Sauce
I have got to learn not to lollygag after work. I headed up to Fell Street in the hope of picking up the first "Goon" trade at Isotope, but arrived after they'd closed. Failing that, I decided I wanted to finally have a dinner success without anyone's intervention.
Enter Sauce on Gough Street. The menu was just too provocative to ignore: roasted chicken macaroni and cheese with asparagus; meatloaf wrapped bacon served with whipped potatoes, green beans, and mushrooms.
The aforementioned mac, by the way, was more like an unfolded chicken dumpling in tangy herby sauce of goodness. But, given that I have an expense account and increasingly little shame, I saved room for dessert.
This is the story of that dessert.
I ordered the PB&J. To imagine this, one must imagine a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that got into a torrid relationship with a strawberry shortcake, and then, in the midst of making sweet, sweet naked love, runs off and gets into a different affair with an ice cream sandwich.
The "bread" is pound cake. Then there's a very thin layer of chunky peanut butter, and in the middle is French vanilla ice cream. Just before serving, the thing is grilled like a grilled cheese sandwich. Then it's sliced into thin layers and served on a plate with a large smear of strawberry jam into which one is well-advised to sop up with the sandwich. Then there's the whipped cream, the strawberries, and the mint.
I actually giggled after taking my first bite (and several times later), as I realized I was eating some kind of complex culinary pun. The thing was delicious and wierd, and getting in just the tiniest bit of mint with a bite could completely alter the experience if one were so inclined.
I asked the waitress to kindly tell the chef he's a mad genius. The place is called Sauce. If you're in the neighborhood, you really should stop by.
Enter Sauce on Gough Street. The menu was just too provocative to ignore: roasted chicken macaroni and cheese with asparagus; meatloaf wrapped bacon served with whipped potatoes, green beans, and mushrooms.
The aforementioned mac, by the way, was more like an unfolded chicken dumpling in tangy herby sauce of goodness. But, given that I have an expense account and increasingly little shame, I saved room for dessert.
This is the story of that dessert.
I ordered the PB&J. To imagine this, one must imagine a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that got into a torrid relationship with a strawberry shortcake, and then, in the midst of making sweet, sweet naked love, runs off and gets into a different affair with an ice cream sandwich.
The "bread" is pound cake. Then there's a very thin layer of chunky peanut butter, and in the middle is French vanilla ice cream. Just before serving, the thing is grilled like a grilled cheese sandwich. Then it's sliced into thin layers and served on a plate with a large smear of strawberry jam into which one is well-advised to sop up with the sandwich. Then there's the whipped cream, the strawberries, and the mint.
I actually giggled after taking my first bite (and several times later), as I realized I was eating some kind of complex culinary pun. The thing was delicious and wierd, and getting in just the tiniest bit of mint with a bite could completely alter the experience if one were so inclined.
I asked the waitress to kindly tell the chef he's a mad genius. The place is called Sauce. If you're in the neighborhood, you really should stop by.