Vegetables

By Gwen Ashley Walters | OCTOBER 31, 2010 | TRAVEL EATS

Odd that I begin this look at Talisker On Main, a new restaurant in Park City, Utah, with a picture of Brussels sprouts. Even more odd, I actually ordered it. Stranger still, I enjoyed it.

I’ve never been a fan of Brussels sprouts, but I was in the middle of a three-week experiment as a temporary vegetarian, and the Rocky Mountain elk carpaccio or the grilled baby octopus or the sous vide duck breast weren’t going to cut it for my first course.

So roasted Brussels sprouts with sherry vinegar, toasted hazelnuts and mixed berries had to do — and did so nicely, with the vinegar and berries effectively zeroing out the bitter cabbage taste.

Based in Park City for a few weeks to write a travel story for PHOENIX Magazine, I’d heard about a posh new restaurant that had opened last January on the historic Main Street in Park City.

Talisker on Main is owned by Talisker Mountain Deer Valley, a luxury residential development company, and Talisker on Main is their first open-to-the-public restaurant. Inside is a bistro scene, with a black and white large-tiled floor, dark wood tables, powder blue accents and an open exhibition kitchen. Tucked on the side is a narrow, charming patio anchored by a fireplace.

Even though the restaurant is billed as fine dining, Park City is a resort town, so casual dress isn’t out of the question. The cuisine is modern American, with global influences, and French cooking techniques and presentations, including starting the meal with an amuse bouche.

Like this heirloom tomato slice on top of a square of seared polenta, garnished with a whisper of frisée and paper-thin shallots.

There was only one vegetarian entree, but after one bite it was clear that it wasn’t just an after-thought dish. English pea Israeli couscous risotto with fried chick peas and a pistou of zucchini and garlic was just as deeply flavored as any meat dish could be. I loved the tempura battered and fried squash blossoms, too.

That didn’t mean I didn’t drool over my dining partner’s buttermilk fried chicken with black-eyed peas and garlicky collard greens.

I did sneak a bite of the honey glazed biscuit, but still, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of envy with heady wafts of chicken fat drifting my way.

I consoled myself with a rich chocolate lavender torte, draped in Ecuadorian chocolate ganache, sprinkled with praline crumbs and accompanied by a small scoop of limoncello sorbet.

Isn’t it funny how chocolate always makes up for a lack of fried chicken?

Talisker On Main
515 Main Street
435-658-5479
Entree prices $19-$34

By Gwen Ashley Walters | DECEMBER 24, 2008 | NEWS & NIBBLES

slogarDeep. Fried. Chicken. There are no sweeter words than these when used together. (I. Love. You. is a close second, though.) Fried chicken is my all-time favorite comfort food. Not favorite food, mind you, that would be a hamburger — Dad’s hamburger to be more specific.

Growing up, fried chicken was a weekly staple. I can’t say that Mom’s fried chicken is the best I’ve ever had, but it certainly formed the basis of my comfort craving. Mom’s chicken never had the skin left on, and the skillet-fried chicken’s crust wasn’t particularly crunchy the way the best fried chicken’s crust is. I’m quite certain that’s because there was no skin, and only one layer of coating.

I’ve had two ethereal experiences with fried chicken that have left indelible marks on my psyche. Twice, I’ve eaten fried chicken where I swear I heard angels sing. The first was in the town of Crested Butte in Colorado. The restaurant (pictured) is called The Slogar, an old restaurant with even older cast-iron skillets. Their chicken isn’t deep fried, per se, but it is fried in oil deep enough to almost qualify as deep frying.

The second experience happened just last Sunday at a new restaurant in Phoenix,  noca. Sunday Simple Sundays at noca feature three-course prix fixe menus, with a rotating menu. Last Sunday happened to be fried chicken night. Deep. Fried. Chicken. And I heard the angels sing. Glory, hallelujah! It’s simultaneously fortunate and unfortunate that noca’s fried chicken isn’t available on the regular menu every day — fortunate because I can’t afford the calories on a weekly basis, unfortunate because I want that fried chicken every week.

I never make fried chicken at home for two reasons: the aforementioned macabre caloric count and the mess. Making fried chicken is a slovenly bothersome proposition. Inevitably, flour gets all over the kitchen, copious amounts of oil splatters everywhere, and then what to do will all that left over oil? Convert it to biodiesel? I don’t have a Mercedes Benz anyway. No, it’s much better to eat fried chicken in someone else’s kitchen, especially if that kitchen happens to be in an old Victorian house in the middle of the Rockies, or in the tres chic, new restaurant on Camelback Road.

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