Hearth: Revisited, Revised, Renewed
This blog is an expression of my thoughts and feelings just as much as it is an exercise to improve my writing. As a result I have revisited the very first piece published on my blog and revised it. If you haven’t read the initial piece, click the button below. If you have, then take a moment to read this version—I find it much more concise, cohesive, and enjoyable.
/härTH/
Noun: the floor of a fireplace, used as a symbol of one’s home
Situated on the bustling corner of 12th and 1st avenue, you wouldn’t expect this restaurant to effortlessly evoke such images of quiet seclusion and tranquility. I think it is because the entrance to the east village establishment is almost hidden—like a secret between established New Yorkers—on 12th street. As I approached, I was overcome with a certain nostalgia, reminiscent of the feeling I had many summers ago when I returned to my parents’ house, exhausted and hungry, from my first year as a student in Manhattan. I opened the door and the sounds blaring sirens and obnoxious voices faded away. My shoulders relaxed as my constant undercurrent of anxiety began to dissipate. Beneath the soft lights of the dining room and seated comfortably in chairs and leather banquettes, I was astonished by the sight of New Yorkers appearing content…even happy. This, I thought, can only happen when you are surrounded by good people and good food.
In 2017, Chef Marco Canora was named James Beard’s Best Chef: New York City. Ultimately, his love of Tuscan cuisine and seasonal ingredients is undeniable. But what I always find most impressive about Hearth is not its décor, curb appeal, or even its chef. As a concept, the Hearth restaurant is able to provide two entirely different but equally masterful methods of dining, supplying us with an intriguing analysis of what it now means to dine out in New York City. At Hearth’s kitchen counter, I witnessed a performance of masterful cooking. At a table, I enjoyed the intimacy and comfort of my longtime companions. Hearth therefore engages its patrons on all levels of the human experience, welcoming not only our moments of solitude but also friendly gatherings. In a way, Hearth always gives us what we want: a refuge in this crazy city that feeds us more than willingly and loves us unconditionally.
When I came to Hearth for the first time, I decided to sit in an available seat at the kitchen’s counter. Here I would be able to watch the processes of cooking, plating, and serving executed by the cooks. It seemed to be like one of those an up close and personal, more “fine dining”-esque experiences. After I took my seat I looked around to examine the restaurant’s configuration. The first thing I noted was that—unlike at the dining tables—there were no small, wooden boxes to place your phone inside. I also noticed that the dining room occupied the largest portion of the restaurant while the kitchen was a level slightly lofted, delineated by a small step through a wide, open entryway. These arrangements were distinct but surprisingly cohesive, offering diners two specific eating adventures where you had the liberty to choose your own.
After I ordered my wine, I decided to go all-out and enjoy the tasting menu: 12 dishes for $78. Soon enough, I found myself totally enveloped by the actions in the kitchen before me: mesmerized by the movements of the cooks and seduced by the scents wafting from sauté pans, I watched how the team prepared and presented dishes with a balance of urgency and ease. When I was able to witness this process, I think I ate a little more slowly. Maybe it was because I found it hard to resist snapping pictures of my food and the cooks; or maybe I thought that my speed would somehow indicate a deeper sense of gratitude…Either way, I left Hearth two hours later, satiated and tipsy.
Photo from @hearthrestaurant
I recall waking up the next morning still quite curious (and a little hungover) about Hearth as a restaurant. As a result, I soon fell down a psychological rabbit hole by spending hours analyzing the various scenarios of dining out. I kept asking myself: why do we go to restaurants? I was able to draw two conclusions. When we decide to venture out for a meal in the city, there are those who look for a spectacle of cooking or those that seek to enjoy food with friends. However, I discovered one constant variable in this modern culinary equation. It seems that one of the most pertinent reasons for dining out in the city has to do with our rising obsession with food documentation. When presented with even the most miniscule opportunity to take a photo of some beautiful piece of meat or a video of a flaming dessert, a phone or camera is in-hand. This urgent desire to capture, archive, and document food moments, I believe, may hinder our ability to truly understand what food is about.
I’ll explain through one of the 12 dishes I had—both at the counter and later in the dining room—at Hearth. It was a beef tartare with shishitos and cheddar, topped with fried, crispy potato “chips”. At the counter, the dish felt artful: it is a beautiful sphere of pink flesh with a delectability further heighted by the green shishitos glistening under the kitchen fluorescents. The handful crunchy and salty fried potato crisps therefore felt like a cheeky and approachable garnish for a dish always annotated with such luxury. Before taking my first bite, I took a lovely aerial shot, letting the plate sit there for many minutes before grabbing my fork. Finally, I allowed myself to taste. The raw beef was soft and gelatinous between my teeth, just salted enough to give the flesh the right amount of tension and flexibility. The lean meat and the salty chips were well-executed textural contrasts—the buttery meat and crisp, salty chips allowed perfect bites to slowly melt in the mouth. Finally, the shishito offered that tiny endorphin rush triggered by its heat. It carried me from one blissful moment to the next; I wish I hadn’t taken so long to snap that photo.
However, when I returned to Hearth two weeks later to sit at a table, the dish felt utterly different. Identical to counter seating, it was brought to the table with two other plates: on one were perfect, ruby round discs of a tomatoes shining in the light from a thin layer of olive oil. Taking a bite of this salad—peppery olive oil, vibrant and floral basil, sweet and juicy tomato—was like taking a first dive into the pool on a beautiful and hot summer day. The other dish was comprised of smashed cucumbers and melon with turmeric yogurt and garnished with poppy seeds. The cucumber had a clean and refreshing flavor with just enough crunch to stop things from getting too mushy with the sweet melon. The more aggressive taste of turmeric was subdued by the little bit of tang from the yogurt, and while the poppy seeds weren’t entirely necessary, it was an element that seemed to make everything more cohesive.
Seated among four friends (with our phones hidden away in those wooden boxes), we passed the dishes around to take a spoonful of each. After my first bite of tartare, though, I was slightly dumbfounded…Even its appearance on the table was somehow different. It was no longer the luxurious, high-class dish I once perceived. Instead, that first mouthful of beef, cheese, egg yolk, and crispy potato was one of pure comfort. I looked around my table to gauge my companions’ reactions: “a sexy meat and potatoes,” one remarked. They nodded in agreement. Thus, no longer was I eating the tartare I had before. While the flavors were consistent and just as well-executed, it invoked entirely different feelings. Hidden from the spectacle of preparation, phones out of sight, we were able to experience what seemed like a rawer authenticity of eating. I realized then why we are so obsessed with documenting food. Food is one of the most difficult things to photograph because food is about our senses: what we see, hear, smell, feel, and taste. These experiences cannot be captured in an image and archived in a photo library, no matter how desperate we are to save, share, and remember those moments for a rainy day. Eating is one of life’s most beautiful acts precisely because it is living, breathing, and fleeting. When we no longer sit behind a wall of technology, the spectacle is not found in the show of the kitchen and impressing our friends, but in the joyous connections forged between our food and companions. This could be why Hearth has its specific seating options… So if you want to snap those instagramable food photos, Hearth may provide you and your party with seats at the counter. The lighting is good and the cooks welcome the attention. But if you want to try a tech-free zone, sit at a table, perhaps a nice four-top near the window. Then put those phones in the box and do your best to maintain some eye contact.
What was and continues to be so special about Hearthis that, you—as the diner—have the power to curate your dining experience. At the counter you can witness the fine technicalities of cooking: you see firsthand how the skate wing with capers and green beans becomes so delicately fried and encrusted, which makes you question how its flesh still somehow manages to flake apart so beautifully by the prongs of your fork. You watch how the sautéed market greens with garlic and lemon—an incredibly simple dish—are treated with such care and attention that, once tasted, the season’s bounty shines with all its glory. But at a table: the creeping anxiety to document such a performance dissolves. You feel more at ease as you create not only intimate memories with friends, but also cultivate your own memory of taste. No longer is a plate of food forever sealed away in the void of your phone’s photo stream, existing in a universe of pixels and “likes”. I think if you use your eyes (rather than a lens) to see that plate of juicy lamb meatballs covered in a rich and tangy summer tomato sauce, or your nose to inhale the scent of the rich sage butter enveloping a bowl of pillowy potato gnocchi, you’ll capture something so much greater.
Please note that all photos are still from @hearthrestaurant