I quickly obtained an Enomatic card and got to work—or play—sampling wines I normally only dream about: complex, juicy El Nido from Jumilla, Spain, and Orin Swift’s Papillon, an elegant, spicy Bordeaux blend from Napa. In Fredericksburg, I was finally able to experience the winner of Italy’s best red of 2008: the soft, mineral-rich Faro Palari 2005, from the Mt. Etna region of Sicily.
Enomats aside, Kybecca also has table service and a fine small-plates menu. As soon as my husband arrived, it was time for tapas: crusty bread and plump olives, a bowl of rich, spicy tomato soup, mussels in a curry and white ale broth and Kybecca’s signature dish: a trio of tiny (local) bison and blue cheese sliders with cornichon pickle relish. I was tempted to try more, but was time for our main meal—dinner at Poppy Hill.
My acquaintance with Poppy Hill Tuscan Kitchen began with one magical word: cesarine. Pronounced chay-zah-REE-nay, this term refers to a group of Italian home cooks who preserve the secrets of their region’s traditional cuisine, be it Roman carbonara, orecchiette from Puglia, Sicilian cannoli, paper-thin carta da musica bread from the isle of Sardegna or Tuscany’s pappardelle with cinghiale (wild boar) sauce.
In our first e-mail correspondence, managing owner Ingrid Mahar asked me how she and her husband, chef Scott Mahar, would go about arranging a series of cooking classes with a cesarina—or two. Impressed already, I put her in touch with Home Food, a group that manages a vast cesarina network and makes it possible for individuals to learn some Italian culinary secrets without marrying into the family. At the same time, I made a dinner reservation at Poppy Hill, which had been on my short list ever since it earned an Epicurious nod as one of the country’s top 10 farm-to-table restaurants.
After our cosmopolitan experience at Kybecca, Poppy Hill felt kind of like visiting family, or returning home. We crossed the street, strolled past a dozen or so poppy-red chairs and tables on the sidewalk and then moved down the stairs to a surprisingly inviting dining room. I have many positive memories associated with underground meals, and they are all Italian: from my grandmother’s ravioli and tomato sauce in the basement of her Arlington, Massachusetts duplex to the more elegant dishes and décor of the Cantinetta Antinori in Florence. So it made sense to me that the Mahars would pick this basement space—an eatery for 50 years—for the site of their own restaurant, rooted in Italian cuisine and in the seasonal flavors of Virginia. Ingrid greeted me with a hug, introduced us to her sisters (twins) who have worked as servers since they opened two years ago and sat us at the only vacant table left in this popular little place. The pleasant sounds of pots and pans clanking and knives chopping in the kitchen was just audible enough.
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