When my posse turns into the driveway of a coral-colored Florida Avenue bungalow, it’s not the charming balustrade-lined white porch that catches their eye. Instead, there’s something about the ramp wrapping around the Seminole Heights building by the parking valet that strikes a cord.
“Didn’t we eat here before?” queries a regular dining companion.
The clueless food critic reaches back into a sluggish memory bank and has… nothin’.
“Uh, maybe,” is the best I can offer.
Once inside, the sight of the handsome bar rings another bell.
“Yes, I’m sure we ate here.”
I glance around, but still nothing connects. My mind whirs slower than an iPad in search of free wifi. Then, out of the blue, I finally recall The Bourgeois Pig from early last year; the eclectic boho-chic interior, which brought such allure to this 1920s cottage, is stripped away. Ox & Fields reflects the simple minimalism of its Asian roots. The stated goal for the new venture is to highlight what Florida knows best to create “a unique locavore experience for you in a tranquil, contemporary setting.” And that, it is.
Once we solve the evening’s riddle, it’s time to chow down — or, actually, to cha giò.
The “cha giò” (pronounced chah zoh) Vietnamese spring rolls made by executive chef Viet Vo’s mother aren’t on the menu; they’re a secret extra. In fact, our server whispers, “she won’t even share the recipe.” Whatever’s inside the tightly wrapped deep-fried wontons is delicious. It’s some combo of minced pork and shredded carrots, with perhaps bits of mushroom and cilantro. There’s also a small bowl brimming with sweet red pepper flake sauce that’s not for the faint of heart. These crisp, cigar stogie-shaped rolls are just scrumptious, even if you’re not brave enough to take the plunge. I tried them both ways and lived to tell the tale.
The crab Rangoon beignets are a cream cheese “crab cassoulet” dipped in tempura batter. They’re crisp outside yet soft and gooey inside, without much crab involved. After I banish the idea of absent crab from my mind, I enjoy these golden orbs. The plate has a thin layer of the same sweet pepper sauce for those who want to kick it up a notch. Bison meatballs have a satisfying sense of umami with tangy-sweet hoisin glaze, and a spicy drizzle of cilantro aioli. The starters are a hit.
Deep red slices of the five-spice seared tuna entrée sit on a creamy purée. The bill of fare lists it as sweet potato, but it’s actually boniato (sometimes called a Japanese yam despite its South American origins). It’s delicious, if not orange, especially with the sweet corn and Brussels sprouts ragout. The plate is touched with welcome acidity from the ponzu coulis circling the dish.
The pan-seared Florida snapper filet is on the small side, but it arrives beautifully moist and golden. The tasty garnishes are a few rainbow carrots and fingerling potatoes, plus a trio of tiny mushrooms, which hardly constitute the “ragu” promised by the menu. Nonetheless, while the lovely green scallion emulsion is surprisingly mild despite the addition of ginger, it’s a satisfying melange of taste and texture.
Slices of perfectly crisp, pink sweet-and-sour duck breast sit proudly on fluffy couscous pilaf. The bird’s fattiness is balanced by braised greens for a touch of acid, sweetness from a few dried cherries, and the brightness of tamarind coulis. Though this dish touches all the bases, we’re still ready for dessert.
Sarasota pie is essentially a Flor-Asian twist on an English trifle layered in a tall Mason jar; it’s loaded with products from south of the bay. Blackberry compote is made from Blumenberry Farms organic fruit. The cream component is a mousse from Dakin Dairy. And Tamiami Gin orange marmalade adds punch to the layers of house-made Thai basil sponge cake.
As I’m dipping my spoon into our second dessert, green tea (macha) creme brûlée, cracking the beautifully crunchy crust to reach the soft custard underneath, I hear a squeal. It seems one of my diners has reached a long spoon to the very bottom of the aforementioned Mason jar, and it’s love at first bite. I’ve just managed to get a dollop of the macha custard onto my tongue (for expert analysis) when I notice, from the corner of my eye, the jar is nearly empty as a second companion joins the digging contest with the first.
I gently remind them it’s my job to eat a little of everything, and if they don’t stop soon, we might blow my cloak of anonymity by ordering a second helping. Managing to switch desserts, I instantly stick my cutlery to the bottom, twisting it so that I get a representative sample of each Sarasota pie strata before it’s too late. The “pie” is, indeed, a seductive mix of mouthfeel and flavors — fresh, complex and not too sweet.
As I return to ponder the wonderful intensity of the blackberry and strawberry brûlée garnishes, I notice the ramekin duo and Mason jar are as empty as can be, short of giving them to the dog to lick clean.
Jon Palmer Claridge dines anonymously when reviewing. Check out the explanation of his rating system.
This article appears in Jun 9-16, 2016.