Turning Toward Panna Cotta

Last week, when I got to Portland, I opened the launch issue of maine., which was supplied in the hotel room. In it I found a photo of two of my favorite chefs, a married couple. One is chef at Evangeline; the other is chef at Bresca. I love both places rather desperately. But when people ask me to name my “favorite” restaurant in Portland (nearly an impossibility), I waver between Bresca and Back Bay Grill.

The maine. article noted that the two chefs would be embarking on a new adventure. “Starting in October, the chefs will take the seats and tables out of Bresca, reset the dining room, and, for 12 diners paying $120 each, prepare a 12-course themed dinner.” They would be calling this venture 12 Seats.

That’s what it said.

I was mostly devastated at the thought of losing Bresca, the place where I without fail order the honeycomb-and-pecorino appetizer (bresca being the Catalan word for honeycomb [yes, Lali?]), the shaved brussels sprouts salad (with walnuts and pecorino and parm), and my favorite dessert in the entire world, bar none: the buttermilk panna cotta.

It’s not that I don’t love the idea of 12 Seats. I do love it. Truth be told, I’ve only gone to Evangeline on prix fixe night so that the chef can serve me whatever he wants. He, like his wife, is a culinary god. I’m convinced.

But at $240/couple at 12 Seats, well, it won’t happen very often for me, I’m afraid. (I’m dreaming of once.)

Tim and I only had a couple of nights this trip, and we had already made reservations at Back Bay Grill. It had been many months since we’d eaten there, and we’d just been to Bresca in July. I don’t know that we’ve ever splurged and gone to both Back Bay Grill and Bresca on the same trip, but suddenly, it was looking like this was our last chance to get to Bresca.

So, the evening after a stupendous (as always) meal at Back Bay, complete with a lovely visit with Adrian the sommelier, we found ourselves walking by Bresca just to see if we could get in.

We just could. If we sat down now. Because although Bresca was about to become 12 Seats, the restaurant in its entirety seats fewer than 20.

Early on, we asked the waitress about the impending change. And that’s when we were told that 12 Seats was in fact a Sunday-night-only thing. “A lot of people have been confused about that,” she declared.

This information would have been a nice addition to the article. I was a bit miffed at the omission.

I then had to subdue my guilt about eating there that night. I certainly would have gone lower end if I hadn’t thought I was off to the Last Supper. Luckily, I managed to wash most of that guilt down with a nice fiano di avellino.

And every yummy bite ultimately led, of course, to the ordering of my favorite dessert in the entire world (truly—this is not hyperbole): Bresca’s buttermilk panna cotta. A perfect panna cotta swimming in a passion fruit broth, topped with fresh fruit and a scoop of white-pepper sorbet on the side. Its beauty has brought to tears to my eyes. In fact, if that panna cotta were to be served by itself, without those heavenly additions, it alone would be enough to make me believe in purity and goodness. It is physical evidence of those things.

Imagine my surprise when I was electronically flipping through the New York Times this morning and discovered an article about Portland restaurants and, as part of the accompanying slide show, a photo of my beloved:

Oh, happiness.

Thinking of this happiness makes me think of Louise—not just because she lives in Portland, but because she’s been reminding me to be happy. On Monday, she posted (on Facebook) a photo of her red-fresh haul of yard-picked raspberries with the caption “Do not postpone joy.” That same afternoon, Dana posted “News flash! Procrastinating is so much more fun than working!” Add to these philosophical jabs the recent news that a dearly loved member of the community had died quite suddenly, then imagine me looking out my office window that afternoon. The sun was still shining. I reconsidered an invitation, shut down the computer, and went to the river. Sioux and I sat in the shallows in lawn chairs, our faces to the sun, our feet in the water. We just talked, soaking in the end of summer.

Do not postpone joy. That’s a tough thing to live. I mean, if I lost my job because I was out not-postponing-joy all the time, joy could come to a rather screeching halt. It’s complicated.

But I know it’s too easy to let the balance slip away from joy’s favor.

Good friends. Good food. Fruit in season. Playing outside, in the streams or the streets.

It sounds simple enough.

Who would like to meet me for panna cotta to discuss this further?