TL;DR: The best meal of 2014, possibly forever.
The long version (photos here: bit.ly/daiduetx)
Just the thought of persimmon and green tomato crisp hummed like a cut on my knee, it was only a walk away tucked into a strip mall, inside to a velvety immersion of a crowd with no wait and servers with sweet smiles who didn't care that we had raindrops on our shoulders and three sweatshirts between the two of us. It is, in fact, culled from an Italian phrase- "from the two kingdoms of nature, choose food with care." The business is ten. The restaurant is three months old but performs with the finesse of French Laundry and the sweetness of every beloved bakery and butcher in the small towns of America. It is a small regret that we didn't bring our camera but trust that these are raw, taken before our gaping maws and in the throes of delight, hence their blur, hence their rush. I cannot apologize for our eager mouths.
We tongued succulent venison tartare, large, juicy chunks tenderized in citrus and habanero with sweet pickled onion and doused in egg yolk, Texas beef glistening with salt crystals surrounded by baguette grilled over an open flame.
Their wine list was entirely Texan, as varied in regional flair as France itself, their accompaniments house-pickled and stacked in jars to the ceiling. I had the shrub, apricot tinted with a rush of thick Gulf salt flakes, better than any margarita I've had, a honeyed touch of fruit brined in sweet vinegar.
"When do you leave?" they asked, as we winced at the fresh sausages and terrines, lamenting that we couldn't bring them home. Three days, we said, and a tall bearded man named Jesse wrapped up a package of jerky, handed it to us.
"For the way home." And we made plans for breakfast.
As soon as we bit into our cemita we knew we'd be cancelling our dinner reservations. Sorry, Qui. You've had your time. We knew we'd go to war for their goat barbacoa and brave the walk across town for just a bite of the pon haus, known to us as scrapple up north with its crispy crust and tender cornmeal bite mixed with egg yolk and molasses, sticky conduits melding to our tastebuds and our brains.
With breakfast came dessert, a cake like no other- lemon cream cheese frosting, lemon cake, lemon curd, bursting with beauty and endlessness in a small ramekin.
Time stopped inside the restaurant, the only words in my mind patiently waiting on my tongue to elucidate, "the ribeye, rare," only to have our waitress return with two flutes of champagne and a large plate of ham, freshly shaved petals better than the finest roses, a gift from the house acknowledging that we were home.
The ribeye, rare. Beautiful bounty, a prayer and homage to a cow, to a state, to a craft that we gladly consumed. 28 ounces of meat dripping with fresh butter, fat salted to succulence with crisp edges that we sucked clean and a plate left empty.
Brunch, II. We ordered a patty melt to start, another shrub, another cold brew, and chilaquiles to satisfy the urge for Tex-Mex in its heartbeat. It is impossible to malign yet another perfectly cooked egg and a gigantic Texas avocado sliced on top of crisp chips, a warm sauce, venison sausage, homemade cheese, but it was the patty melt that stole the show.
The apple cake was lavished with turbinado sugar, crisp thin layers warmed by the pastry on the outside to reveal a soft center pierced with fruit, fluffy with cornmeal and brown butter, winsomely heartbreaking enough to order another just to watch the ice cream seep into the cracks.
We miss it like a lover we barely kissed, we yearn for its flesh, we sing its praises, and every time I look into the Bedfellow's eyes, I see it, two kingdoms, two women, two flights. So here's to you, Austin, and to you, Dai Due. Thank you for showing us the jerky, thank you for showing us the way. Happy 2015, to Dai Due, to the Bedfellow, to the blog, to you, readers, and to us. read more