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| - Enter Harvest, a den Macbeth might eat in with its dark, dark walls, spare lights, whiskey, oak, red wine goblets, its bartender with a suitably smoky voice/black turtleneck, and a merry jangle of necklaces including a cross, and crusty bread in a basket served sans adornment, and oh yeah--zip bang songs of a mad modern era blasting loudly, crisply, ceaselessly from somewhere as overhead a basketball game is well underway, and everyone (in the older crowd) laughs and chows right through the supremely rich butternut squash ravioli swimming in pesto and goat cheese and roasted tomato showstoppers, faces all lit harlequin in the macabre red glow from the cylinder lights and here come the drinks--oh baby--all absinthe heavy and chilled in tall glasses, along with Platform flights that are just a touch on the too foamy side, and but wait have you tried the bread pudding which is the pinnacle of foodie desserts, patrons were told the other evening, watching the flicker flames dance on the giant stove in the open kitchen, and watching the wink of stray jumper lights in the sign above the bottles redundantly reading BAR, and feeling cozy here, entombed in a good way. Feeling intoxicated. Nourished. Something wicked this way munches, wherever it's come from; fiends for farm to table should feel right at home in the slick gloom.
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