A throwback keeps the hearth lit.
These bucolic notions are both fanciful and forced. While the preparations show considerable skill, these sylvan touches resonate as precious. Too much fuss is made over the house charcuterie, which was available as three different appetizers: game bird terrine ($12), rabbit ballotine ($11) and a torchon of foie gras ($13). The three charcuteries would have been better condensed into one sampler plate, as each serving was a dainty slice, and none particularly stood out.
The game bird terrine, a combination of squab, guinea hen, pheasant and red partridge, was not unlike boiled chicken. It was sufficiently moist and very fresh, but apart from their different flesh tones, there was little to distinguish them. A sprinkle of fresh thyme was manna in the flavor desert, as was a fleeting pleasant green taste in the gelee. The accompanying salad of red cabbage, brussels sprouts and green apple was tart and astringent, but, like the rest of the dish, underwhelming.
The same can be said of the rabbit ballotine, a rabbit's innards wrapped in its meat and poached. While better than the terrine, it still lacked character. Though the rabbit guts were exciting-with the same iron-rich taste as chicken liver-the meat was tender but bland.
In both preparations, one misses a kind of country funk. In the same way you think you can taste the farm animal in a fresh egg or a glass of raw milk, one hopes that in charcuterie, the taste of coarse rural flavors would come through. Instead, Hearth offers featureless dishes that seem little more than city-fied versions of the bumpkin originals.
The foie gras torchon escaped this classification, though not by a whole lot. It arrived as a cylindrical slice, a cold slab of dense, salted fat, with citrus mustard and walnuts caramelized to a crisp. My companions enjoyed it, but I found it tasted more like nice, salty cheese or butter than goose or duck liver.
The non-charcuterie starters proved more worthwhile. Red wine braised octopus with celery root, celery and potato ($12) was exquisitely tender, and the mineral flavor of celery was a good match for the octopus. The duck consomme with chicken tortellini ($9)-a sparkling beefy broth with somewhat coarse pasta dumplings-was wholesome, but uncomfortably straddled the line between rough and refined.
Of the savory dishes, the sides made the most lasting impressions. Hen of the woods mushrooms ($7) were doused in garlic and olive oil and cooked in a wood-burning stove. The results were spectacular. The mushrooms' branch-like arms turned woody and crisp, and the meat was chewy and full of flavor. Gnocchi ($7) were heavenly little pillows: light, curdy and slightly sour.
The entrees brought us back to Earth. Braised lamb shoulder and ribs with lamb tongue, escarole and barlotti beans ($22) didn't hit the mark. The bits of diced tongue were grayish in color with a dank flavor to match. Chopped preserved lemon served as a relish that nicely cut into the lamb, which was marbled through with fat. The shoulder was prepared tenderly, as was the rib, but my favorite part of the dish was the toothsome barlotti beans. The roasted sirloin with braised short rib, trumpet royale mushrooms and shallots ($26) was solidly prepared-the sirloin strips were clearly high-quality and expertly cooked-though the most memorable part of the dish was the sticky mound of shallot marmalade.
(We ate at Hearth the day before they got their liquor license. They will soon have a focused wine list that includes seasonal selections from 20 regions.)
After the sides, dessert provided the third dazzling moment of the evening. The milk chocolate tart with semolina crust and peanut brittle ice cream ($8) is the heir apparent to the molten chocolate cake. A truly erotic experience, the glossy filling comes gushing out in a pool of liquid when you break through the crust. Though this is without a doubt a very serious chocolate dessert, the uses of milk chocolate and the (very good) peanut brittle ice cream make it more accessible with these American twists.
Persimmon steamed pudding ($8) fell on the other end of the decadence spectrum. It came off as a dessert that might have been first served in a convent. The spongy pudding, made with pureed persimmon (though you can't really taste it) had that distinct "good for you" flavor that one develops radar for as a kid. It was an earthy mush, pleasant but unnerving, as it was difficult to figure out exactly what was going on.
Some well-conceived ice cream flavors like cranberry and tangerine sorbets and sweet potato ice cream ($8) showed potential but were overly sweet. The cranberry was frothy and nice, but I would have been happier if the pastry chef had taken a risk and really capitalized on the bitterness of the fruit. The tangerine sorbet was a bit icy in texture and smacked of a popsicle. The sweet potato ice cream was pretty much interchangeable with the flavor of pumpkin pie. It would have been a real coup if the starchy texture of sweet potato could have somehow been incorporated into the ice cream.
The overall dining experience was highly competent, if not good. I must attribute some lingering feelings of disappointment to the fact that servers here can talk. Our waiter adoringly recited every step of preparation for the dishes on the menu, nearly whispering us into a food coma. The spell he cast made it extremely challenging to gauge how good something was (or wasn't) once we actually ate it. I literally had to shake myself out of the haze of his descriptive powers to properly assess what was in my mouth. This seems to epitomize the experience at Hearth. The menu was ambitious, the attitude toward food serious, but the product didn't quite match the enthusiasm.