No. 6 — Chef Joseph's at the Connoisseur Room
linger over a beggar’s purse or pecan-crusted chicken salad at Kelties (110 S. Union St., Westfield, 867-3525, kelties.com).
Other gilded bistros were working their magpie charms long before Eggshell Bistro made its debut. Petite Chou (14390 Clay Terrace Blvd., Carmel, 566-0765; 823 Westfield Blvd., 259-0765; cafepatachou.com) sparks a craving for crepes and broken yolk sandwiches in a dining room that looks like Martha Hoover’s Pinterest board > The brunch crowd gravitates to Good Morning Mama’s (1001 E. 54th St., 255-3800, goodmorningmamas.com) for innovative breakfast-to-brunch fair in a brightly refurbished car repair shop. We love the Hoosierfied Hawaiian Loco Moco with cheesy grits and sausage gravy, and the blueberry pancakes.
Small-plate dining has taken off in Indy, but people have been sharing plates for a while here. They just called it “ordering off of the bar menu.” Meridian Restaurant & Bar (5694 N. Meridian St., 466-1111, meridianonmeridian.com) has an intriguing lineup of nibbles such as roasted beets and spiced popcorn > The happy hour menu at The Oceanaire (30 S. Meridian St., 955-2277, theoceanaire.com) ranges from crab cake bites to luscious shrimp and grits > The wafer-thin flatbreads at Palomino Restaurant & Bar (49 W. Maryland St., 974-0400, palomino.com) pair nicely with GNO beverages.
The spicing is subtle in some dishes, striking in others, but always precise. Sometimes the combination of ingredients challenges our middle-American notions. When was the last time you had chilled, spiced mashed potatoes molded around chicken salad? But dishes assembled with such care and presented so lovingly can grow on you and become familiar. As Indy’s ethnic food scene expands and (hopefully) fills in all of our international cracks, Mama Irma gives us a place to call home.
Burger connoisseurs rally behind their favorite patties, perhaps none more beloved than the crispy-edged standards at Workingman’s Friend (234 N. Belmont Ave., 636-2067) > At MacNiven’s Restaurant & Bar (339 Massachusetts Ave., 632-7268, macnivens.com), the Angus Burger spans the entire plate, wide and flat like a Frisbee. Fold it twice, like hamburger origami, to make it fit the bun > Those who like their burgers thick and artfully garnished will find bliss in the dozen-plus one-third–pound varieties at Boogie Burger (1904 Broad Ripple Ave., 255-2450, boogieburger.com) and in the hand-pattied creations at Bub’s Burgers & Ice Cream (210 W. Main St., Carmel, 706-2827, bubsburgersandicecream.com).
Some children aren’t satisfied with their names, but I always liked mine: Deborah Lynn Dorman. Or Debra Lynn Dorman—I was never sure, as my birth certificate says “Debra,” and somewhere along the way I decided to use the biblical version because it sounded more romantic. My mother waved away the inconsistency, saying I mattered to her far more than what I was called. Either way, the name had a melodic cadence, and I was proud to say it out loud. And unlike my given name, my surname was certain. Dorman.
On an overcast day this past autumn, I sat across a table at a downtown sandwich shop with my niece Wendy, sobbing. She was there to provide a shoulder and cajole me into eating the chicken-noodle soup that had become my staple since being diagnosed with early-stage breast cancer a few weeks before.
One of my first writing gigs was a magazine column called “Perspicacity.” Nobody, including me, knew what this meant, although the dictionary defines “perspicacious” as having acute mental vision or discernment. My job was to apply such selectivity as it related to new stores, i.e., discover them and tantalize readers with a sparkling yet reliable description. I don’t know if I came to love shopping because of the column or loved the column because of shopping, but since 1979 I’ve enjoyed the quest.
I miss the phone book. A lot. I realize this makes me sound like Andy Rooney, who proclaimed everything was better the way it used to be, but I am who I am. Old—not Andy Rooney old, at the time of his death, but up there. Set in my ways. Resistant to change. For as long as I can remember, I’ve kept two phone books—the white and yellow pages—in my bottom desk drawer, the one deep enough to accommodate the weight without rolling off its hinges.
Last summer, when family troubles landed me down in the dumps, I decided I should have a little joy in my life. I got an urge, not unlike the longing a woman gets when it’s time for another child: that stirring deep inside that is at first un-recognizable but slowly gels into actual thought, and, finally, action. I wanted—no, needed—another cat to take the place of my beloved Scooter, who died, cancer-ridden, deaf, and blind, at the age of 21.
1 >> What draws 2,000 people each weekend to Reynolds Farm Equipment (12501 Reynolds Dr., Fishers, 849-0810), home of the area’s most elaborate holiday lights display? Chugging among the angels, the manger, and the ark are John Deeres, in all their yellow-and-green splendor, their tires festooned with flashing lights that make them appear to spin.
