Camberville Cuisine

I was born and raised in California, but it took moving to New England to confirm the ice cream lover in my soul. Sure, we had plenty of warm days in Berkeley that warranted a walk up University Ave to Fosters Freeze, or a stop by Baskin Robbins on our way home from school. And both Fenton’s and Preston’s were fairly regular treats. But when the temperature dipped below 40 and the rain poured out of the sky in buckets? Time for some hot cocoa instead.

Here in Massachusetts, though, we eat ice cream year-round, and generally higher-quality ice cream at that, since so many of our local creameries make it in-house. It can be the heart of a Nor’easter, snow blowing around our ears thick and fast, the mercury well below zero and wind gusts sheeting past 50 mph, and we’re still tromping out the door and down the street to our local ice cream shop. Be it Christina’s or Tosci’s, JP Licks or Herrell’s (home of the original smoosh-ins, thank you, Cold Stone Creamery just corporatized it and added a line to future comedians’ resumes with off-key song improv :P ), we love our local ice creameries.

So given my predilection for supporting the neighboring artisan over the corporate behemoth, the fruit of the land over the chemical lab, the glee I felt upon discovering that you, too, can get Dippin’ Dots delivered right to your doorstep might disturb and confuse you. “They’re … round,” you say, while wondering, how on earth can they hold that distinct spherical shape naturally. “They … rattle.” With a silent disapproving side of, “You’re willingly purchasing a frozen dessert product from a large corporation? That’s manufactured rather than homemade?” “They’re … colorful,” meaning, “These are unnatural chemicals at work and aren’t you always talking about how you should grow your own herbs and make your own bread and yogurt and I’m just going to back away slowly now because you’re scaring me.” And I will cackle joyfully and dig my spoon in, sounding like I’m scooping up small marbles, letting the crunchy globules instamelt on my tongue into a chilly treat.

I first had Dippin’ Dots at that most venerable of county-fair institutions, the Big E. When I moved to the Fenway in the summer of 2001, discovering that the local movie theatre had a vending machine up front that dispensed my precious delicious baubles? Made my long hot summer much happier and cooler. Even now, trips to the Museum of Science go hand-in-hand with picking up a bowl of Dots from the food court when we’re ready to go home.

Now, granted, the smallest package of Dots available is 30 servings. And they come with a fair passle of warnings, too - “Eat Dippin’ Dots with plastic spoons (provided) only.” “Please arrange to either be, or have a responsible party, at the shipping address on the day of the shipment.” “Your order will be packed in dry ice. THE PROPER SERVING TEMPERATURE CANNOT BE MAINTAINED IF REMOVED FROM THE CARTON AND PLACED IN YOUR HOME FREEZER.” (Fine, but you can still buy ice cream with Dots in it at your Midwestern Kroger’s!) So, what happens if you eat Dots with a metal spoon? And what can this mean for your stomach?

Still, the thought of a Dots party in my backyard makes me giddy - who else is in? :)

Dippin’ Dots. Available locally at the Museum of Science, the New England Aquarium, and the Franklin Park Zoo.

The service was on the slow-and-inconsistent side at EVOO Saturday night. Our bread basket was refilled - twice - while we waited for our appetizers to appear. The cider Hyoun and Bitty ordered never showed at all; for appetizer, entree and dessert, having been seated at 5:30, we didn’t end up leaving until well after 8 pm.

But the scallops I ordered were perfect. Three large scallops, just a hint of searing, paired with a pureed porcini mushroom flan topped with a handful of mache, and the whole dish drizzled with white truffle oil. (Leftover truffle oil was quickly soaked up by the remains of bread basket number three.) The clarity and smoothness of the fresh scallops, the earthiness of the flan and truffle oil, and the slight crunch and tang of the mâche combined to make every bite unctuous, but not overwhelmingly so; simply layered and spiced with the kind of taste that sits blissfully on your tongue.

EVOO has the local, seasonal “New American” food vibe down well, my scallops being a prime example. On a previous visit, I melted over their “Duck, Duck, Goose:” a trio of duck confit, seared duck foie gras, and goose breast, served with lentils, green beans, and escarole, and topped with a sherry-ginger sauce. Their bread is certainly tempting enough to warrant the multiple baskets mentioned above, between the fruity dipping olive oil, the crusty peasant bread to sop it up, and the spicy-crunchy breadsticks for variety. My dessert of clementine-basil sorbet - another fascinating blend of sweet-yet-piquant winter clemmies with the heat of chipotle added to normally staid sugar cookies.

I know it’s trendy around this time of year to chalk up service errors to it being Restaurant Week, but EVOO has been open long enough (almost ten years now!) and is catering to a high enough standard that I expect a bit more attention paid. They did well in that regard the previous time I went on a weeknight, so until I get back there a third time (a ten-minute walk away, and it is starting to warm up enough that perhaps I won’t freeze on said walk!), I’ll go along with it and blame Restaurant Week. Maybe.

EVOO, 118 Beacon St, Somerville. 617.661.3866. Dinner M-Th 5:30-10, FS 5:30-11.