AS we close the book on the familiar old year, we ring in the new with fresh anticipation. On the cusp of this year’s annual crossroad, John-Michael Hamlet has opened his eponymous restaurant at Purdys Homestead in North Salem.
It’s a fitting move. Occupying the upper floor of this farmhouse built in 1775, this chef and his young family bring renewed energy to a house that was for so many years a home to many generations of Purdys.
Today’s visitor can still enjoy the warmth emanating from one of the original hearths. While watching the firelight through a balloon of good cabernet, a diner might imagine the lives of those who strode the dark wide-board floors, slightly askew and smoothed from centuries of use. And all this charm and history come with some impressive food. We’ve all paid a lot more for a lot less.
Restaurateurs have it relatively easy in summer, when markets bulge with sweet peas, fragile lettuces, tomatoes, zucchini and waxless cucumbers — items that in their pure form can and do speak for themselves. Working with winter produce is another matter, and only a serious chef can see aristocratic potential in, say, a head of humble cabbage. Mr. Hamlet is a serious chef, and he knows his culinary chemistry. For his hot and sour salad, he slices cabbage leaves into ribbons, sears them with olive oil, rice wine vinegar and a shot of spicy sriracha and mounds them next to watercress and a row of toasted, buttery macadamias.
On an icy night, after the distribution of fresh warm rolls and soft sweet butter, consider the soup. Butternut squash soup was gorgeously thick enough to float halves of spiced pecans and a swirl of crème fraîche. Or try John-Michael’s signature “foiejitas,” a small, hot iron skillet of perfect foie gras, candied shallots, sweet red peppers and delicate crepes the size of silver dollars. Scattered with sweet dried cherries, tender semiboneless quail rested on a bed of parmesan polenta.
Except for the butternut squash and a perfectly poached egg, black truffle hash seemed an ill-conceived dish with mushy gnocchi and chewy duck confit. Also to be avoided were oily pan-fried crab rolls with fruit accompaniments so intense that any taste of crab was canceled.
But the entrees would make any trip here worthwhile. Wild striped bass — Montauk’s finest — lived up to its reputation for sweet, fat, firm-fleshed meat that doesn’t buckle under strong treatment. Here it was matched brilliantly with whole melting cippolini and a surprisingly dark but successful smoky bacon sauce sweetened by a shot of brandy. Rich duck breast came with sweet-sour fennelkraut, a splendid idea and the kind of thing Mr. Hamlet does so well. In this, thin strips of red onion and fennel had been tossed with beer, white balsamic vinegar and sweet Riesling. Thickish blackberry and duck reduction added a luxurious fruity note to this fine balance of sweet, salt and sour.
Creamy leeks and potatoes and a thin lobster sauce could not have supported chubby seared scallops more agreeably, earthy shiitakes lending some turf to the surf. Lean and juicy, fresh Chatham cod with cauliflower purée and a light saffron and mustard sauce partnered with an intriguing shrimp and olive sausage. And everything was right with a thick, terrifically flavorful filet mignon with Yukon golds and red wine sauce.
For dessert, plain, warm apple crisp is in keeping with the simplicity of the farmhouse. But we were smitten with old-fashioned, caramel and hazelnut brioche pudding — so dense it could be shared — with butter pecan ice cream.
Weather interfered with a trip for brunch and a taste of toasted pecan pancakes and a lobster omelet with Brie — an adventure still to come in 2008.
