Spring comes on a plate atÂ Sweet Basil,Â in the heart of Vail village: quinoa and pecan “tabbouleh” and cornmeal dusted Rocky Mountain trout. Â Who cares that the morning snow has now turned to rain?
Named after the symbol for the Santa Ana Pueblo, Corn Maiden is the fire-roasted restaurant at Hyatt Tamaya. Blending local Southwestern flavors with traditional tapas plates meant for sharing in an adobe-style home, chef Sam Reed incorporates native tradition into present day concepts beautifully with suchÂ starters as Crispy Quinoa Fritters with piquillo pepper coulis and razor-thin Buffalo Carpaccio dressed with shaved Reggiano and a chiffonade of basil.Â Skewered, spit-fired meats howeverÂ are the specialty of theÂ house and they, too, do notÂ disappoint. Brought to the table on a sword, theÂ houseÂ classic,Â kâ€™uchininakâ€™u,Â includes a fiery local chorizo, Fresno chile chicken, and a hunk of chile-rubbed heritage rib eye. A trio of sweet and savory sauces – mole, peach salsa, and a cactus chutney -Â sets off each of the individual meats, leaving barely any room for the accompanying potatoes au gratin, let alone any desert dessert.
OverÂ the last two years or so, the humble pizza pie has morphed from an object of cult-like devotion inside a small group of New York CityÂ obsessives into a sacred cow at the center of a full-fledged crust war among a clique of self-appointed pizza promise-keepers: Totonno’s, Roll-n-Roaster, Keste, Co, Roberta’s, Rizzo’s, Otto, Nick’s, L&B Spumoni, Denino’s, Artichoke Basille’s, Di Fara, Pulino’s and don’t forget 99Â¢ Fresh Pizza.Â Each new arrival – and they lately seem to arrive with alarming alacrity – slaps against the old guard claiming esoteric layers of heretofore unheard of authenticity. Â It all sounds vaguely Sharks versus Jets until you remember that the man behind Carroll Gardens’ nationally rankedÂ Lucali pie, Mark Iacono,Â was stabbed in the face during anÂ argumentÂ over sauce last year. (Or maybe it was a mob shakedown – the facts remains sketchy) Still, the cupcakeification of what manyÂ folksÂ fondly recall as the ultimate in after-hours stoner food is enough to make a reasonable individual shake their head. I have a sneaking suspicion I could get shot for this, but what is the big deal about pizza anyway? I don’t understand the extremism.Â (And why can’t we all just get along?) Maybe it’s me. Maybe now that I am relatively gluten-free the dough-sauce-cheese combo doesn’t,Â for all practical purposes,Â enter my brain as a viable option. When Don Antonio by Starita‘s wood-fired oven opened a block away from my office IÂ couldn’tÂ have cared less, though among the pizzerati it was monumental event: Keste’s Roberto Caporuscio teaming up with his Naples mentor, Antonio Starita. A menu dropped at my deskÂ weeks later boasted of filled pizza, white pizza, stuffed pizza, fried pizza, Pope’s pizza and lo and behold, senza glutine pizza. If third generation pizza royalty could pull off a gluten-free pie, perhaps I was ready to finally give pizza its due. And so one afternoonÂ I hesitantly did, visiting Don Antonio for lunch and settling in with a co-worker over a glass of Montepulciano, shaved fennel salad, and Prosciutto e Arugula, a gluten-free pie topped with homemade mozzarella, prosciutto di parma, arugula and extra virgin olive oil. As expected the pizza arrived perfectly composed, like a Renaissance art work. The crust was heavier than its genetic forebear, the Neapolitan thin crust, and denser, too. It didn’t hold up to the slice test but worked beautifully with a knife and fork. Good sauce, mild cheese, a nice balance of salty porkÂ playing off peppery greens. And mamma mia, was it filling! To my chagrin IÂ couldÂ barelyÂ finishÂ half. Which made things very convenient for the second part of any proper pizza test: leftovers. Let me state for the record, I do not recommend taking gluten-free pizza home.Â Something texturally oddÂ happens once the magma cools. It develops the unpleasant rubber-meets-air consistency of a whoopie cushion orÂ a pancake made of polenta, simultaneously pillowy and heavy. It went down like a lead balloon, reminding me how often certain foods are at their best when eaten on a craven whim – a piping hotÂ whim. And that’s my problem: Â I’m too much of aÂ consciousÂ eater as of late. Pizza warriors, duke it out amongst yourselves. But count me ready to take up arms once it comes to defending the one true quinoa.