Hello! I’ve been busy in the kitchen lately, tinkering with a recipe I plan to share in my next newsletter. Spoiler alert: The only heat involved is in the seasoning. The dish, a salute to summer, doesn’t depend on a stove.

Whenever the late Neil O’Heir was asked what distinguished the Inn at Little Washington from other fine-dining destinations, its longtime dining room manager would sum it up in three words: “because we care.”

Because they care, for instance, their already elaborate bread service comes with a beehive of butter produced from the dairy of less than a dozen Vermont cows. Because they care, the staff at this bucolic draw near the Blue Ridge Mountains routinely adds fresh ideas to the script: a water sommelier, the Cardinal’s Nest, a spa pool. Nurtured by chef-proprietor Patrick O’Connell since its inception in 1978, the Inn even gives a cluck about the comfort of its chickens, whose windowed coop is decorated with a chandelier.

During the pandemic, O’Connell famously deployed mannequins dressed 1940s style to help populate the dining room’s plush seats. (“They never complain about anything,” he joked at the time.)

Between saving up for the Inn in my early post-college days and my time as a professional eater, I’ve dined there at least 30 times. That’s a lot of four-star feasting at an establishment that has won half a dozen major awards from the James Beard Foundation, including Lifetime Achievement for the chef in 2019. Imagine my surprise and delight, then, when word came that O’Connell wanted to throw me a post-Post party. It unfolded last month, on a Tuesday when the restaurant is typically closed. The day’s perfect weather felt as though he had somehow summoned it for my “Next Course,” and titled the celebration thusly.  

About 50 friends, family, DMV chefs, and former colleagues made their way to the “Little” Washington, Va., property some 70 miles from D.C. The months-in-the-making evening began with a tented reception on the sprawling lawn of the Inn’s “Field of Dreams” and finished, hours later, with a first look at the Inn’s latest amenity.

It was hard for me to know where to start. Dom Perignon flowed, shucked oysters glistened atop shaved ice, and a kilo of Osetra caviar stood at attention, waiting to be scooped onto made-to-order blinis; some guests opted for a fashionable “bump” or two. The food stations also included the handiwork of several generous chefs from Big Washington. Fabio Trabocchi was there with foie gras ganache and strawberries, Anthony Jones brought two-bite tarts plied with a revivifying scallop and green tomato crudo, and Kevin Tien presented cubes of smoked Berkshire pork belly with a kicky condiment of Chinese sausage, ramps, toasted peanuts, and more. A vintage French-dressed mime circulated among the guests, who were serenaded by a trio of jazz musicians. 

Every sense was entertained. 

The party could have ended in the meadow, and I would have been happy. But the Inn never stops at merely wonderful. Some invitees who couldn’t be there — my successor, Elazar Sontag; Los Angeles Times restaurant critic Bill Addison; and my mom, Dorothy Sietsema, who made cameos in my Post columns throughout the years — appeared via video tributes screened for us in the property’s intimate “ballroom,” where George Washington is said to have danced. I was especially appreciative that my friend and predecessor, Phyllis C. Richman, made the trip, bringing with her an especially thoughtful framed copy of my first review as food critic for The Post. (Its subject was the Prime Rib, which shuttered earlier this month but not before I got in one last meal in the steakhouse, venerable even when I first sliced into its menu.)

Following a few speeches, the assembly strolled over to the restaurant where the majority of us sat at big round tables in the light-filled conservatory. For someone who tried to eat as anonymously as possible for the past quarter-century, I found the menus at each place setting a bit disconcerting, while others grabbed them by the handles and had fun. They were super-size photo cutouts of my head (!), with six courses and wines listed on the opposite side.

O’Connell drew everyone’s attention as he introduced the mime’s “shortest concert in Little Washington.” The entertainer took out a metal saw from an old instrument case. Whatever would he play on it, we wondered? The most touching rendition of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” since Judy Garland first sang it, or so I felt. I recall soft gasps followed by grateful applause. 

For one of the few restaurant meals in my adult life, I didn’t take a single note. I wanted to be fully present. I figured I’d remember the many highlights, and photographers could record the rest. 

The dinner wove Inn classics with fresh takes, so that pepper-sparked Long Island duckling was prepared as sliced breast, in a dumpling with leg meat, and as foie gras. Roasted beets shone in the company of apple wasabi panna cotta and a garnet beet consommé. This was food that looked like what it was, only prettier — not always the case in temples of haute cuisine. Everyone received a dreamy creamsicle coaxed from rhubarb and creme fraiche, but the range of the Inn’s pastry work was displayed when pretty much every idea was trotted out and guests at the tables each received a different dessert. This prompted curiosity, which led to plate swapping, which amused everyone, which was the whole point. The Inn is formal, but also cheeky. 

O’Connell had requested the recipe for Mom’s World’s Fair Cake, a festive buttermilk chocolate affair that achieves its height with four layers of flavored whipped cream and colored the birthday parties of my childhood. The chef and his team staged the confection on a trolley decorated to resemble a fair in miniature, replete with a Ferris wheel sized for Barbie and Ken. Who besides the Pope of American Cuisine would dare to compete with someone’s mother and best her best efforts? 

The night was not yet over. We were escorted across the street to the Inn’s new oval pool, guided by luminarias for easy navigation. The water, encircled by marble tile, was a-shimmer with floating lotus candles. Guests gathered ’round for more Champagne, whatever cocktails our hearts desired from a nearby bar, and a second serving of live music. 

“This is like your bar mitzvah!” guest Joan Nathan exclaimed. And leave it to O’Connell to stock the scene with … a live mermaid? Her graceful moves and sly sexiness were finessed, I was told, by her time as a ballet dancer and Vegas showgirl. When I bent down to say hello near the edge of the pool, she splashed her tail and purred, “Am I here for you?” 

No visit to the Inn has proved more magical than my trip in early May, surrounded by friends and family and free from the responsibility of having to report to readers. Although I realize as I type this, I wanted to share the night’s fond memories with people I care about — recipients of this newsletter included. 

“We try to be a little better than the day before,” says former sous chef Bonnie Moore, who has been linked to the dining destination (“my first love”) for 34 years and continues to work with the star of the show on special projects. 

My partner Ed thought to gift the chef a couple of young Montmorency cherry trees — something living, something that would grow over time, and hopefully something we could return to and see in the future. Ed and I were happy to think the fruit trees might be replanted in the inn’s orchard, then thrilled when we were told the master of ceremonies and soon-to-be memoirist planned to place them in the front yard of his home, the Eagle’s Nest, so named because O’Connell’s eagle eyes could survey the whole of his operation. 

Some guests took a bus back to Washington, while some of us stayed at the Inn, to sleep in luxury and enjoy a fabulous breakfast the next morning. Once Ed and I reluctantly called it a night, we went to our room to find, among other fillips, a glass flask with ruby-red cherry bounce. Made from the Inn’s own fruit and based on a spirited recipe from Mount Vernon, the libation was the perfect finish to an enchanted evening, and further evidence of how the Inn personalizes the guest experience. Because they really, really care. 

A monthly feature in which I share a meal with someone I admire.

Tim Shriver is a writer, teacher, activist, father of five adult children, best-selling author, and, as the leader of Special Olympics International since 1996, one of the world’s best-known champions of human dignity. Under his watch, the organization has grown from 1 million to 6 million athletes from more than 200 countries. He’s also the chairman and CEO of UNITE, a nonprofit aimed at helping people bridge political divides. 

Most recently, the University of Notre Dame named Shriver the recipient of the 2026 Laetare Medal, the oldest and most prestigious honor given exclusively to American Catholics. His message: “Commit to saying yes to dignity.” He’s the fourth member of his family to receive the medal, following his uncle, President John F. Kennedy (1961); his father, Sargent Shriver (1968); and his mother, Eunice Kennedy Shriver (1988). To see and hear my friend — that good hair! that dazzling smile! his elocution! — is to remember his links to the days of Camelot/American royalty.

Shriver, author of “Fully Alive: Discovering What Matters Most,” attended my celebration last month at the Inn at Little Washington with his wife, lawyer and activist Linda Potter. Our conversation continued by phone back in Washington, D.C. Responses have been edited for length and brevity.

You carry a name synonymous with public service. Does that legacy feel like a gift or a weight? 

They say great parents are a legacy and a curse. I think my parents had high expectations. Sometimes I think those were a little too high, but at the end of the day, what they said to all of us was: Aim really, really high, and wherever you land will be okay.

What have your constituents [Special Olympics athletes] taught you that you didn’t expect?

Growing up around people with intellectual disabilities was an enormous bonus, a privilege. One thing they’ve taught me is the freedom to be yourself. In the game and on the medal stands, they are tough as hell and also incredibly loving.

Every family has some drama. Yours just happens to unfold on a public stage. Any advice for how to bridge divides?

Listen, listen, listen — listen. It’s the new super power. Keeping the relationship is more important than being right.

I’ve had many mentors over time. One of them taught me the basic rules for dealing with conflict: You stop, calm down, think before you act.

What brings you joy right now?

We are a wealthier, healthier, more creative country than ever. Those are facts.

Any advice or motto you live by?

I love St Francis: ‘Preach the gospel at all times. When necessary, use words.’ [While there’s debate about the quote, the focus on unity of action and proclamation is Franciscan in spirit.]

When and why did you go meatless?

My daughter Kathleen, sometimes known as ‘the general,’ asked me to become a vegetarian. Initially, I thought her ‘project’ would last a few days. That was 20+ years ago!

So what would you choose for your last meal?

A cheeseburger with grilled onions, crisp bacon, and sharp cheddar cheese oozing out of it. Did I mention really crisp bacon [laughing]?