Grabbing Toro by the horns

It is very busy in here. And hot; the air is dense with smells, wood smoke and laughter. Tuesday night, 8:30, standing in Toro drinking a pisco sour by the bar. My friends and I have an hour waiting time for a table, and I would wait two if necessary.

Unlike most restaurants in Boston that have spent loads of dough to suck the scents out of the dining room with expensive exhaust pipes, resulting in the usual sterile and generic atmosphere, Toro is thick and moist. I feel like I am home again. No more of this faux sophistication that you find in massive restaurants feeding filet mignons and desperately soggy sides to a bunch of yuppies at 5:30 p.m. I crave this atmosphere; it makes me want to kiss someone really hard.

Pisco sour, by the way, is a drink made from Peruvian brandy, and here at Toro, it’s shaken with egg whites, dry first (without ice), then with ice, sour mix, simple syrup and angostura bitters. It is frothy and refreshing. The egg whites are, for once, not being abused as some pragmatic version of protein in a bland breakfast omelet.

My eye travels down to the little piece of paper stapled to the front of the menu. “Platos del Dia,” I read, and my heart skips a beat. Jamon Bellota: “Iberico, black-footed, acorn-fed ham” ($29). That price there gives you only six slices. Then again, this is arguably the best ham in the world.

These black-footed Spanish piglets begin their lives fed on barley and maize. Soon they are left to roam freely in meadows and forests eating wild acorns, as well as herbs and grass. It sounds so romantic &-&- till the time for slaughter comes. Now one of those cute little piglets is about to be in my mouth.

The waiter arrives with a wooden cutting board and gently laying atop are those thinnest of thin slices, so delicate the fat is melting like hot butter. In my mouth, the flavor of acorns comes forth first. Like an infused liquor, the fat creeps around my tongue, lubricating it completely.

I wanted to shove my entire head into the whole ham afterward, but I’m sure Ken Oringer, the chef-owner of Toro, would not be too happy about that, so I opted against it. Chef Jamie Bissonette and sous chef Mike Smith work their tails off at Toro &-&- the entire staff does.

That night my friends and I had fallen into a little luck because Lydia Shire, head chef of Scampo, Locke-Ober and Blue Sky had a guest menu. And boy, was it exciting. A few more pisco sours in and we get our table.

Thanks to Shire, I am proud to say that I was deflowered last night.

I popped my brain-eating cherry.

“Crisped Calves Brains, Bone Marrow Custard, Capers and Sherry Vinegar Butter Sauce” ($12) read the menu. Right above that, “Black Pudding Poly Science Egg, Hollandaise &’ Yucca Crisps.” ($10) Alright! I slap my hands together, and anticipation sets in. I can recommend that a first timer at Toro should go for the usual Pan con Tomate ($4), Mollejas (veal sweetbread, $4), Patatas Bravas ($5) and Maiz Asado con Alioli y Queso Cotija (grilled corn with aioli, lime, espelette pepper and aged cheese, $6), but we are not yuppies here, we have balls.

Now it is time to pop my cherry. I am nervous, my stomach is all up in knots and the anticipation is building inside me. They come (the brains) fried in batter. They do not look intimidating. As for texture, brains pretty much have the texture that you would expect brains to have &-&- squishy, light, something like a frothy foie gras, although it doesn’t seep all over your tongue; you have to move your mouth for that to happen.

So, brains are not as scary as I thought they were going to be. What’s even better, the bone marrow custard next to it is lushly spread on top, creating a gateway through the batter and into the brains. Although, I do wish the chunks of brain didn’t look so much like chicken nuggets. I am certain that we have the guts to eat the kinky bits without them being disguised in batter.

Toro is so far the only restaurant in Boston that has seduced me so beautifully. I swear I’m going back there right now, but this time I will kiss someone &-&- hopefully Ken Oringer will accept, and then he will let me bury myself into a nice leg of Iberico ham.