Dinner at Proof on Main

Well chaps, I’m off to London and France for a little holiday.

I don’t want to say that the only reason I started this blog was because I knew I would be going on this epic foodie vacation.

I don’t want to say that.

Buttttttttt let’s call a spade a spade here. I wanted an outlet to document every morsel of what I eat over the next few weeks and the second the trip was booked, The Forkling was born. At least I’m being honest with myself and you all.

It’s been a Grade-A, high class, quality food eating last few weeks here in Fork-town. I had buffalo chicken mac & cheese in Chicago. Jerk chicken in Los Angeles. A corn dog at Riot Fest. Fresh pasta in New York. Cotton candy in Louisville. Chilean sea bass at a Malibu wedding. And more egg white spinach wraps at Starbucks than I can count. But that’s what you get when you spend more time at O’Hare than your own home.

I think my favorite meal of the last few weeks, though, was a dinner at Proof on Main, the restaurant in the 21c Hotel in Louisville, Kentucky. First, it should be said that I adore Louisville and it holds a special place in my heart from my Indiana University days, where we used to have sorority and fraternity formals. Some of the greatest (most intoxicated?) nights of my life happened on Fourth Street Live. I feel like I can say that now because the stewardess on my British Airways flight just offered me a complimentary glass of sparkling wine or water. And I took the water. Because I’m an adult now, see?

We had the distinct pleasure of ordering nearly everything on the menu, and for that, I am eternally grateful. I also had the distinct pleasure of drinking almost an entire bottle of Syrah. And for that, I am eternally hungover. Remember how I said I was an adult just a few short moments ago?  Don’t believe everything that you read.

We started with a generous charcuterie board with more meat and cheese than any group of six people should be trusted with. As per usual when I have a charcuterie board, everything was delightful.

We ordered a plethora of appetizers, including octopus, fresh whipped ricotta with truffle and honey, heirloom tomato and peach salad, and roasted bones AKA bone marrow. Duh.

First of all, gotta give it up to the joint for even having bone marrow on the menu. Because for a Southern restaurant, that’s not standard fare. I guess it’s not standard in Chicago either, but ever since Longman & Eagle made it cool a few years ago, it’s in more local Chicago places than ever before. #Digression

My only qualm with the bone marrow was that it was like, covered in salad. If I wanted salad, I would have ordered salad, y’all feel me? Get those leaves away from my meat bone goo.

We ordered an aggressive amount of sides. But thank heavens we did because that’s where Proof really shined. Horseradish grits, you were so good I couldn’t even take a picture before you were half gone.

And jalapeño honey butter cornbread with bacon... stop.

No, really, stop reading. Look at this picture. Do not pass GO and do not collect $200.

Just, drool.

My main was a bone-in Berkshire pork chop. Can’t go wrong. Actually it went a little wrong since it was a bit over cooked. But the beet spaetzle made up for its misgivings. Pink... pasta... a necessity for any lady, really.

Dessert was where I really flew off the rails. There was a toasted marshmallow pillow sealed inside a chocolate dome, and I couldn’t stop eating it. You know when you’re at a group dinner and everyone gets a spoon and you’re all supposed to be polite and share and take like one bite? That didn’t happen. I feel bad that my crew didn’t get more of it. I JUST COULD NOT STOP.

So right when I was about to write my last will and testament on a napkin and give it to the waiter to deliver to Chris and my parents, a huge, and I mean classroom-globe-from-geography-class-sized, tuft of cotton candy appeared. And then, poof, like Christian Bale in The Illusionist, I made that disappear, too.

I think I sprouted two cavities that night.

Net-net, I was pleasantly surprised by what this hotel restaurant cooked up. Not including the cotton candy because I think that came from a vacuum sealed bag at Six Flags Great America. The Forkling says: 8.3/10.0 forks.

Welp, that’s all for now, cherubs. I’ll report back once I touch down in London Town. 

Cheerio! No food-related pun intended.  

Xx