When searching for the next restaurant to review, there is no difficulty in finding a door to walk through, certainly not in Omaha with its endless tide of such businesses seeming to sprout up on our many abandoned lots. A responsible food critic should likely take time to carefully choose what should be brought before the public eye, and it is usually so. But on this particular day, a wave of hunger on a cool day swept me into a sunlit cove called the “Twisted-Cork Bistro.”

A restaurant that claims to bring bits of the Pacific Northwest to Omaha, I initially wondered if that wouldn’t be how I was going to frame this article: with oceans and waves and sea shanties and maybe if I was lucky: a mermaid or two.

Stepping through that threshold – from Omaha, into the bistro – I was met with perfect temperatures; unlike many businesses which seem to think that freezing the legs off their guests with too much air-conditioning is fine, (or deciding that the surface of the sun is likewise reasonable). The colors inside were warm, with light browns, and dark wood tables and chairs. Nowhere did the colors feel too much or too rich; even the occasional old-timey spiral lightbulb lit the rooms well and evenly. Notably, there was also a really cool, broad window that ran alongside the kitchen, which allowed guests to watch the chef’s work.

The bistro was certainly fancier than most I had been into, but from experience (and a bank account controlled maybe by my stomach), I knew not to put hopes or expectations up because of an excellent paint job, other reviews, or the price of the food. Honestly, I had hoped for food that reminded me of an ocean I had never been to. After all, a chef, like a writer, paints a picture with things that aren't done on canvas.

With the menu lifted before me, the very first item listed was “Hot Poppers.” They did not sound like they belonged in someplace so fancy with a name like that, but the description of “two light pastry rolls, apple butter,” seemed like a good start to the meal, and my search for a soul for this article. After a short wait, those two bronze and amber cloud-puffs were set before me. Scents of fresh bread baked with the experience of age drew out thoughts of a cabin window. Hidden behind the hot Northwestern pastries, a small bowl of chilled apple butter invited a dip and a taste.

The pastries were soft and warm, and, combined with the chilled apple butter, it was like stepping out from a warm forest cabin and onto a porch cooled by the evening sun. Just as I was taken away not to the ocean, but to a northern forest, my waiter set down before me a bowl of Tomato-Red Pepper Bisque. The reds and browns of Autumn were contained in a bowl made not just of tomato and croutons, but also roasted red peppers, garlic, chili oil, cumin, and Tillamook white cheddar. The soup did not smell like some ordinary tomato dish, nor did the croutons come with that strange harshness of those that were store-bought.

The bisque had a kick, like the crackle of a cabin’s fire – but chased by the hot pastries dipped in the chilled apple butter took the heat like open windows in that cabin. Eaten together – the bisque and the rolls – were so different but complementary that it was like enjoying the company of two different grandmothers. One who is ever doting and sweet, and the other who has crass jokes and vulgar humor.

I certainly did not touch the main dish as it came out, unable to separate myself from the soup and the fluffy bites of autumn – and it is good that I did. My server let me know that the Wild Halibut, which I ordered, was flown in from where it was caught. It would not be respectful to the fillet to combine anything there and subvert the flavors. The Halibut fell apart in my mouth like the crash of a wave on a rock. Fingerling potatoes, garlic, asparagus, and even the strange wine-red sauce on the top of the fish, I saved for a second bite.

It was a mistake to separate the base of the dish from its crown. I was moments away from a reckoning that I did not see coming. A pause first to try the seared potato, which was smooth yet earthen, like sinking one's toes into a riverbed. Warm and rich, I almost made the mistake of thinking that it might have been the real lord of that plate.

My hesitation around the red sauce was not missed. It had a very strong smell, which gave pause.

“Why?” I asked myself while I considered eating it, trying to figure out the strong aromas, “What am I smelling?”

“Olive-tomato tapenade” was what the menu said was on top of the soft halibut. I, however, had no idea what tapenade was.

It wasn’t until I fenced the dark sauce and the fish on my fork with my knife and ate it that I knew.

Where the pastries and the soup were heralds of autumn in a cabin, the tapenade was the night. Not the coldness, nor as a gateway to a new day, but the night itself, and being hidden. The sauce was pureed olives, capers, anchovies, herbs, and oil. I expected the ocean from the northwest Bistro and found myself in a forested cabin, enjoying the fire – and then I realized what the strong scent of the sauce reminded me of — a stolen kiss in the night, and rich wine upon her lips and her breath.  

Even after the halibut was squared away and the deep, rich sauce was left on the dark plate, an effort was made to describe the asparagus. By itself, they are just asparagus, but dipped in the tapenade, they reminded me of the smell of river reeds.

Twisted-Cork Bistro knocked it out, especially with their mission to provide food that is free of additives, as per their menu: “Our recipes use the Earth’s bounty the way it is intended – wild and natural.”

It is a warm and well-lit restaurant from which to enter this autumn.

Austin Petak is an aspiring novelist and freelance journalist who loves seeking stories and the quiet passions of the soul. If you are interested in reaching out to him to cover a story, you may find him at austinpetak@gmail.com.