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| - Note: MAKE A RESERVATION!
With Valentine's Day being much too hectic to venture out unnecessarily, I had made a reservation for the following evening after being turned away by a number of establishments that had been completely booked. It then occurred to me that Slate had been in existence for over a year and that I had yet to enter its doors. Snagging a reservation for the day after Valentine's Day, we eagerly awaited our window of fine dining for weeks on end.
Chefs Dave Sgro and Cheryl Tacka opened Slate in August of 2012 in what was formerly a modest home on a surprisingly modest street just beyond South Hills Village.
When we made the left onto Donati Road, we saw pickup trucks in driveways and plastic toys strewn in yards, half-obscured in dunes of snow. I thought I had mistakenly set the GPS to my former neighborhood of Brookline or my current one of Beechview. I felt comfortable and welcome before I even scraped a boot on Slate's doormat.
Inside, we were greeted by soft jazz music and erudite conversations concerning 'the blues" by some patrons at the bar. Without hesitation, Kay and I were whisked into a back room that was populated only by us by the time our salads were ready for service, providing us with a wonderful intimacy I haven't had at an area restaurant in some time.
"Wow, ya got the whole place to yerselves, now," Our all-around fabulous and down-to-earth server told us once the last couple settled up and left as we finished our appetizer. "How 'bout that, huh?" She would ask with a wink. Her name was Trish, and giving us a memorable and effervescent experience was her wish. She pretended to be a loving aunt for the following hour or so, hopping about excitedly like a rabbit whenever we needed anything as if she was eagerly chaperoning a first date that she herself had arranged.
As the name implies, Slate is all about erasing staleness, changing their relatively small menu each and every month while adding unique twists on the classics of American cuisine. However, after investigating their bill of fare online, I wasn't sure what to order! Alas, there were specials, and they ended up making up the bulk of my supper.
A trio of Coconut Shrimp unassumingly began our odyssey. Plump as miniature turkeys, each prawn was coated in an ideally crispy and sweet coconut breading, the hot oil drawing out any and all natural sugars. A pool of sweet/sour sauce kept the shrimp afloat, adding more honeyed flavor to an appetizer that was close to an Asiatic dessert.
A revised take on The Slate Salad (apparently what comprises their house salad changes from time to time if the other photos and reviews are an indicator) was next to grace our table and palates. A cornucopia of mixed greens were dressed in a marvelously milky, herb-laden vinaigrette along with roasted peppers, slivered almonds, and a blessed blizzard of Asiago. It would pleasingly and successfully clear our tongues for the grandeur to come.
My fears of stingy portions being haplessly compensated for merely by frou-frou plating were chased away by the twin titans that were the Grilled Pork Chops. Also from the specials addendum, each weighty slab of hog was topped with roasted bread crumbs and a hefty glob of creme fraiche-like goat cheese and left to wallow in a pond of savagely savory and unrepentantly reduced au jus. To respectfully contradict another reviewer, my chops, cooked medium, had just enough fat around the edges to impart flavor to the rest of each piece of meat's inch-thick plus body. Far from arid, vital liquids gushed with every cut and bite after dragging the morsels through the brackish waters below.
An almost tropical marinara topped one of two sides in the amazingly al dente rigatoni. The other, a steamy, luxurious bed of creamy garlic rice, approached a fine demonstration of risotto, making for a celebration of the simple elegance of humble grains.
Unsure of whether or not to finish with the Eclair or the Brownie Heart, I followed the spirit of the holiday and chose the latter. Deep and dark, the brownie, literally shaped like that symbol of devotion, had uncanny chew once its thin, flaky hide was broken and a smoky taste that invoked cast iron pans and campfires. Like everything else we gormandized that chilly Saturday evening, the vanilla bean ice cream and whipped cream were scratch-made in-house to absolute faultlessness. Kay had herself the golden, bakery-quality Eclair (we were assured that EVERYTHING on the menu was prepared on the premises sans store-bought shortcuts, and I'm inclined to believe it...) which was topped with a maniacal, hellish fudge ganache and filled with a heaven-sent, vanilla-riddled custard.
Slate is more than a mere "bistro" -- it is a house of togetherness and romance that just so happens to serve up consummately prepared food. Take someone meaningful to you to cozy Bethel Park someday and experience Slate's ever-changing delights by flickering candlelight.
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