Twelve West Oglethorpe

I felt a bit out of place eating at a nice place like Husk in my stained jeans and shredded Birkenstocks, still sweaty from a day of cooking. This was my first time walking into a fine dining restaurant, alone, with a notepad and pen. Usually I’m the one behind the line, pissed off at critics and their unduly prestigious character. Now, the hateful analyst (anal-ist in kitchen speak) was me. My wrinkled dress shirt covered the cook-signifying burns, slices and tattoos on my forearms. I was an outsider. My lovely server, Cassandra, now had to deal with a nineteen-year-old wannabe food writer on top of her already tedious tables, one with two middle-aged women gossiping about a cheating husband. My situation felt wrong, but the food sure didn’t. Here’s how it all went down.

“Glory Days” Cocktail

Thank god for a good non-alc drink menu. A printed one too. I’m tired of having Shirley temples and coffee everyplace I go. This lovely mixture of Campari-like NA liqueur and orange bitters had me feeling as if I were drinking a real Negroni.

Dressed Salt Bombs

Oysters were my main motivation for stumbling into Husk. It was Monday night, so the city was down to two open restaurants with a raw bar, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to get them from the place-that-shall-not-be-named on Ellis Square. The Husk menu caught my eye with a starter of salt bomb oysters dressed in fresnos, lime juice, and allium (prestigious way to say shallots).

These pre-dressed oysters hit with a strong earthiness on the nose and finished with a thai-like flavor. The brine, fresnos, lime and shallots combined into a tart juice like you’d find on a green papaya salad. They were well shucked and—proven by my good health in the days following—well taken care of.

Chef’s Recommendation

For my entrée, I took the “whatever chef recommends” route, which is typically a play by entitled foodies looking for an ego boost. As a cook, I’m simply curious to see how the kitchen responds. Some chefs have a quick, go-to answer for the order. Others don’t. Either way, asking for the kitchen’s choice is a subtle way of saying “let’s see your best work.”

Husk’s chosen work was an artfully arranged plate of cold-smoked pork loin served mid-rare, confit belly, Dutch Fork pumpkin and puffed sorghum. The tenderloin carried a delicate smokiness from crust to middle that served as a nice landing point after guiltily pleasurable mouthfuls of melt-in-your-mouth pork fat from the confit belly. I like the idea of two different cuts from the same animal being prepared differently and combined in one dish, but if it’s going to be done, there’s got to be a mediator—something to give your palate a rest in between bites of equally rich cuts of meat. The buttery Dutch Fork pumpkin served well in between the tenderloin and belly for a few bites. Then it was gone, and I was left with forkful after forkful of repeating (if delicious) flavors and textures.

Miso Caramel Crème Brûlée

Miso-caramel has been climbing to popularity in the sweets world for quite a while now and I’m all for it. The fermented soybean paste deserves a wider spotlight than soups and glazes. With plain crème brûlee being so gracelessly forced onto half the country’s fine dining menus, I was happy to see something new. The custard dessert came in a cute circular bowl accompanied by buckwheat breadcrumbs and apple.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t taste much miso. Imagine my sadness—a sushi-obsessed, Hawai’i-raised foodie awaiting the nostalgic umami tang of fermented soybean pulp in the form of delicate custard. Japan would be disappointed. Commit and put that miso on a goddamned pedestal—she deserves it!

---

After my meal at Husk, I felt a comfort that most fine dining spots fail to deliver. I was full. Through my mocktail, app, entrée, and dessert, I was certainly left wanting more, just not then. My waitress was sweet and understanding, the food runners actually knew what they were serving, and the cooks were on their A game. I left that night with a full stomach, a well scribbled on notepad and a lingering smokiness on the tongue.