One might imagine that surveying the rapidly changing restaurant scene this year would be depressing. I won't deny that I've had to bid a reluctant goodbye to some old favorites. But I have to say that watching the survivors evolve in response to the times is actually quite inspiring, especially when I come upon a restaurant team who enhances my sense of the simple humanity of feeding people in the best way they know how.And that would be Dream Farm, the recently renamed incarnation of Fork, which has anchored a corner on Sir Francis Drake with its simple two-room storefront since 2001. Opened by Charles Low and Scott Howard in 2001 as a venue for sparkling, French-accented small plates; since then Fork has been named by many as the showcase for fine cuisine in the county. The small dinner house was also distinguished by the idea that service should be attentive and kind; not formal, but definitely not casual. We all know how rare that is!
A few years ago, Howard moved on and Oliver Knill, one of Fork's original employees, bought his share of the business. A succession of chefs passed through. The menu changed from small plate to prix fixe under the hand of Nathan Lockwood, who most recently headed the kitchen, but the general refined technique applied to the food remained much the same. I remember having a birthday dinner at Fork during which the guy sitting across from my table, savoring a globe of red wine and a salad, had just brought in a giant wild mushroom upon which the chef then worked his special magic.
But Lockwood was lured away to the Pacific Northwest, and this year Low and Oliver Krill are adapting to the ethos of the era with a new approach. To signal the change, they renamed the restaurant Dream Farm, after the mysterious road in Inverness that leads up and into the hills just before you hit Heart's Desire Beach. Low is designing the seasonal menus now and, while there are specials, the nightly offerings don't change as frequently as they used to. Charles Low told me that he's seeing a veritable baby boom on the sidewalks of San Anselmo, so he's offering the pastas in smaller portions for children.
Fork always used the best of local and, whenever possible, organic ingredients in simple yet imaginative ways, but now the provender is employed in homey, comforting dishes offered at surprisingly affordable prices. No entrŽe on the menu costs more than $20, and the pastas, which top out at $14.95, are all available in small portions for children or as appetizers. The compositions on plates are ever-so-slightly streamlined, but the impeccable artistry that has always characterized Fork's cuisine still shines through. And the service has, if anything, become even more personal and thoughtful. Dining at Dream Farm is about as close as it gets to dining in someone's home. Well, if you're friends with a very good chef, that is.
Dream Farm's interior looks much the same: wood floors now buffed by wear to a soft patina; pale walls punctuated with bright and sometimes blurry photos of vegetables and landscapes; artisanal light fixtures dancing like fanciful mobiles above the tables. Both Low and Krill are visible; familiar faces greeting and seating; pouring wine and generally overseeing both kitchen and dining room.
There were two soups ($5.95 each) offered on the night we dined at Dream Farm, and we tried them both. My pale green asparagus puree, studded with drops of extra virgin olive oil and swirls of crŹme fraiche, soothed my hunger and tasted of springtime. A golden bowl of Nathan Lockwood's silky signature carrot puree speckled with truffle scented oil proved equally sumptuous. Served in deep white bowls, they made a pretty pair in the soft light.
I snaked a bite of Caesar salad ($7.95) from a companion's plate. It's puzzling how rarely I find a Caesar with the requisite snap of lemon, black pepper, garlic and anchovy, but Dream Farm's has it all. The lettuce was chilled; the croutons and anchovies fresh; the cheese scattered in ample shards.
Oliver Knill's wine list is a triumph of intention. He searches through lists from Chile, France, Argentina and Italy to find the best bargains he can offer. Many bottles are in the $20 to $30 range, and Knill has found burgundies he can sell for $40 that rival some that cost twice that. We savored a bottle of 2006 Chateau de Lascaux Coteaux de Languedoc ($34), a luscious, ruby colored blend of syrah and grenache.
Then the entrŽes arrived. Chewy clouds of Yukon potato gnocci ($13.95) drifted in a meaty, deeply flavorful Bolognese sauce that made me look around to see if Nonna in her apron was stirring a pot in the kitchen. My saged-brined roast pork tenderloin ($14.95); fine, rosy, herb-scented slices served on a bed of velvety Tuscan white beans draped with green kale, was superb; just the right balance of flavors and textures kicked up with garlic and pepper.
A halved sweet garlic roast chicken ($14.95) reclining over mounds of coarsely mashed potatoes and a sheaf of skinny grilled asparagus tips could have been Sunday dinner from my childhood updated with contemporary flair.
We shared two desserts (all $4.95) among three of us, and there were plenty of goodies to go around. I always wonder, though, why pastry chefs pair rhubarb with strawberries. Rhubarb, so singularly tart and astringent, requires cooking, but strawberries are really at their best and brightest served raw. I think if you must cut rhubarb with something, it's better with juicy diced apple. Our strawberry rhubarb tart with whipped crŹme fraiche fell victim to my prejudice about this, although I must admit it also fell victim to all of our forks, with nary a crumb left behind. I kept picking out the pieces of rhubarb and leaving the strawberries for the others, like a finicky little kid. A sleek vanilla bean and rum panna cotta, dusted with amaretti crumbs, drew no complaints whatsoever, disappearing smoothly.
I remember once during my days as a chef having a conversation with a colleague, who mourned that "this is not the glamorous profession I expected from the culinary school ads." Indeed, it is not. Running a restaurant is hard, constant work; you have to love something about it to keep surviving over the long haul. In these times more than ever that something needs to be, more than the hope of glamour and glory, the simple gift of feeding people the best food you know how to prepare at the best price you can. There's humility there, but there's also artistry and generosity and a quiet kind of pride in offering what you love in an accessible form. Charles Low and Oliver Krill are zen masters of the genre.
