Another day, another medi-fusion tapas dinner.
I live very simply. I buy 3 bottles of shampoo a year. Sometimes I skip a few meals and splurge on well-made articles of clothing that are made in our country.
But mostly I reserve my funds for medi-fusion tapas.
Privé is just about free from the Old City that burns your heart to think about. At least on Labor Day weekend. The chef is 23 years old. The servers are equipped with palm pilots so that your order gets to the kitchen before you've even tacked on "the Exotic Mushrooms, extra exotic." It was not horrendously loud and packed to the seams for a Friday seating. It eventually picked up and I did not mind being extremely well-attended to. Dishes came out fast. Servers were on the ball. It's a young, young staff, so help them get through college.
Skordalia didn't make it onto the menu, but Melitzanosalata and truffle-infused hummus gave me enough of a pita-dipping workout. I've had better (Hamifgash in Jeweler's Row does amazing things for both). Vegetarians, prepare to make decisions. You get them here. On board is a flurry of plates that helm to no particular style, Medi-French-a wee bit Spanish. I followed the truffle trail with the Exotic Mushroom plate, a robust mass of wild mushrooms in a rich boursin-laced cream, infused with les truffs and perched atop rosemary focaccia. Multiple orgasms or you're dead inside. Dessert, or you're no good here.
Chef is a former pastry wizard, so dessert at Privé appears a nimble configuration. The walnut profiteroles are a small wonder, buoyant puffs capped off with a crunchy walnut crust, floating in a white and dark chocolate lake, dressed to the nines with even more artisan chocolat and a single perfect blackberry signature. It's my favorite sweet in the city as of now. The other towers of dessert that drifted by my table were all visual statements. Some things are meant to be shared.
Privé, 246 Market St.