Jessica R.
Google
The morning after dinner, I stood alone in the Airbnb staring out the window, trying to put the meal into words. The sky was heavy and low, but a strip of light broke through the mountains. Mist hung in the air, and where the light hit it, everything sparkled—actually sparkled, suspended in the air. I took a photo knowing it wouldn’t really capture it. Some things don’t translate. They just sit with you. That’s when it clicked: the meal felt exactly like that view.
This meal felt quietly immense. Ancient and assured. Like Mother Earth herself gathered the ingredients and said hold my purse. There’s a rare skill in cooking solely from what your region offers, and it’s a blessing to have someone who knows those offerings this deeply. During the pandemic, I found myself wandering my own woods, scanning plants, wondering how I’d survive if the supply chain disappeared. Here, that question is already answered—calmly and confidently.
The bread set the tone. Knowing its story and lineage, tasting how good it was with that glossy smoked brown butter and a dipping sauce that nods to other cultures, then elevates them through local resources—it was inspiring. Restrained, thoughtful, and better because of it.
The chawanmushi might be the clearest expression of the menu. Uni has always been pure ocean to me, but here it felt grounded—like the sea just beyond the mountains. Earthy, saline, quietly powerful. Paired with the Siren cocktail, the place came out swinging.
The sablefish followed, and the oyster cream with the grape—honestly incredible. Deep, balanced, finished with that mouthy caviar feel and the bite of pumpernickel keeping everything in check.
Birch ash lodged itself permanently in my memory. The boar spoiled me completely—when my son hunts and we send an animal for processing, the belly is now the only cut I want. The bison was perfect too, every trace of game knocked off in its butter bath. My husband was practically vibrating with excitement, and he has a toddler palate 😅.
Even the details mattered. The upcycled china, the mismatched patterns, the quiet history they brought to the table. I collect china, and seeing it used this way felt intentional and respectful.
I still don’t know if I have the right words for that view or that meal. But I do know this: I left with a new standard for dining. If you can’t show me your land, your people, and your spirit on the plate, I don’t want it. It felt real. Rare. And it probably ruined fine dining for me—in the best way 😅. This community is blessed.