I celebrated my 28th birthday at Blackbird six months after it opened. I don’t remember exactly what I ate, but I know pork belly was involved, along with a red that blew open my doors of perception about what grapes are capable of. Blackbird opened my eyes to a lot of things. But I was still a dumb schmuck who knew everything, so I couldn’t just allow myself to be blown away by the experience: I thought it was a bit extra that the menu namechecked the servers’ designer suits, and I thought it was funny to compare the crowded, overlit dining room to the confines of a lab rat. I was too cool for school.
Out of the gate, Blackbird offered something for the green and insecure that could inspire a lifelong obsession with restaurants: it was cool without being cruel, stylish without airs, and casually confident in the world-class cuisine Paul Kahan and the many chefs that followed him at the pass were putting on plates.
