Dianne Williamson
Our whimsical waiter revealed that the pork chop on the menu was “served on a bed of summertime.”
Meanwhile, the restaurant’s renowned owner and chef explained that the mandatory 20-percent tip policy is part of the “holistic experience” of dining at his upscale, farm-to-table establishment.
“In America, tipping is used on a reward basis,” said Jared Forman, who has traveled the world in search of creative cuisine. “When you go to Japan, they don’t play that game.”
When it comes to deadhorse hill, suffice to say that we’re not in Kansas anymore. Or, more specifically, Worcester.
“Does anyone know what ‘spatzle’ is?” asked Nancy, one of the friends I dined with on a busy Friday night. To my horror, Nancy decided to Google “spatzle” on her phone just as our waiter returned. He frowned politely.
“I’M your Google,” Steve noted, a bit wounded. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Sufficiently chastised, we settled in to explore the menu, which was technically written in English and included many universally beloved food items, such as roast chicken and margaritas.
But look closer and you learn that said chicken is served with “chermoula and za’atar,” and we thought of asking Steve about it, to make up for Nancy’s awkward internet debacle, except that Steve is so knowledgeable about the food and its origins that we suspected we’d starve to death while he expounded on the chicken’s childhood history and political affiliations.
At deadhorse hill, they don’t simply serve your dinner; they interpret it, explain it and guide you through it. The waiters at deadhorse know more about the seared foie gras than you know about your entire family. And despite their penchant for deconstructing a plate of risotto like a nuclear physicist describes the atom, they show none of the snootiness particular to servers from, say, nearby Boston, which boasts an abnormally high snooty-server population. Maybe it’s the water.
Deadhorse is located in the historic Bay State House on Main Street and named for a notoriously steep Worcester incline. The dining room hosts an 1857 map of Worcester and boasts vintage features like exposed brick walls and a parquet tin ceiling.
It’s sophisticated but not stuffy, kind of like George Clooney.
And despite its nod to our plebeian city, deadhorse is an elegant outlier.
“The old guard in Worcester isn’t really our clientele,” acknowledged Forman, who runs the place with charisma and just a hint of hubris. “The culture here is tough.”
That was Forman’s diplomatic way of implying that, when it comes to food, we Worcesterites tend to douse our meat with ketchup and consider the tuna melt at Herbies the ultimate in fine dining. He didn’t exactly say so, but my friend Kathy helped him along.
“One of my favorite foods is the fried chicken wings by Sysco,” Kathy announced for some reason, and Forman seemed to age before our eyes, as Sysco is anathema to a chef who hails from some of New York and Boston’s most respected kitchens. Forman would only purchase breaded fowl from Sysco if he was somehow assured that it had been fondled by a French sous-chef.
“But fried chicken wings are the perfect comfort food,” Kathy continued to insist, and Forman resisted the urge to ask how she came to be invited, although you could tell he wanted to.
With Steve’s help, we placed our orders. The oysters were sublime, as was the smoked bluefish pâté and Caesar salad. We learned that my pork chop’s “bed of summertime” was sweet corn succotash and grilled garlic scape pesto. Delicious. We also tried the mysterious spatzle, which turned out to be a yummy egg pasta, although Kathy wasn’t a fan.
As often happens with friends of a certain age, the topic turned to our health, and I recounted the following verbatim exchange with my cardiologist.
“Do you exercise?” he asked.
“I try to walk every day,” I told him.
“But do you exercise?”
“Do I stutter?”
“But when you walk, do you stop and smell the roses?”
“God, no,” I replied. “I would never.” That otherwise-depressing answer seemed to satisfy him, and before leaving he urged me to discard the skins from chicken thighs before baking them, but I would never. I try to watch my weight, but I’m not a lunatic.
Steve returned to the table and told us with a straight face that one of the desserts “has its own plurality,” and we nodded thoughtfully as though we knew what he meant. We didn’t, of course, but I think we ordered it anyway, because by then we had lapsed into a Level 10 fine food coma.
“Is everyone happy?” Steve asked. “Content?” You could tell that he actually wanted to know. We nodded again, as Forman returned with his up-with-people persona.
“We just love it here,” he said. “There’s so much ‘us’ in this place. It’s a lot of work, but the uniqueness of this place is what makes it special.”
Our meal was over. Sadly, so was summertime. As Worcester welcomes the fall, we can celebrate the fact that not every menu is meant for everyone, but we can still move on happily to the next course, as long as it’s not breaded.