“It’s all about the sides,” goes a refrain that’s common at—and pretty much only at—Thanksgiving time.
In a kind of homage to the coming holiday, I headed to Spanish fine-dining restaurant Olea to do what I’m sure very few do at any time of year: make a meal from its tight and tidy selection of sides.
I started with the Espárragos ($9), a neat bundle of slender and tender spears served with a creamy and airy romesco sauce, which was really more of a whip. The lightly grilled asparagus—no sooty tire tracks here, as much as we might adore them—still delivered that paradoxically meaty vegetal flavor I love from fired greens. A textbook texture was slightly more fibrous at the stem and more supple at the braid, while the sauce’s red pepper sweetness played nicely with softly earthen and buttery tones of hazelnut and Marcona almond.
I next tucked into the Patatas Fingerling ($9). These usually come with a truffle aioli, but, since I don’t do eggs, the kitchen encouraged me to use the romesco here as well. It’s obvious why an aioli would work, and the romesco sauce performed well in a pinch, leavening the fleshy, slightly oily fingerlings sporting chewy and caramelized edges. Dashes of flake salt and small shards of crisped rosemary sharpened and focused the experience.
I then moved to the Pimientos de Padrón ($9), a.k.a. shishito peppers. These luscious, juicy Grinch’s feet, which were flash-fried, not blistered, exploded with chewy seeds every time I popped one into my mouth. A few of the peppers carried a trace of spice heat, but otherwise my batch was full of mellow green garden notes shined up with salt and a glint of oil.
This being an homage to Thanksgiving dinner, at least one drink was in order. I chose The Last Word ($19), something you’re admittedly unlikely to get around a crowded dinner table. The pale greenish elixir made from Green Chartreuse, gin, Luxardo Maraschino and lime juice was served ‘up’ and had a dried-on plume of fennel and sugar clouding one stretch of the rim. Notes of anise and lime led the nose, while a broader bunch of botanicals from the Chartreuse and gin led the palate. The balance toward the booze and the lime was a little harsh to start, though drinking from the sugared and fenneled part of the rim somehow quieted that quibble. I sensed the Maraschino becoming more assertive in the bottom half, balancing the more floral, herbaceous and citric notes with a fruitier cherry tang and a creamy, almost chocolatey richness.
Finally, to complete the homage, I had to make room for dessert, albeit an un-Thanksgivingly dainty one: the Vegan Caribbean ($14), whose name doesn’t quite communicate the decadence and refinement of its flavors. A circle of chewy pineapple-lime sponge cake soaked up the lightly boozy and caramelized juices of the diced flambéed pineapple that had been stacked and sauced above it, with a luscious, piped-and-set crown of dark chocolate vines reigning even higher. A super creamy, super dense quenelle of vegan and virgin piña colada ice cream hugging one side of the cake was unique and memorable and delicious. In fact, everything on this plate of points and counterpoints was memorable and delicious, alone or together.
Which I suppose makes it a rather Thanksgiving-like plate after all.
Written and photographed by Dan Mims.
