Here’s the thing with vegetarian restaurants: They’re disgusting. Vegetables are not disgusting—vegetables are the best things on earth, right up there with meats and grains. Vegetarianism is not disgusting—my Momma is a vegetarian, and I love my Momma. So why are vegetarian restaurants disgusting?
I can’t shake the feeling that they’re places for people who hate food. Sure, there are (great) exceptions: the ones that come from religions or cultures that have, over centuries, developed sophisticated vegetarian cuisines. And, of course, there’s great food that happens to be vegetarian.
But back in Hippieville, vegetarian restaurants are for people who are constantly cutting things out of their diet because those things get in the way of spiritual and colonic enlightenment. You go in and the menu is Raw Nut Paste 1, Raw Nut Paste 2, and a couple of clumsy attempts at Asian food. I once went on a date to one of these places. I had a piece of tempeh that tasted—I swear—like sweaty gym socks. It was not romantic.
So we should be thankful for Dirt Candy. “I don’t care about your health,” the chef says on her Web site. “And I don’t care about your politics either. But I do care about cooking vegetables.” Yes!
And so rather than tasting like some kind of folate tonic, her super-green spinach soup was soothing and spiky, with sharp lemon confit. Carrot risotto was perfectly cooked, just this side of al dente and oozing orange sauce. The shiitake grits were shovel-it-in tasty, and the crisp tofu with green ragout and Kaffir lime beurre blanc is the most aggressive use of butter since Paula Deen’s fried butter balls. It’s so good it’ll stop your heart.
Not everything was perfect—the pasta was a little lost in its sauce, December tomatoes made an unfortunate appearance, and the desserts were a little short of wonderful. (But you came to eat your vegetables, right? And the jalapeño hush puppies with whipped maple butter? Yes, you came to eat those.) But the place is lovely and bright and friendly. A woman at the table next to mine (it’s so tiny all the tables are the one next to yours) asked her friends, “Who thinks they got the best thing on the menu?” They all grinned, bolted up, and raised their hands. “No one here,” I thought, “hates anything.”
Dirt Candy 430 E. 9th St., New York City (212-228-7732; dirtcandynyc.com)
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