Harvest was about what I expected. I can attribute the slow service partially to the stress of Restaurant Week, but the retiree’s birthday celebration at the next table seemed more exciting than the menu. I couldn’t see myself yearning to return, much like the chef couldn’t see anything once his contact was on my plate. Skip Harvest for dinner unless you want a side of existentialism with your entrée.
Cask Republic is New Haven’s First Congregational Church of Beer. Looking around the cavernous main room, rendered in trim lines of burnished mahogany with splashes of dark leather, I was overwhelmed by its solemn gravitas. Bottles lined the shelves on the walls and filled floor-to-ceiling refrigerators in the back of the room, idols to the dark, ominous, and craft-brewed deities of this place. Here, I was in the realm of drafts like “Evil Twin Justin Blabaer”, “Ithaca Excelsior Seventeen”, and, most worryingly, “Sierra Nevada Devastation.” Ignorant of the world beyond 30-racks, I was a sinner in the hands of angry gods. As Jonathan Edwards would say: “Holy fuck, Cask has a lot of beer.”
I wanted to avoid drinking anything weird after the asbestos scare, so I looked longingly around for the familiar, camo-clad comfort of Keystone Light or the unassailable mediocrity of PBR. Blasphemy! The First Church of Cask worships microbreweries, leading the reformation against the tasteless, mass-produced standards that fuel our regrettable decisions. This is the place true be(er)lievers take their friends to show they know Doppelbocks from Dubbels, basking in gazes of admiration as they describe how the “floral flavor profile of the hops interacts with the caramel toffee malt.” It’s wine snobbery for the lumbersexual set. And Cask is the one place in New Haven where that kind of masturbation is not only expected, but encouraged. If you’re dropping 10+ bucks on a glass of beer, you’ve earned that right.
Beer is often a means to an end, and it’s difficult to stop and appreciate it while you’re chugging it in a frat basement or feeling it stick to your shoes as you stagger to the door at a party. Nobody is staggering anywhere at Cask. During the Tuesday evening I was there, it was filled with young professionals grabbing a drink after work, quietly contemplating the mysteries of the “real world” and post-college Facebook etiquette (Are red solo cups still a thing?). Cask can be depressingly adult – people here drink alcohol for the taste, so stick to Harvest for your cla$$y benders – but it often has its priorities straight. The menu is unapologetically crafted to complement the alcohol; it’s spruced-up pub fare. The main menu is extensive, but shorter than the beer list, a fold-out monstrosity which serves as Cask’s litany and scripture. (Fair warning: beer ranges from $6 to $27(!) dollars a bottle). My meal, a hamburger with bacon and slaw on a toasted brioche bun, was divine, and my first foray into Cask’s pantheon, a glass of Allagash White, was enough to make me a convert. Bone up on your beer bibles, and Cask Republic will welcome you with open arms – just make sure to bring a big enough tithe.