I was no less wounded than anyone else. It was a board that brought to mind visions of the Spotted Pig in Manhattan, inspired a vague longing for butcher's blocks and Amex gold cards with unlimited lines of credit. I read that first menu release like it was porno, with a focused and frankly degrading level of single-minded concentration. Despite the fact that Colt & Gray (which was named after Perkins's two sons, something that the servers make a big deal out of any time anyone brings a child into the dining room) had been labeled a gastropub, I wanted to go to there in a real bad way. I wanted to live like a mouse in the pantry, gorging myself nightly on pig's feet and bone marrow.
Mmm... pig's feet and bone marrow. Really, I am a sucker for offal. For the strange bits and unlovely parts of all god's critters.
Anyone can burn a steak on the grill. Anyone can roast a chicken. Not just anyone can make something delicious out of trotters -- but the cooks at Colt & Gray can. They've got the magic.
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And tomorrow, you can read all about it here, as well as details of my visit to Vert Kitchen and the usual spread of interviews and reports from the front lines of the food world.