You've flown in from Monaco on your personal 757 and then chartered…read more
a Helicopter to get to Fogo Island or you made the two day pilgrimage from almost everywhere to get there. Voila, the bucket list is reduced by one check. (A fat one).
The restaurant is a lovely three story floor to ceiling window where you can gaze at the horizon. Ireland to the left, Iceland to the right. Twenty foot long Rope Chandeliers cast soft light so as not to distract from the spectacular sunset. You'll want to eat the view.
A dude on a squeeze box and his bud on guitar provide Karioke worthy Irish folk tunes to chew by. Irish music makes me want to grow stubble, drink to oblivion, and man my punt. (Okay, I don't need Irish music for that.)
The dining room is all bleached wood and gleaming white paint. You'll feel like you're having your first meal in Heaven's commissary. Wear something shear that matches your new Dolce and Gabbana gossamer wings.
Everyone speaks in hushed reverent tones and here I thought I had been consigned to the flames for eternity by the time I finished school.
The Staff: Can't do enough to please. They treat you like the family that actually cares about you instead of squirming when you're seated next to them at Thanksgiving).
The Vibe: Money, Big Money, F. U. Money.
The Bar: You pick from spirits you know to wines you don't.
The Food: The menu is separated into sections of Starters, Appetizers, and Mains plus Dessert. You can peruse and then chose whatever tickles you or simply have the lot and it's a lot.
The Food: Let's call it delicate juxtaposed against the rugged raw coastline just outside the window. Indigenous flower buds and slivers of fish livers are tweezed onto your plate with surgical precision. Local inhabitants prepare micro works of art on every dish, and in their free time they can field strip a 40 pound Cod in seconds, drink 4 pints and then pin all comers in arm wrestling...and wait till you meet the men.
Marinated Scallop slices came with either first of the season Green Strawberries (or did they just get lost in the walk-in and go green?) Teh berries were dusted with Burnt Breadcrumbs and it disappeared in one fork lift. A slurp of Benjamin Bridge Sparkling Brut was so dry it hardly felt wet on the way down.
A house baked Rustic White Bread came with two juicy Beef patties, a thick slice of Cheddar, Caramelized Onions, and extra Bacon. Okay, that was just in my brain bubble. But you do get Cultured Butter.
The Snow Crab (last of the season) lay atop poached local grown Sorrel and Rhubarb which is just gender confused Celery if you ask me. This too all fit onto the tines of my salad fork. One gulp and gone.
The Cod Belly Toast (Black Soda Bread) had some Bone Marrow discretely hidden, Lobster Butter (make that one claw quickly dragged across a pat of butter once), baby Herbs du Peu M'importe, all arranged under a prehistoric Nasturtium Leaf. This too was hoovered with gusto.
The local caught Halibut batons with Squash Dumplings (doing their Gnocchi dance), Napa Cabbage threads languishing in a pool of Albufera Sauce (Escoffier's ramped up Veloute with Demi-glace) was a most delicious riff on fish fingers.
Every dish was a Stepford Wives' replica of a Lalique Bentley hood ornament.
Finally, as I was ready to raise the white flag of surrender I realized it was just my shirt tail and I was presented with Haskap Berries ladled over Chocolate Mousse (not to be confused with the Chocolate Moose you get at Easter). Half moons of Chocolate Wafers protruded at an angle like the Sydney Opera House. A quenelle of Buttermilk Sorbet balanced the tart and the sweet which also describes who can be seen on Hollywood Blvd. at sundown.
For breakfast, I swear to Cod (locally hand line caught) first thing in the morning was perfectly poached just before service and anointed with Beet Top Jam, roasted Beet Bottoms, and Whey Froth. Hey, I make that three days a week at home. Not. No one does. Behold, intrepid traveler, what Cod hath brought forth, sayeth I. And it was good, to mix my scriptures.
Do not forego Fogo Inn. You wanna be "in", don't you? So, don't forget to go to Fogo Inn unless you want a raging case of FOMO.
