To Market, to Market…

Shhh…. have you heard about this new restaurant called Black Market? Indy’s newest gastropub is sneaking onto the local scene with a whisper and not a roar, but with the kind of buzz it’s generating, this secret won’t be kept hush-hush very long.

After hearing great word of mouth from a couple of people whose food opinions I respect, I mentally put it on my radar. And when last night presented an opportunity to enjoy a nice dinner downtown with hubby, we sought it out.

Situated on the far eastern end of Mass Ave, you would easily miss Black Market if you weren’t looking for it. We WERE looking for it and still almost missed it. There’s no sign or any indication whatsoever that this nondescript brick building is a restaurant except for the glimpse of some folks eating at tables in the window. And there’s a cool old bike parked out front. If they’re going for the speakeasy vibe, they’ve definitely nailed it.

Black Market on Mass Ave

As far as restaurants go, Black Market is definitely trendier than the kinds of places I usually frequent, but still friendly and casual enough to make anyone (i.e. hopelessly untrendy types like myself) feel welcome. Inside, the décor is right in keeping with all that semi-industrial modern stuff that’s so popular right now — dark wood, sleek fixtures, exposed brick, a chalkboard wall when you first walk in.

The lighting over the bar is pretty cool, consisting of one long wood beam suspended from the ceiling with little spotlights drilled in down the length. Black Market isn’t big, just a couple of long communal tables down the middle and a few other small tables scattered around. I’d say it was slightly more than half full during our visit. Not really surprising, considering that it’s only been open a few weeks and hasn’t had any sort of big splashy kickoff. I expect crowds will be picking up steadily as word gets out.

The imaginative menu is cleanly presented on a clipboard, detailing small plates, entrees, a handful of sides and a couple desserts. There’s also a well-chosen beer and wine list, but having just come from Tomlinson Tap for a couple of pints, I stuck to water. Our service throughout the meal was impeccable and unpretentious, and the pacing perfect.

On to the food… lots of things sounded good on paper. The housemade pickle plate appetizer and the Fischer Farms beef tongue cocktail with beets, cottage cheese and horseradish both came highly recommended, but we veered off course to sample some other stuff.

Hubby used to live in Wales years ago, so he immediately perked up to see Welsh rarebit among the small plate offerings. Welsh rarebit sounds fancy, but basically it’s an open-faced grilled cheese. This is a good rustic one, with tangy aged cheddar atop a manly slice of toasted barley bread. Did I detect a hint of béchamel beneath the blanket of melty cheese? There was also a sneaky flash of something blink-and-you’ll-miss-it spicy. We devoured this starter with knives and forks and looked forward to more.

Welsh rarebit

For an entrée, we’d decided to share the pork schnitzel with a side of fries. Now, we’ve spent some time in Germany and are well versed in authentic schnitzels that are so big, they arrive hanging off the plate. This is an updated, yet fairly traditional version. The serving size is smaller (although still plenty large) and the breading is lighter, unlike the classic Hoosier tenderloin where half the attraction is pulling off crunchy fried bits of batter to nibble on their own merits. The pork itself was extremely tender and had great flavor; I’m assuming it was locally sourced. We squeezed the slice of lemon over the top and had at it.

schnitzel and slaw

The slaw that accompanied the schnitzel was a great fresh counterpoint – lacy fronds of red and green cabbage with paper thin green apple slices, all in a light tangy dressing. Yum.

The pomme frites-style fries were good too, thin, hot and crisp. No ketchup here, they’re served with a tart lemony housemade mayo spiked with herbs, almost like a really good fresh tartar sauce.

Fearing we would still be hungry (this was ridiculous, as it turned out), we also put in an order for the Gunthorp Farms-sourced pork belly appetizer, advertised on the menu with a sweet and sour glaze and three-bean salad. Our server let us know that they had changed up the preparation for the evening, instead offering the pork belly as a hash with root veggies, duck cracklings and a fried egg. Still sounded totally ok by me.

pork belly hash

In retrospect, we probably should have nixed the pork belly and ordered a dessert to share instead. The hash was good, but the pork was used more as a flavoring ingredient and didn’t really stand out like I’d hope it would. The egg was nicely cooked with a rich, runny yolk (hubby prefers his eggs hard scrambled and stayed away from that side of the plate after I’d cut into it). Between the pork, the duck and the sautéed veg, the whole dish was the tiniest bit greasy and just way too heavy after we’d already eaten cheese bread, schnitzel and fries. I’m not sure what we were thinking. There was also some broccoli fried into the hash, and after a bite of it, that was all I could taste. I was glad we’d eaten this dish last. (Couldn’t help but think this would be awesome hangover food.)

Alas, we were too full for dessert. Boo. The campfire shortbread with chocolate ganache and bourbon marshmallow sounded like a sexy X-rated  s’more.

All in all, our dinner at Black Market was a good experience. The small crowd seemed to be having a jolly time — it gets a little loud in the narrow dining room — and the other plates we spied coming out of the kitchen looked and smelled delicious. Especially the burger and the lamb sausage Scotch egg. Great googly moogly. The menu also gives shout-outs to lots of local suppliers, which I always like to see. It’s reassuring to know exactly where your dinner is coming from (see previous Slow Food post).

We did think the food was on the heavy side, though, especially considering the season. There are a couple of salads on the menu, so it was probably our own fault for making the selections we did. I’d like to revisit in cold weather; I can already picture myself wearing a sweater and being very happy with these meaty meals, a glass of red wine and snow falling gently outside.

Black Market scores. Go now if you want to catch a rising star.

For more information:

http://www.blackmarketindy.net/

Black Market on Urbanspoon

Murder on the Italian Express

Busy few days!

For our last day in Milan, hubby went back to the trade show and the toddler and I headed back downtown on the tram. Through one of the tourist magazines I found in our hotel room, I discovered it’s possible to take an elevator up to the roof of the Duomo for some interesting bird’s-eye views of the city.

Il Duomo

 

The tickets to go up cost a very reasonable 8 euros, and the experience was pretty awesome. You take the elevator up to the back corner of the roof and wind your way among the spires and gargoyles, up and down stairs around to the front. Eventually, you emerge into a flat space in front of the very tallest spire where you can simply breathe and take it all in. I can’t even describe how magnificent it is to commune with all that gorgeous architecture up close and personal. Just put it on your agenda if you’re ever in Milan.

on top of the Duomo!

The last supper in Milan Tuesday night was our farewell visit to Il Pavone. My meal was a delightfully light and pillowy gnocchi with a rich gorgonzola cream sauce and a few toasted walnuts scattered around the plate for good measure.

Il Pavone gnocchi con gorgonzola

I think hubby had a pizza diavolo, but I was too focused on my own food to care much. The three of us split what seemed to be the Italian equivalent of a crème brulee for dessert and bid the beautiful Maria a fond arrividerci.

the lovely Maria

Because I hate to fly so much, we had determined to take an overnight sleeper train to Paris Bercy, departing Milan around 11:30 p.m. Packed up and ready to go, we grabbed a taxi to Milano Centrale train station and waited for our ride. I thought it might actually be, dare I say it, a fun adventure. Silly, silly me.

I had a sinking feeling when I bought the tickets the day before that this trip may not go quite as planned. I couldn’t get my point across to the guy behind the counter, but he gave me reservations for beds for two adults, so I knew we’d have some sort of place to rest our weary heads at the very least. Or so I thought…

I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but having taken very nicely appointed trains elsewhere around Europe, I figured this journey would be fairly similar. Ho ho ho.

The train pulled in and we waited to embark among a large, milling crowd. It looked old and rather run down from the exterior, not at all like the nicer ICE trains I’d ridden before. I grew more nervous with every passing minute.

Finally it was time to board. The narrow passage proved a tight squeeze for all our baggage plus car seat plus stroller plus baby, so hubby lugged it all in piece by piece while I kept watch over the little guy outside. Every time hubby reappeared to grab another item, the looks he gave me grew more and more ominous. I quickly began to realize that this decision was going to be a mistake of colossal proportions.

The toddler and I climbed aboard. Fortunately, our beds were in the very first group of berths, so we didn’t have to go far. Unfortunately, the space was so tight, our largest bag wouldn’t fit into the “room.” We had to leave it in the hallway, and we were warned by the train staff not to leave it unattended. The hallway itself was narrow as well; people literally had to climb over the suitcase if they wanted to get by us.

Tickets are available in various classes — first class for a private section of berths, and peon classes where you may or may not find yourself sleeping with people you don’t know. Which do you think I’d managed to procure? Yep. You guessed it.

Our room, if you will, consisted of six bunks packed in like a sardine can, three on each side with well-worn, not-so-clean upholstery. When we came in, some fellow travelers were already there, two 40-something Asian ladies claiming the middle bunks. Our reservation denoted that we were to occupy the top two. Not exactly smart when there’s a two-year-old in the mix. The women were kind enough to trade us beds and immediately made themselves comfortable in the top bunks. Oh, did I mention the entire car REEKED of mothballs? I found myself mouthbreathing so I wouldn’t gag.

Everyone got settled in and we started to roll. Keep in mind, it was well after midnight by now. The toddler, who so graciously fell asleep in the taxi and stayed asleep right up until we boarded the train was now completely alert and ready to party like a rock star. The Asianettes hunkered down to sleep, yet the toddler was singing round after round of “Wheels on the Bus” and “Old MacDonald” at the top of his lungs. There was no hope of getting him to lie down without an all-out screaming tantrum; we just had to wait him out.

We eventually took the toddler out into the hallway so our companions could get some rest and hubby took a seat on top of our lonely suitcase. The looks he was giving me went from ominous to murderous. The vocal stylings continued as the toddler then launched into an enthusiastic rendition of “Itsy Bitsy Spider” followed by “Farmer in the Dell,” the Wonder Pets theme, “ABCs” and whatever else came into his little brilliant mind. At least the Asianettes didn’t mind, hubby poked his head in to get something and found them snoring like buzzsaws.

Hoping to wear the little guy down, hubby took him for a walk to find the dining car. Service was closed for the night, but at least it was empty and gave the little dude room to run around and play without disturbing anybody. I stayed behind to keep watch over the bag and tried to read. An hour later, they came back, hubby looking utterly defeated and pissed off. The toddler was still singing, and now skipping. Knowing I had some penance coming my way, I jumped up and took my lumps. The toddler and I headed back to the dining car again, weaving our way through six or seven other carriages full of quiet berths. I looked longingly at the private “suites” as we passed and mentally punished myself for not being able to convey that’s what I was after when I bought the tickets. Dammit.

After another hour or so of full-on hyperactivity, I managed to get the toddler to sit on my lap long enough to relax. Not sleep, mind you, but wind down enough to the point that when I asked him if he wanted to go lie down with daddy, I actually got a “yes.” Back we went, me trying to carry the toddler and not fall off the train in between cars, when I realized that I had no idea what number our carriage was. I figured we’d see hubby still sitting on the bag in the hall, but he was nowhere to be found. Uh oh. I’d come to the last car of the train and just stood there, holding a weary toddler and wondering what I was going to do. I didn’t even have my phone to send a text; I’d left it in my purse back on my bed, wherever that was. Just as I was contemplating lying down in the middle of the dirty hallway and praying someone would find us in the morning, the interior curtains in the compartment parted right where I was standing and hubby motioned us inside. By some stroke of sheer luck, we were standing exactly where we needed to be.

Hubby had managed to wrestle the remaining suitcase into the middle of the floor in our room and squeezed himself into one of the middle bunks. The toddler went right to him without complaint when I handed him over and settled down to sleep. I climbed into the other bunk across. Thank GOD no other passengers showed up to the claim the two remaining beds on the bottom, I can’t imagine how two more people could have possibly fit into that room.

I closed my eyes and hoped for the best, trying not to touch anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary and praying I still had a small bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse. The motion of the train was quite lulling, really. The jet-plane decibel snoring emanating from the bunk above me was not. I could not believe the noise this woman was putting out. Seriously, I was convinced at one point she was doing it on purpose. There is no way she could make that kind of a racket without waking herself up or choking to death in the process. I checked my watch. 3:45 a.m. Sigh. I closed my eyes and could literally feel the waves of resentment coming off my non-sleeping husband a few feet away. At least the toddler was depleted enough to get a solid stretch of shut-eye.

The Asian Rip Van Winkle finally woke up around 7:30 a.m., and she and her buddy started jabbering away in a language I didn’t recognize. The train conductor came by to check our tickets again. We knew we were running late, but when hubby asked him how much longer and he said another three hours, my jaw hit the floor. We were originally due in to Paris Bercy station at 8 a.m., leaving us plenty of time to take a cab to the rental apartment, drop our bags and shower before heading to the airport to collect my mother-in-law, who we’d arranged to fly in and stay with us for the weekend. As it was now, we’d be pushing to get there by the time her flight landed at 1:30 p.m. By that time, I was so exhausted, I did manage to fall into a somewhat fitful sleep for an hour or two. Really, there was nothing else to do.

At long last, we pulled into Paris around 11 a.m. I was never so glad to arrive anywhere in my entire life. Hubby told me not to speak to him unless I absolutely had to, which I respected, knowing I was totally in the wrong for this comedy of errors. I’d apologized a handful of times and didn’t know what more I could do or say to make things right, silently pledging to drug myself stupid next time and agree to get on whatever airplane might be available. I asked hubby if  he thought we’d look back on this experience someday and laugh. He said no.

Anxiously keeping an eye on the clock, we cursed some more when we saw the line for taxis extending halfway down the sidewalk outside the station. (And I wonder where the toddler recently picked up “Shit!”) Somehow by the grace of God, we eventually got a cab and made it to the rental apartment to meet the lady from the service who let us in. Hubby dashed off on his own to the airport, arriving with about 30 minutes to spare to meet my mother-in-law’s plane. Whew.

The two-bedroom Marais-situated apartment we’re renting is lovely, small but charming, up four flights of narrow winding stairs that are guaranteed to give me buns of steel after a few days. After a much-needed shower, the toddler and I ventured out for a bite of lunch at the first decent café we came across. Quiche Lorraine, salad, orange juice and a café crème fit the bill quite nicely. We managed a quick trip to the supermarket for a few essentials, then back to l’appartemente to meet up with hubby and MIL.

After a short rest, we all took a stroll around our old stomping grounds near the apartment where we stayed two years ago, stopping in for dinner at Cafe Rempart. Hubby had a traditional French croque monsieur – a devilishly rich open-faced toasted sandwich of ham and cheese with béchamel sauce. MIL enjoyed pomme frites, salad and a delicious-looking burger (which she ate in spite of the cheese. She hates cheese. This does not bode well for her enjoyment of French cuisine, I fear.) I was still somewhat full from my late-lunch quiche, so I went for a lighter dish of entrée Salade Rempart, composed of greens, carrots, tomato, fried potatoes (!), thin slices of proscuitto-ish country ham and cheese toasts. The whole thing was topped very lightly with French salad dressing, which is not at all like the unnaturally orange Kraft stuff you find back home. Here, it’s a light tangy Dijon mustard vinaigrette.

This morning, we headed to another café and partook of coffee served in clever small bowls (LOVE this, I want to find some of these to take home), and stuffed ourselves with all manner of bread and pastries.

the perfect petit dejeuner

 

Gotta love the French… A great way to fortify ourselves for a boat ride on the Seine, a visit to the Eiffel Tower and a walk through Notre Dame. A bientot!