Maribelle and her Tavern

You seem like the kind of person who likes food. I’m relieved. If you’d landed here for fashion tips we’d both be sorely out of luck. I like food, too, and lately I’m liking it more and more at my kitchen table or sprawled out in front of my TV. Its cheaper there, for one, and then there’s the added bonus of being able to scream at The Real Housewives of New Jersey while hunkering down with a lobster roll.

But after a frazzled day in the office, I haughtily announced that I would “not slave over a hot fire” and that “dinner was up to someone else.” Sorry for the attitude but it ended up being a good thing. That was the night I fell in love with Maribelle (whoever that woman is) because her tavern reminded me how much I adore restaurant food when it’s fresh and clever and better than what I can do at home.

When it opened, I remember the mad dash of foodies that dropped their hot little oven mitts and sprinted over for a sampling. I was not one of them, perhaps because I was shoved behind a desk or still contemplating the idea of culinary school. It’s a pity. All I can think of now are the wasted years — the way I went on with my life, glibly consuming three meals a day, not knowing what stood just around the corner.

Dear dinner companion, you should have seen the woman next to me. The corners of her mouth were pointed directly to the sky. It was a result, I suppose, of the artichoke hearts she was working on. They had arrived plump and buttery and gleaming with possibility. I know it’s rude to stare but I couldn’t help watching her spoon each little choke out of its nook and then drop it tenderly in her mouth. She may have been sitting in a dimly lit, wooden room with Christmas lights strung up on the bar but that food in her mouth was the Four Seasons.

And you really must try the Barramundi. It’s a flaky, white fish that’s similar to halibut but “not as over-fished.” Glazed in orange marmalade and sriracha sauce, it had me stamping my foot for the entire four seconds (actual number) I allowed it to sit on my plate. As a sort of bonus, asterisks all over the menu denote sustainable, hormone free and antibiotic free selections. So it would seem, Maribelle and her tavern are not only clever, they’re conscientious.

I’m just sure that the Meyer burger was made to fit between my greedy hands. The bacon was so thick and crisp I didn’t know if it was the beef or the pork I was really wrapping my jaw around. Of course, I should have known. It was recommended by my waitress, Julie, who now has to put up with me on a regular basis. She not only calls everyone “my dear” but she remembers their drink of choice. It’s the kind of service you expect at one of Jean-Ro’s places — not a little joint hidden on the side of Eastern Avenue.

Maribelle’s Tavern is a small bar that acts more like a five-star restaurant. After burgers and artichokes and cheese and fish and brussels sprouts and wine and lemon bars and beer and chocolate cake, I’m pretty certain of one thing. Cash may be king but Maribelle is queen.

Tagged as: columbia tusculum, maribelles tavern, Restaurant