Sweetbreads and Pork Belly at Proof

It's no accident that owner Mark Kuller, a tax attorney, named his business Proof.   

And although it's a dining establishment, not a law office, Marcy and I found that a few of our culinary claims were rebutted by Proof.

Claim # 1: My offal recipe is the best thing since sliced sweetbreads.

Only hours before our visit, I was seen bragging about town that I'd perfected the art of cooking sweetbreads. 

My sweetbreads were rich.  My sweetbreads were creamy.  Hell, they were even a little sweet. 

But, above all, they were ... humiliated by Chef Haidar Karoum's version. 

There's no use denying it; his sweetbreads belong to another dimension.  The exterior is browned and seasoned with a well-blended dry rub so that it doesn't just impersonate, but becomes a perfectly seared steak.  Biting into the caramelized crust is like diving into one of Peter Luger's porterhouses - and discovering a creamy, unctuous filling.

Before Proof, I thought I had it all figured out.  At the moment, my signature, sweetbread and butter dish has never seemed farther out of reach. 

Claim # 2: Marcy and I can manipulate our waiter into getting whatever we want.

We've talked our way into just about everything. 

We've found our way into kitchens we weren't supposed to access; maneuvered into position for pictures with star chefs that just wanted to be left alone; and charmed waiters into showering us with free desserts.

At Proof, our luck ran out.

I was intrigued when the waiter mentioned that Chef Karoum enjoys cooking his sweetbreads and tartare so much that he's quick to accommodate patrons who want to double, triple, or, in the case of one ravenous diner, quadruple the portion sizes.

That made me wonder: instead of multiplying, could we divide? 

He paused to think it over, and we worked our mark.  Marcy flipped her hair and laughed playfully.  I put on my best nonchalant, take-it-or-leave-it James Bond expression.

It probably played more like Austin Powers, though, because he said no, foiling my designs to taste as many appetizers as possible.

That was a problem because, besides the sweetbreads, my only other appetizer was the pumpkin soup with roasted chestnuts, smoked duck, and foie gras.  The broth was green and the only ingredient I recognized from the menu was the duck. 

I was so convinced that they'd accidentally given me split-pea soup that I asked the waiter whether this was the case not once, but twice.  I proceeded to mutter over and over, "Where's the foie gras?" under my breath while searching sadly through the bowl with my spoon until Marcy shook me by the shoulders and smacked me hard across the face.

Claim #3: Restaurants don't serve dishes like pork belly as entrees because their customers can only handle strong flavors in small, appetizer-sized portions.

I was so sure about Claim #3 that I ran it proudly past our waiter for his approval.  He seemed to agree with me. 

Next thing I knew, he brought out my entree: a cassoulet with a gigantic chunk of pork belly, duck confit, and grilled sausage.

All three had strong flavors that, by my own logic, should have overwhelmed me, but all was forgiven because of that pork belly.  The fatty skin was salty, thick and crisp like a bulky potato chip.  Marcy had as much of it in one sitting as I've ever seen her eat vegetables, staining her vegetarian flag with pig grease.

By the end of the meal, Kuller, the owner, had established the case for his joint beyond a reasonable doubt.  Perhaps the strongest piece of evidence?  I was so full by the time I finished my entree that I had no room left for the much anticipated cheese plate.

More dishes from Proof:

Vadouvan Spiced Alaskan Halibut - steamed jasmine rice, sauteed sunflower shoots, coconut sauce

Path Valley Farms baby Asian greens with watermelon radish - lemon soy vinaigrette, crispy ginger