Brisk temperatures. Incessant rain. The needling desire to jackknife into a pile of leaves.
Clearly, we’re in the midst of that rarest (and briefest) of ecological events: Indian fall.
So, quickly, put all beach season preparations on hold.
And eat like you’re going into hibernation.
Enter CrossBar, a holy house of head-to-tail meat situations that’s spit-roasting swine inside the church now known as Limelight, opening Wednesday.
Onyx crosses. Wrought iron lights. Red leather chairs with exposed brass nail heads. Okay, so it does bear a striking resemblance to Criss Angel’s formal dining room. But considering the primary motivation behind being inside this 99-seat, bi-level cathedral is “eating an entire farm animal,” we’d say the shoe sort of fits.
So you’ll round up a group of malnourished barbarians and storm the reclaimed wooden pews near the rotisserie fire pit. When the waitress asks for your drink order, say the Laphroaig-imbued smoked root beer float. For the starter: the caviar potato skins. And for the main: well, just point toward the slowly spinning object in your periphery.
Piece by crispy, suckling, resplendent piece, your pig will be lifted across the herringbone oak floor, and placed gloriously upon your cast iron table. And once you’ve delicately tucked your napkin into your collar (yes, the bib’s essential), the only thing left to do is feast.
But if it seems like too much, there’s always a salad.
Clearly, we’re in the midst of that rarest (and briefest) of ecological events: Indian fall.
So, quickly, put all beach season preparations on hold.
And eat like you’re going into hibernation.
Enter CrossBar, a holy house of head-to-tail meat situations that’s spit-roasting swine inside the church now known as Limelight, opening Wednesday.
Onyx crosses. Wrought iron lights. Red leather chairs with exposed brass nail heads. Okay, so it does bear a striking resemblance to Criss Angel’s formal dining room. But considering the primary motivation behind being inside this 99-seat, bi-level cathedral is “eating an entire farm animal,” we’d say the shoe sort of fits.
So you’ll round up a group of malnourished barbarians and storm the reclaimed wooden pews near the rotisserie fire pit. When the waitress asks for your drink order, say the Laphroaig-imbued smoked root beer float. For the starter: the caviar potato skins. And for the main: well, just point toward the slowly spinning object in your periphery.
Piece by crispy, suckling, resplendent piece, your pig will be lifted across the herringbone oak floor, and placed gloriously upon your cast iron table. And once you’ve delicately tucked your napkin into your collar (yes, the bib’s essential), the only thing left to do is feast.
But if it seems like too much, there’s always a salad.
