Hungry, Mother?

My wife & I are what you'd call foodies, if you wanted to put a name to it. I prefer to think that we have well-developed tastes, honed after years of close study. Our favorite people to experience good food and wine with are our son and daughter-in-law, who get it like we do. We recently dined at a place called Hungry Mother, a new establishment in Cambridge, to celebrate the table and their third anniversary. It's a place featuring a Southern sensibility with a heavy reliance on local products and solid French techniques.

We entered and were immediately, pleasantly assaulted by the warm, ham and bacon and sorghum-like aromas of the kitchen. So inviting were they that I easily overlooked the somewhat trite use of mason jars as water glasses, in an otherwise fine dining establishment. Believe me, that's the last criticism you'll hear from me.

We ordered drinks and a pre-appetizer bite while running down the menu. I had a smoked beef tongue canape served on a toast with pickled ramps, a juicy and not overly smoked morsel that got me ready for some serious eating. A plate of boiled and salted peanuts remained on the tale after the first plates were removed, as we continued to pick at them throughout the dinner.

For the appetizer course, along with my son and daughter-in-law, I had a perfectly poached egg atop hominy, fresh roasted corn kernels and wild mushrooms recently picked in Maine. The whole thing was wisely thought out and perfectly executed. Usually, in a restaurant, when you see "wild mushrooms" on a menu, they mean shitake and cremini. Not bad, but not what I think of when I hear "wild". This had what I felt were wood ear and chanterelles, along with the usual suspects. Simply outstanding. My wife had a beautifully presented deviled egg with a cup of tomato aspic. The aspic was light, bright and crisp, like you leaned over a plant full of ripe tomatoes and inhaled deeply. By this point we were all looking at each other happily, like we had discovered something special.

It often happens in a good restaurant that the main course fails to rise to the challenge of a really fine appetizer. I think I even voiced this concern before the next plate arrived. Not to worry. My French gnocchi with summer squashes, corn, and cherry tomatoes was amazing in its simplicity and execution, with a suggestion of some citrus and shaved parmesan. It was light, as a proper gnocchi must be. I don't recall sampling my daughter-in-law's scallops, which may say something about how good they were. It was the only thing I failed to taste that evening. The star of the course, however, may have been the meatloaf, which Amy and Jesse both ordered. A smoky, mostly veal slab (referred to by our waitress as "our secret gem") was staggering. I ate a bite and decided that one would have to be enough. So assertive was the flavor that I knew any more and my gnocchi's taste would be entirely lost. More statements like "one of the nest things I ever eaten" were heard.

Neither my son nor I eat desserts, as a rule, when eating out. However, having experienced three courses of such skill, we felt obligated to take this thing to its logical conclusion. This time we took care to order four different items, and tried them all. My pot de creme, of chamomile and honey, with a toasted benne seed tuile, was light and so subtle. Leah had a peach cobbler with creme fresh, a perfect conclusion to the night's fare, while my son enjoyed a chocolate bundt cake with chocolate ice cream. Nothing like its dry namesake, this was moist and rich. This time, though, Amy's green tomato layer cake with cinnamon cream cheese frosting, took the, you'll excuse me, cake.

I have said little of the service, because it was unobtrusive, though always responsive, as it should be. If you're going to Boston, or live there, you can do worse, though probably not better, than eating at Hungry Mother. It's though to get a table, so reserve your well in advance.