Sichuan Hotpot, Dreamy Donuts, and a Meaty Italian

Dinner, breakfast, lunch in Boston

Now and then, I'll take the 3-hour trip down to Boston and ask myself, why don't I do this more often? It's a city that feels intimate without being claustrophobic, but not so big you feel lost in translation. I never tire of the historic landmarks, the aged cemeteries, and the patinated placards outside brick and stone buildings telling the stories of the American Revolution and beyond.

This time, I was here for the hotpot from a bustling restaurant in Chinatown.

Before being seated for our reservation at Q Restaurant, we stopped in for drinks at a sizzling establishment called Sip Wine Bar and Kitchen at the nexus of Chinatown and the theater district. Everyone there seemed to be on a Hinge date or about to see a show. My husband and I played a game guessing who was there for date night (the older couples side by side on their phones) or on a first date (the pair awkwardly debating who should pay for the meal when the bill arrived). Swiftly sat and served by the pleasant staff, I ordered a signature cocktail with ginger beer, but I'm going to be honest: the signature sting of Sichuan peppercorns swiftly annihilated my memory of this pre-dinner bev.

I've had hotpot before, but this experience was unique, with a vast array of vegetable selections, mushrooms, meats, seafood, and tofu. We had a split of Sichuan pepper broth and black bone chicken—with pieces of the carcass still bobbing in the roiling liquid (a sign of good things to come.) After a quick tutorial and a fishy soy dipping sauce concocted table-side, we began making our dinner, noodles and all.

After several mouth-numbing bowls of the venomous Sichuan broth, I cooled down with the more mellow but no less unctuous chicken soup that put a watery can of Campbell's to absolute shame (of course). 

I lust for hot peppers and can handle some of the more extreme variants. Still, Sichuan peppercorns—not a pepper at all—cause a visceral, physiological reaction—numbness, heart palpitations—think anaphylaxis, but more fun. My pallet was experiencing nuclear fallout and my tongue felt like it was covered in burdocks. It's a wildfire sensation that required an ice-cold beer (stat!) that almost did nothing to help deescalate the mounting sensation I might scream steam at any moment.

Looking around, I noted the average clientele seemed like regulars, primarily groups of young people. I spotted an older couple that looked about as pale as the food they usually eat with sweat-greased foreheads and wide-eyed panic on their faces as they ate a Sichuan-spiced meal—likely against their servers recommendation (as ours had warned us against another spicier, broth option). I tend not to rebuff the staff in these situations as I'm sure they're familiar with slacks-clad Suburbanites struggling with Sichuan-spiced dinners evening after evening. I'm glad we heeded their warning.

Almost everything, including the palm-sized fronds of Napa cabbage, the discs of fresh scallops, thin slices of marbled ribeye, a giant bowl of plump udon noodles, the delightfully crunchy enoki mushrooms, and the tender shoots of baby bok choy were boiled in the heady broth, dipped in the addictive sauce, and slurped (loudly) until it was gone. Empty plates and full stomachs.

Despite the aggressive amount of food we ate, we felt surprisingly spry the next day. We drank coffee while wandering around Boston Commons, watching old men peacefully gaze at the ponds, Golden retrievers gallop after ducks, and old women feed squirrels handfuls of peanuts (despite the numerous signs admonishing this behavior). This was only to kill time until one of the closest Blackbird Doughnuts locations opened. Then, we walked a few blocks (Uber, who is she?) to join the line already forming outside the seemingly innocuous neighborhood donut shop.

Upon entry, I didn't have high hopes. Despite making Boston Magazine’s “Best Doughnuts in Boston” list, the inside didn't smell like a fresh bakery—you know that sweet, addictive, 'good things are headed my way' mixture of frying oil and powdered sugar? Nevertheless, we ordered a sampling of chocolate, watermelon, and strawberry donuts.

We walked back to the Commons to try them, thinking just how hard it is to come by decent donuts these days (in our mid-thirties and already yearning for the good ole days). Do not (donut?) come for me, but I am not a huge fan of Holy Donut—a Portland, Maine invention of potato-based donuts. They're too dense and flavorless. I always feel like I'm eating a baked potato covered in sugar. And they're too filling. Although there are hordes who swear by these unique treats, I prefer a softer, lighter, more traditional doughnut. And these are very hard to find. Even the orchard, where we pick apples every fall, offers those classic apple cider donuts, but they're the cakey variety—not the brioche kind. Good, but they don't quite scratch the donut itch.

I was FULLY surprised (and even now, mouthwateringly reminiscent) of Blackbird's chewy but light-like-melting-snow donuts: a standard yet dependable chocolate, an acceptable strawberry, and an unforgettable watermelon with bright, almost sour frosting and crunchy sugar crystals that made every bite a sensory experience; the mouthfeel equivalent of a laser light show. 

Finally, before heading home in the afternoon, we took a lazy sojourn through Faneuil Hall and northbound to Paul Revere's house and Little Italy. We checked out some menus for a future visit to Boston.

Here we passed Monica's Mercato. Full stop.

Through the big storefront windows, we observed the crates of ripe Roma tomatoes and stacks of fresh-baked bread, and felt transported back to Italy, where we spent three vibrant weeks earlier this year. We continued on down the sidewalk, but I couldn't stop thinking about getting an Italian sub, so we swung back around and ordered one. 

In North End Park, the Sunday scaries felt far away as we split the sandwich. Devoured, in record time. It was a traditional Italian variant with salami, prosciutto, mortadella, fresh tomato, arugula, provolone, and a homemade gardenia that was sharp without being overpowering.

And, finally, I was full.