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The Black Goat Tavern

American Gastropub       July 19, 2014

Dill_Chesterton57 South Easton, MA

Two Stars.

After a glowing review in the Globe I stumbled across some years ago, I decided to stop in at the Black Goat Tavern enroute to Tanglewood. Neither dine-in, drive thru, nor dive, it would nonetheless fit an unthinking basic cable paean to a T. Fittingly, it’s about as well kept as the Orange Line. Was it unpretentious like the Hub hacks opined, or predictable and unambitious?

First, what was absent. There was no truffle oil. According to the surly owner, he didn’t know how to source truffles and had no interest in oiling them. There was also no seafood on offer. I had to wait for Debussy to reach la mer. The Goat is firmly committed to its own provincial geography. The owner argued that most of New England is on the coast, so there’s no reason to pretend an inland town is near the Atlantic. I countered that with refrigerated trucks and easy access to 495, there was no reason not to put something humble like fish and chips on a pub menu. He insisted that one does not eat chicken fingers in Truro, whatever that’s supposed to mean. In a similar vein, when I asked for a salad fork to better aerate my greens, he wondered aloud what that had to do with the price of bananas in Uganda and then provided me with a second fork identical to the one in my pre-rolled paper napkin. 

Also missing were people with any taste. Where were they all hiding? The ambience, uninviting. Despite most of the vehicles parked on the street where this iteration of the Goat has grazed since 1997 being decorated in bumper stickers for some of New England’s best colleges and universities, it was clearly a backwards local establishment for locals. Given everyone’s gruff and dismissive attitude they aim to keep it that way. Well, they can have it.

To the first course. The salad greens in my starter were particularly biting and flavorful. The menu claimed they were sourced along with the other produce from a non-profit called the Black Goat Gardens without any further explanation. A generous crunch of walnuts, bleu cheese from the Berkshires, and delightful house made organic maple vinaigrette rounded off the best the Goat has to offer. Alas, I am a man and not a goat. I need more sustenance than grazing.

The cheeseburger was exceptional, but it was only a cheeseburger. Vermont cheddar, as expected, and lettuce, red onion, heirloom tomato slices from the Gardens charity shed thing. Oddly enough, the suggested red wine he paired with the cheeseburger was extraordinary. It was meatier than the beef, without the slaughtered fat and guilt. I insisted it had to be Chilean or from around Mendoza to have such a firm mouthfeel coupled with its depth. Eventually, they relented and brought up the cardboard box with the remaining bottles they had on hand. It was an Italian red. What a revelation! The owner suggested maybe the Italians from that part of the boot immigrated to Chile and Argentina and that was what confused me. I couldn’t tell if he was joking but decided to educate anyone within earshot that it is the terroir, the good earth, that nurtures the vine from grape to bottle, not the people who trod upon that soil. He shot back that I should go ‘terroir-ize’ somewhere else. All of the piss-yellow pale American lager swill monkeys had a good guffaw and hoot at that. The ‘in your face’ blissful ignorance sickens one, particularly in the undeniable absence of mirth.  

The Black Forest cheesecake was one nod to Fieri too many. I did not stay for dessert and if I’m not mistaken, was applauded on my way out.