Who Knew: Three Restaurants You Need to Visit This Winter, in Descending Order of Fanciness

‘Who Knew?’ is sponsored by Walter Stewart’s Market.

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In chilly weather, there’s no gravitational force stronger than one’s couch and a prestige streaming TV series. It’s dark on the roads, outdoor dining has vanished, and your home is home to the powerful trifecta of pets, sweats, and Harrison Ford’s effortless comedic performance in Shrinking. Your couch is such a fine place to spend an evening. 

But it’s no place to eat. 

I enjoy a sneaky cold-weather dinner out, especially on a weeknight. It’s an excellent chance to trot out the outerwear I missed all summer, take advantage of easy reservations, and, if I’m lucky, a good parking spot. As the holidays draw ever nearer, days and nights are full, and my desire to cook on a weeknight dramatically wanes. Plus, it’s been a bit of a year, hasn’t it? 

Here are some absolute standouts from my past few weeks, ranked in descending order of fanciness but not, I must point out, comfort and joy.

L’Ostal | 22 Center Street, Darien

I’m embarrassingly late to the L’Ostal party, which has been going on in a tidy Darien hideaway since 2022, but I was recently dazzled by a “why not” Thursday date night, and I vow to make up for my lapse with repeat visits and fervent evangelizing. 

Once upon a time, every city’s “upscale” restaurant was French. Whether you were in Sydney or San Francisco, chances were, a concierge would direct you to an Escoffier-ified temple to haute cuisine, with white tablecloths and a saucier on staff. And, I mean, yes, chef, I will annihilate a plate of crêpes Suzette any day of the week. But all that formality lacked welcome, and in the ‘90s and aughts, we seem to have overcorrected into Cal-Ital-Med territory. There were a LOT of sundried tomatoes and ahi tuna towers. I miss French food.  

What we’ve needed all along was sharpshooting regional French cuisine. L’Ostal vibrates with low-key, insouciant mastery–it’s not sniffy, precious, or inaccessible, but instead, wildly convivial, with excellent service and, my god, the food.

We began with a special off-menu fougasse–an intricately shaped herbed, and I’m just going to drop this here for you… baconed-up… Provençal bread that hung beseechingly from a little hook and is probably intended to serve a table of six. My husband and I took it down in under ten minutes, alternating melty, salty, herby bites with forkfuls of the impeccable green salad with pistou vinaigrette. Life hack: always get the green salad in a good restaurant. The leaves are gorgeous, and the dressing is pure sorcery. Additional life hack: it’s spelled ‘vinaigrette.’

Then things got serious. My cheerful dining companion prudently chose duck confit with farro and turnips–a wise choice both for a 35-degree night AND because he knows it’s well beyond our culinary comfort zone to ever make at home. I’ve seen duck at the supermarket; I know it exists, but to confit it? I may as well dunk a basketball on a regulation hoop. Chef Jared Sippel’s duck was expertly confited–tender, fall-off-the-bone, and rich, and the farro beneath it was rich and risotto-y in texture. 

I, on the other hand, ordered the most reckless, indulgent, absurd dish possible: ravioloni from a special seasonal white truffle menu because, I reasoned, life is short, I never got to fly on the Concorde, and dammit, the bacon in that bread just didn’t calcify my arteries enough. Ravioloni are supersized ravioli, and if pasta isn’t precisely French, it was made so with enough butter, cheese, and cream to make a Normande cow blush. Unctuous and a bit cloudlike, the ravioloni were made even more extra with a half-ounce (can that even be right?) of white truffle shaved tableside by the chef. Whatever it cost, my father, for whom a 15 franc minibar Coca-Cola was a bridge too far, would be furious that I spent that much money on a plate of pasta. But the flavor was sublime. 

We couldn’t consider dessert after the depth of our dinner depravity. But next time, maybe we’ll start there.

Hot tip: the wine bar next door is all low-lit, sexy ambiance. If you’re doing secret dealings, or just want to gossip out of earshot (one hopes) of other New Canaanites, you’d do well to visit La Cave for a glass of wine and accompanying snacks. It’s open Thursday through Saturday.

Allium Eatery | 54 Railroad Place, Westport | (203) 557-3060

Reservations are required, and you must make them by phone (how cute is that?!)

I need to take a breath, as I’ve used up all of my food superlatives in describing L’Ostal, but Allium deserves a sharp pencil and a fresh round. We first heard about this spot from another couple perched at the bar at Taco Guy (for which my feelings are well-documented) who insisted this Westport kitchen is turning out some of the state’s best food. Indeed, chef Michelle Greenfield is up for Chef of the Year in the CRAzies (ugh, that name) restaurant awards, and after visiting twice, she won my vote.

Upon scoring a reservation at this self-styled rotisserie/ buvette/ market, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Our neighbor-friends had suggested a dinner out; I made a reservation but made no promises. It turned out to be a good move. WOW. After bite one (bucheron de chèvre with shaved apple and a tarragon salsa verde) I felt I could relax. I suspect I can speak confidently for the group: we were blown away by the food in this tiny spot (seriously, I’ve been in bigger SUVs) across from the Westport train station. As we drove away, Andrew noted that it needed to be included in our rotation, and fast. 

With a menu that changes weekly to reflect the season, Chef Greenfield’s cooking spans traditions and techniques. The one through-line I’ve figured out is foundational excellence that elevates everything–from game-day-humble allium dip to a shaved ribbon of celeriac into its very best expression. There was a preparation of spaghetti squash I’d never have considered but will forever dream of: miso bagna cauda broth, onions, crispy shallots, and microgreens. Savory, textural, and, dare I say, kind of healthy? Each entrée was perfectly executed, and as our companion Sally pointed out, roast chicken is always a bellwether for a kitchen’s mettle. Hers was exquisite. Only Zuni, in my mind, stands taller. 

Our most recent visit was further into the fall season and decidedly heartier. A spiced pear and mezcal cocktail got me going, and at our server’s suggestion, our first appetizer was a twelve-hour braised pork belly that sets my lifetime bar for the dish. All that unseemly fat got rendered out of (or rather, into) the cut, leaving it fall-apart tender and lovely on its own, or topped with the sweet potato purée and brunoised vegetables and pickled mustard seeds with which it was served. 

 

We also (PETA, please look away) couldn’t resist a foie gras éclair. I know. I KNOW. To revel in a dish that’s illegal in my home state is a bit grotesque, and the Canadian geese that camp out in our backyard every fall are still giving me dirty looks. But, speaking directly to libertines and gourmands (my people), do not sleep on this dish. A mousse of foie gras gets piped into and over the choux pastry, and a tart apple-cranberry condiment and halved hazelnuts give it acidity and crunch. The texture was a triumph. The flavors work SO well together. It’s an indulgence and probably a moral failing. Given the opportunity, I’d eat it again.

Allium is also an all-day café, serving takeout and eat-in breakfasts like soft scrambled eggs with bacon on a croissant. Westporters, consider yourselves lucky.

Cherry Street East | 45 East Avenue, New Canaan

After any highfalutin’ culinary experience (and a few miles on the treadmill), you know what really hits? A real-deal, decades-old American bar that delivers warmth, ambiance, and draft beer with nary a Golden Goose sneaker or agrodolce condiment in sight. Cherry Street East is just the place. It’s got the kind of hometown vibe that no combination of decor consultants and focus groups would ever come up with: a few year-round strands of twinkle lights, sports on a motley assortment of TVs, a chalkboard with specials, a stained-glass window, and nothing that tries too hard or skews too Fairfield County Power Bro. 

You know the bar in The Family Stone where Luke Wilson’s character tells Sarah Jessica Parker’s character, “You have a freak flag. You just don’t fly it,”? This is our that.” (Credit for this observation goes to Andrew Ault)

Years ago, I made the mistake of omitting Cherry Street East’s Vermonster burger in a roundup of the best cheeseburgers in New Canaan, and I am here today to atone for my mistake. The Vermonster comes on a toasted English muffin (genius) with bacon and sharp cheddar, and there’s real beauty in such simplicity. We split one (this is a post-yoga stop for me, and an entire cheeseburger seemed a bit ridiculous) and subbed sweet potato fries for the regular kind (for health reasons, obviously) and we were in heaven. Cooked medium rare, the ground chuck in the CSE burger has a char on it to suggest an open-flame grill, and the lack of lettuce, onions, or anything else gave it an efficiency I admired. We’re just here for the essentials. The Vermonster deserves a spot in our Burger Pantheon, and served with an ice-cold draft Coors Light, it might be the best value-for-vibe in town.

Lulled into a post-burger reverie, we noticed that, while his brother Eli is unchanged, Monday Night Football co-host Peyton Manning has somehow become his own father in a burgundy quarter-zip sweater. Google confirmed that Peyton, Cherry Street East, and I are all roughly the same age, and I thought about how being in one’s late-40s is a decent time; it’s an era of comfortable self-knowledge, wearing whatever sweater you want to wear, and the ability to find joy in any situation, whether reservations are required or not.

And there you have it—a trifecta of dining options to shake off every kind of doldrum, ranging from indulgent to inventive to simply comforting. Whether you’re spending your evening with friends, neighbors, a spouse, or Peyton Manning, one thing is for certain: the couch can wait.