Petit Riz

Dark curls of caramelized onions hide beneath a layer of egg. Thin slices of potatoes, softened with oil, coat the skillet. The Spanish tortilla has a delicate, rich flavor from a secret ingredient. I carve the tortilla with a spoon. Cod croquettes distract me for a bite, but I’m faithful to the eggs.

We are seated in the front room. The entrance of Huertas holds a beautiful bar made of wood shipped from an abandoned barnyard in Indiana. By eight pm the space is rowdy with east villagers drinking vermouth on tap. At Huertas, the vermouth is aromatized with spices, bittering roots, teas and citrus peal. Tiny dense orange slices sink to the bottom of the glasses. We prick them with our forks.

The restaurant is cut in half by the long, rectangular open kitchen. As we leave the front bar, we see eggs sitting in temperature-controlled water for the soft-boiled dishes. Jonah Miller, the chef, sprinkles pimentón onto sunny side eggs. The eggs elegantly arch over oven-roasted asparagus, purchased that very morning at the green market. Spring has arrived, so our server tells us. We eye the plates of cheese and cured meats as we glide towards the back room where a quiet oasis awaits us.

When I first heard of Huertas, I thought of my grandfather’s apple trees in Brittany. He owned hundreds of trees with many varieties swelling into the winter, to be then pressed for cider. I thought of the cider I drank at a restaurant in San Sebastián. The eatery was tucked on a cobble-stoned corner by a church. The sky thundered silver over our heads as we selected pintxos from the bar. The man behind the bar poured cider from high above, the bottle level with his nose. The liquid was a light color, almost transparent, as it splashed to the bottom of our cups. I was on a dreamlike five-day trip for Saveur. We were rosy from Seville, but there was a romantic quality about San Sebastián’s turbulent sky and its long, curved bay.

I haven’t eaten Basque cuisine since San Sebastián, not until Huertas opened its doors in April. We begin with pintxos. Anchovies twisted between olives and pickles; half a radish lathered in sardine butter; smoked octopus the size of a penny covered in a magical garlic aioli. We could eat ten of those octopus pintxos. We crack an egg and its soft-boiled belly rolls onto the shredded, vinegary potatoes. Whisked with our forks, the dish comes together as a creative spin on Huevos Rotos.

At Huertas, there is a lot of delightful egg yolk breaking. The best dishes are crowned with an egg. The soft-boiled egg in Huertas Rotos binds the dish together with a creamy chorizo sauce – and the potato strands, crunchy as green papaya, beg to be twirled like spaghetti carbonara. Our appetizer venerates the egg: the brilliant yolk glows on a bed of asparagus and salty, green breadcrumbs.

The rice and mushroom dish, cooked in a small black skillet, reminds me more of a bi bim bap than a paella. The rice grains stick with a black crust and have a subtle, smoky flavor. We break the dish with a spoon like a crème brulée, mixing the charred onion ailoli with pickled hen of the woods mushrooms. The lamb sausage is fragrant with green garlic and the lamb shoulder melts under my teeth. One bite of lamb with a sweet, roasted carrot has me humming the way I do at the end of a Lydia Davis story. We don’t need much else, here, aside from another sip of Tempranillo. Each dish sings happily with its paired drink. We smile at Nate, the beverage director and co-general manager, thanking him.

The dessert is too small, but then again, we are the kind of diners who save themselves for dessert, or who miraculously dig for more stomach space. The chocolate cream is lovely for its bitter flavor. Marcona almond nougat disks float on the ganache. We almost swallow our spoons as we lick the last chocolate ganache. Are we allowed to order two from the menú del día? Later, at the bar, I’ll eat hot churros dusted in sugar, dipped in the same chocolate sauce. By then I’ve transitioned to licking my fingers.

I can’t help but be reminded of the long, extravagant meal at Le Chateaubriand, in Paris. Nate and I have just hopped off a train from the South of France. We are hungry. There is a menu du jour for 60 euros. Each course is stranger than the next, but still simple enough so that I can see myself returning. That is, until the dessert, where the egg shines with such ferocious strength that it would knock Huertas to its knees. Chef Inaki Aizpitarte’s tocino de cielo. An egg yolk atop an almond meringue cookie. The golden dome seems firm, but with one bite (this is how you eat the dessert, we are told), the yolk bursts in our mouths, sweet and warm and the texture of silk. I don’t know if I like it. I chew quickly and swallow. But I’m not about to forget this dessert, and if all the carrot cakes and berry cobblers and molten chocolate cakes are beautiful, hazy souvenirs, the yolk explosion is so vivid it makes my stomach lurch, my tongue sharpen, and deep down I’m curious for a second one. What a feat for a dessert to remain mysterious, to trigger curiosity, even after it has been eaten.

I wouldn’t be surprised, though, if soon enough egg appeared on the dessert menu at Huertas. Now that we’ve been taught to break yolks with our forks, will we be tempted to bite them with our teeth? Don’t be fooled, it’s no easy feat.

Huertas at 107 1st ave btw 6th and 7th St.

Huertas photos by Lindsay Keys

merry with my father and the cider apples in brittany