Goodwyf Davidda’s Hearth opened a new venue in the heart of downtown this week, and I could not wait to see their post-modernist, pre-futuristic, meta-gustatory skills shine through the lens of hyperlocal and social-anti-vegan head chef Alabama James Darkness.
The chain operates on a rotating theme system, with the menus supporting the chosen week’s theme. This week, the theme is ‘Understanding Without Thought: The Meaning Of Food’. I was delighted and intrigued as I took my place – the seating arrangements are also altered to support the theme, so in this week’s experience, diners sit on mats woven from the promotional t-shirts of failed political candidates, and the ‘tables’ are cable reels sawn in half.
The amuse-bouche arrived in the form of a flatbread ‘parchment’ upon which, in pseudo-nutritive altered-brightness yam ink, was written a brief essay on how the conversion of rainforests to farmland is causing the extinction of more species than can be counted. It was delicious, if a bit dry, but it is my opinion that this was intentional, to reflect the loss of the verdant rainforest lands of South America.
The soup course was delivered by a porter dressed as an oil derrick worker, and was a bowl of seawater in which was floating several spun-sugar bottles, no doubt referencing the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. While I thoughtfully chewed the bottles, the porter stood behind me and chanted a list of the true names of the animals who had choked to death on the debris floating in the ocean. I have no way to know if it was planned or if it was serendipity, but the scansion of the chant matched perfectly with the rhythm of my jaw. Brighteyes Farseer, you were a noble gull, and this world is truly poorer for your loss after you choked on the cap of a discarded RC Cola bottle.
A palate cleanser arrived in the form of a small packet – the wrapping was a rice-paper envelope, upon which was written an essay about child hunger in America, written by a seven-year old terminal leukemia patient contracted through the Make-A-Wish foundation. Seeing no obvious means of entry, I tore the essay in two, to find a broken saltine cracker and three bruised grapes, along with a card reading “Eat of this, but know that it was meant to be my only sustenance for two days.” Brilliant.
After the crumbs were taken away, another porter dressed as a priest approached me, with a chicken resting on his shoulder, and bearing a dolly with a tank of live trout and a goat on a leash. “Is this the entree?” I inquired. “Yes,” he replied. “Tonight’s entree is Modified Death Curry.” He offered a choice between chicken, fish, or goat, and I told him I would like the goat. At this, he produced a Luger, shot the goat dead in front of me (theatrics! dinner theater never died, it just changed), and left. Two porters dragged the goat to the kitchen, one of them handing me a small card which bore the text “His name was Stephen”. I was served a stunning curry made of the goat – and to my surprise, the chicken and fish as well! Clearly this was meant to be an educational note that no living being exists in a vacuum – we are all part of a great web of interdependence and our lives are inextricably tied together.
I’d heard good things about Stern Glowers, the pastry chef hired on for the new location, and I am happy to report that the stories are true, she is a genius. Dessert was a platter of whole-grain Hopi buckwheat honor-biscuits, accented with a gentle almond-carob ganache. Eating the biscuits revealed the message written on the platter in reverently-steamed radish coulis: “Though it forgets my name, I forgive the wind.” Bravissimo.