A September visit yielded wild sockeye salmon carefully wrested from the sea by Pete Knutson, Hines’s fishmonger of choice. It was crispy–skinned on top, served over chickpeas in a crimson pool of sweet summer–pepper sauce, then encircled by an emerald moat of herb coulis, and finally garnished with a curl of red pepper and scattered chives. The dish was every bit as vibrant upon the palate, each element indispensable. Ditto an intense cream of mussel soup, which arrived as a satiny ribbon poured from a pitcher into a shallow bowl containing a nugget of pork belly and a swirl of parsley coulis. Ditto a gratis amuse bouche, which preceded one dinner this fall: a tiny ramekin of radicchio and apple matchsticks, their flavors deepened and enlivened with bacon and a red wine vinaigrette.
Much of Hines’s success is based on the courage of her flavor convictions. (Her failures are too—as when she boldly gave porcini mousse a sugar brûlée crust and crowned it with vanilla foam: “Crackerjack foie gras!” my companion declared.) But Hines’s culinary intelligence goes beyond bravery. She’ll take the most traditional dish on her menu—tender seared top sirloin (from grass–fed livestock), served with fingerlings and a traditional béarnaise sauce—and archly embellish it with a leaf of bitter grilled radicchio. This irreverent Goth–at–a–garden–party gesture provides the perfect foil. She serves her signature dish, crisped pork belly with French lentils, scallion coulis, and tomato vinaigrette. “I love fat, and I love acidity,” she explains. “When you put the two together, it heightens the flavor and the finish lasts a long time.”
Hines’s favorite balancing act is textural. Grainy grits appear alongside fork–tender meats; al dente beans speckle oily fish. There’s not a crunch in her salads that isn’t offset by a creamy contrast: pears, arugula, and walnuts arrive with an almost liquid ewe’s milk blue cheese. This food may be organic, but don’t go mistaking it for virtuous.
Likewise, a lot of trends show up at Tilth—sweet–savory pairings, cheese plates, flavored foams, a menu that credits food sources, a small–plate option. (This last is done very well here, with every dish available in a dinner size and an affordable tasting size.)
But it would be all wrong to call Tilth trendy. The little house with its 1917 leaded glass windows and central hearth is entirely too salt–of–the–earth for that. Witness its hard chairs, unupholstered surfaces, and drafty interior; the charming Tilth puts on as few airs as the farmers and foragers and fisherfolk who supply it. (The combination makes Tilth more of a spring and summer restaurant than a winter one.) Even the servers evince a candor rare among their kind. “It’s easier for me to tell you what’s not great on the menu tonight,” answered one, upon my request for a recommendation.
On another night, upon my admiration of an ethereal Skagit River Ranch breast of chicken, another server sighed: “You can taste when an animal’s been cared for.” I can sure tell the restaurant has been.
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