Meticulous little worker bee chefs buzz around a blooming kitchen, preparing the most precarious dishes just a few steps away. I feel like I’m privy to another world—one I do not fully understand, and it feels almost shameful to observe for too long, as though I haven’t earned the right to view this sacred ritual. Like I haven’t been fully invited into their space, I’m an outsider, but still a part of the performance somehow. I watch as small masterpieces leave the assembly line of qualified hands, silently marveling at the real-life Wonka factory before me. Still, I almost hope to be invisible to the culinary artists who work inside this hive. Hoping they don’t notice my excited ogling; I don’t wish to disturb their work.

Never mind that I have paid to be in this seat and was placed front and center by the generosity of the host. There still seems to be an oddness to the work I’m viewing—almost like a look behind the curtain, a peek into the microscope. Maybe it was meant to feel this way: an invitation from the chef to observe the involvement of their craft from a distance. There is a feeling of being almost family, invited into his personal home kitchen. The warm glow of the overhead lights is reminiscent of times when one sleepily wanders into a quiet kitchen past bedtime to acquire a midnight snack, only to be greeted by another patron on the same hunt.

The Larder & The Delta now calls Midtown its new home. The head chef, Stephen Jones, pays homage to his roots by preparing dishes with a Southern twist.

Quietly and robotically, the bees perform their jobs, like a well-rehearsed dance. Everything is prepared with final touches of foliage and sauces, then sent out into the dining room—only to be destroyed moments later. That is the nature of this craft, I suppose: the painstaking art that takes a lifetime to perfect, just for it to be enjoyed for such a small pinprick in time. One evening at a time, small groups of individuals get to experience the joys of a lifetime’s worth of work, a lifetime of flavor exploration, a lifetime of memories and experiences wrapped up and presented in dishes the taster will never be fully privy to understanding. A silent love language from the chef.

A wonder-filled, flavorful experience unfolds here. This is the Larder & The Delta.

I believe food is so wholly intertwined with memories that certain dishes can only be made for certain occasions or times of year. For instance, ham was only served during Easter in my house. The memory of walking into my grandparents’ home on Easter to be greeted by the smell of a honey glaze is permanently seared into the archives of holiday smells within my mind.

Just like yearly holiday menus, The Larder & The Delta also experience menu changes. Our menu this evening consisted of twelve delectable courses. Upon seating, we were presented with the first four.

Coco bread, which I had never experienced before, had the lovely fluffy consistency of a bao bun. It’s a soft and slightly sweet bread that originated in Jamaica and was served with roasted carrot butter and country ham butter. Both were delightful, and I would have happily eaten an entire bread basket if given the chance!

Second was the hamachi: a flavorful southwest ceviche-like dish consisting of raw hamachi fish, coffee, egg yolk, serrano pepper, and pineapple. This was a perfectly balanced dish of salty and sweet, with the slightest bite. The flavors seemed to develop and open on the taste buds as one delves deeper into the dish. An absolutely beautiful savory multi-bite experience.

Third was a dish labeled “killed lettuces,” a nod to an Appalachian dish made of mustard, collards, sorrel, peppered feta, and bacon. This whipped feta dish was presented in the shape of a dessert tart—an amusing shape for a course that is not sweet.

Titled “Tennessee country ham,” the fourth dish was perched on the world’s smallest pedestal. This whimsical one-bite sandwich leaves the patron wanting more. Perfectly toasted drop biscuits make up the ends, while burnt Granny Smith apple puree, country ham, and sage hit the spot in another salty-sweet teeter-totter reenactment.

In the shape of a Bundt cake was our fifth dish: The Royal Osetra Canele. A perfect one-helping sweet cake with a black plum flavor and caramelized underbelly. Topped with Royal Osetra Caviar, one is once again greeted by the most mouth-watering sensation of salty and sweet. Truly, the only way I believe caviar should now be consumed.

The second half of the meal consisted of heavier, more filling dishes. First out was the hoppin’ John rice, paired with a dish simply labeled “Turnip.” The hoppin’ John rice was an absolute showstopper. I even went so far as to ask the server for the recipe, and surprisingly enough, Chef Stephen Jones gave it to me. I have yet to make this delectable rice, but it’s on my to-do list. The rice is made up of Carolina Gold Rice and Anson Mills Sea Island Red Peas.

Turnip was a real palate cleanser in a sense, and I’m not entirely sure I really enjoyed this dish. The green sauce is a pickled garlic chive, and it’s very tart. On the other side of the plate is a chicken skin salsa—a dry salsa that contains chicken skin and other dry spices. As one explores the dish, I soon learned that you need to have an even amount of everything on the fork for the green sauce not to overpower the dish. The turnip was fairly neutral-tasting, taking on whatever spices and sauces it’s paired with, while the chicken skin salsa adds a bit of salt to offset the tartness of the green sauce. Once again, this specific dish just wasn’t my favorite, but that didn’t make it any less interesting, taste-wise.

The live scallop was the eighth dish to make its way to our table. It was presented on a beautiful plated shell, atop a bed of sea salt. I love a fresh scallop, especially one that doesn’t taste like the ocean. The Larder & The Delta did not disappoint with this ocean treat. It was paired with butter bean and country ham XO sauce.

Next was the charcoal-grilled bigeye tuna. The fish was tender and perfectly seared. The crunchy exterior added another layer to make the dish more appealing, both flavor- and texture-wise. Red-eye gravy accompanied the dish, which we learned has coffee in it and is a nod to Southern truckers who would make something similar while on the road to stay awake. The gravy was salty, but it was another perfect marriage of flavor once the sweetness of the preserved pineapple merged in one’s mouth.

To end the second section of the meal, a final filling dish: smothered oxtails. I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing this cut of meat before, and I’m afraid I’ve ruined myself—no other oxtail will compare. Our servers so lovingly gave us knives to cut the meat—a silly formality. This was the most tender cut of meat, a testament to the chef. Literally melt-in-your-mouth decadence. As I was cutting into the dish, I almost thought they forgot to plate the meat under the parsnip purée because the cut was so smooth. A faultless ending to a gorgeous second act of the kitchen.

A remarkable little device was then brought to our table. Apparently Japanese-made and left by the old owners, the device boils water to make tea. Not listed on the menu, our spiced apple hot toddy was served. It was a nice segue into the dessert portion of the meal to settle the stomach. I think part of the magic of this course was just watching the water boil over in the device and watching the tea steep and change color in real time. The tea was served with spiced pineapple rum, which I wasn’t a huge fan of. I much preferred the tea on its own.

In the home stretch of this meal, a charming dessert parade greeted us. Three small plates were set before us.

The key lime pie was not nearly as large as I needed it to be. A tangy delicacy with a perfectly crumbly crust awaits you if you ever decide to walk into The Larder & The Delta. You will then crave this dessert and remember it fondly for weeks afterward.

The interaction needed for the chocolate crèmeux was a gratifying spoon smash to shatter the benne seed oil, revealing the real star of the show—a pool of chocolate. Another playful food interaction I didn’t know I needed.

For the third and final dessert: a calas, a traditional New Orleans pastry. Normally considered a breakfast fritter, this fried dough was accompanied by a caramelized white chocolate center.

As a final farewell parting gift, four small sugar-coated gelatin cubes were brought out, with flavors ranging from apricot to grapefruit. A last sweet token of remembrance. A final gift to an evening well spent in front of a beautiful kitchen.

Thank you to the staff, the chefs, Stephen, and the other patrons and lovers of the art of good cuisine for keeping a gem like this running. A remarkable dinner in a remarkable location. Thank you for the experience and the attention to detail. Your expertise and love of the craft shine through in every dish.