The streets are slush. It’s late, past 9pm, and the MBTA’s 1 bus is late, too – lumbering around the corner like the crankiest of grandfathers, bearing nothing but ill will and obligation. It wheels through Cambridge to Boston, ribbed rubber floor collecting more slush as passengers board. I have dinner plans for Toro in Boston. My dining partner boards at Commonwealth and Mass Ave, half grin, hat pulled over eyebrows. Off we go.
It’s late, but Boston’s Toro is busy. It is a Tuesday night, the kitchen closes in a half-hour, and the place is still humming with all the might of a scenester beehive. We wait as diners linger. Waiters zip through the crowd, dropping off fried treats: a platter of patatas bravas, crisp and golden, in front of a lucky diner at the bar. I’m jealous.
The bartender offers us a drink menu; I peer at it, but want to hold every last inch of stomach space for the food. The hostess apologizes for the wait and brings a peace offering: two perfect bites. I miss the explanation, but pop it into my mouth. Not bad. Then our table opens up.
I like Oringer’s restaurants a lot so far. Viscerally speaking: they’re slick, they’re full of people, and they have plenty of offal on the menu. He has this way of knowing, mysteriously, precisely what I want to eat. Or maybe he teaches me. The lows are not so low, and the highs are very high – an octopus dish at Coppa, recommended by the waitress, was so well composed it sang. My favorite bartender, Asher, keeps vigil over the swank environs at KO Prime and mixes a mean martini. Tonight, it’s a chance add-on of Erizos En Suquet, a catalan stew of sea urchin, lobster and crab meat. It comes red, velvety, and proves luscious on the tongue.
Another standout is the crispy veal sweetbreads with blood orange and cinnamon, as delicious as it is beautiful. My first taste of sweetbreads, actually, and I suspect one that will ruin me. Beef hearts, mentioned by a reader, come sliced paper thin on bread, pronounced as innocuously tasty as beef brisket by my dining partner. I had been hoping for some sinuous veins. The corn, recommended by Ming Tsai, is like no other corn I’ve ever had. It’s perfectly charred, slathered in aioli and then topped with soft, aged cheese, two wedges of lime to add a bright zing to the fat-on-fat. This is a vegetable that no diet would allow.
Crispy veal sweetbreads with blood orange and cinnamon
Not just any corn
The only disappointment is the beef shortrib, which came bland and undersalted.
The pork belly, however, is at no loss for flavor. The top layer is caramelized to a deep hue and a even better crunch, reigning over a loosely plated dish of escargot strewn through a soft landscape of apple, pumpkin, and a surprising addition of smoked maple crumble; it dissolves in your mouth as readily as the pork fat.
The diner next to me strikes up a conversation when she sees my camera. It turns out we’ve communicated via Twitter – she’s a writer for the Herald. Small world.
We’re easing into home stretch. Dessert is sugar-crusted churros and chocolate sauce. I eat most of it, my stomach groaning. I look at the faces of diners as I walk out, wondering if they’re floating a little. It’s back to the streets, and this time, a cab.
Find it!
———–
1704 Washington Street
Boston, MA 02118
(617) 536-4300
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