Issue link: http://digital.copcomm.com/i/599676
2012 Chenin Blanc, but only six bottles of it." While that worked for two days, the young somm had to scramble for the rest of the week. She found a Moscato from Foris, in southern Oregon, yet while the pairing was right, she had to wait until the end of the week for the wine to make it to the island. Wetzel and Brucato aren't the only ones digging deep. Bar Manager Emily Sipprell infuses vermouth with seasonal ingredients—think chanterelles, dried hops, and seaweed— for the pairing menu. There's even talk of collaborating with a Bellingham Brewery for a beer made in locally-coopered barrels with malt from the nearby Skagit Valley. Nothing is spared Wetzel's devotion. Not the oysters for- aged from the beach out front which come both cooked and served raw on a bed of hot island rocks. Not the beach roses running to the shore. Not even the trees. "I noticed the pine branches had started to grow a bit," says the chef, turning over a jar full of fir tips, "and those tender tips are harvestable, edible and have a very bright flavor." Nothing is spared for the diner, either. Dishes here aren't delivered by a tango line of waitstaff but by the entire staff—including the chef and cooks. Sitting on the deck overlooking the sea that is the source of so much, the dinnertime waltz begins. First comes a crispy, paper-thin crêpe topped with garlic scapes, served alongside a local organic sparkling cider. Then comes the black cod "donuts." Topped with salt, and beignet-like, a just-cooked black cod emerges from their utterly springy center. There are the shiitakes—two of them—perfect and juicy, grilled and salty. Shatteringly crisp Loganita Farm kale dotted with Lummi Island black truffle arrives, followed by halibut skin encircling littleneck clams harvested by the Lummi tribe. And then there are the oysters on their rocky bed. Before sunset, we move into the restaurant proper, with its kitchen view, and Nick Green, Chef de Cuisine, appears with a bright green nasturtium topped with raw spot prawns in fermented plum marinade. Then comes a bowl (Willows Inn hires its own platemaker) filled with heart-shaped Nooka roses and salmon berries, topped with "princess juice"— shaved beach rose ice. Wetzel circles among the diners to explain that the dish is special because the two are in season—together—for only a few days a year. I imagine this is one of those moments that made Brucato jump, and yet the Quails Gate Chenin Blanc that lingers in our glass pairs immaculately. The night evolves. Buttery zucchini blossoms in a roasted zucchini juice give way to more mushrooms. Then comes the rockfish in its bone juice; the cold-smoked, reef-netted salmon; and the alder-smoked trio of mussels atop an umami smear of sunflower root that I'd eat on bread, on toast, on my left arm, for the rest of my life. There's bread and butter, which of course features wheat farmed and milled every Wednesday just for Willows Inn, served alongside an Oregon Chardonnay. For a taste of the non-alcoholic pairing menu, we sample a rhubarb shrub, which smells like a bath on the last Sunday night of summer, but tastes earthy and slightly bitter. Kelp bass arrives with lovage and skin, as do grilled cab- bage leaves atop razor clams harvested by the Lummi tribe. There's a nostalgic tea from toasted birch branches, and that Oregon Moscato. And, at last, the pine tips arrive, in an ice cream alongside grilled strawberries. All without so much as a lemon. Dried local smelt, nettles, and roses await their place in a future dish. All without so much as a lemon. ■cr f a l l / w i n t e r 2 0 1 5 | 8 1 Willows Inn nightly menu. Nettles to birch branches: Nothing goes unused at Willows Inn