Ah, Blue Harbor — that windswept hamlet where lobster traps outnumber stop signs and everyone suddenly has a side hustle in artisanal cheese. Into this coastal chic chaos strides
The Wayward Fork, a converted barn-cum-bistro adorned with Edison bulbs, reclaimed driftwood, and the gentle hum of a folk playlist that sounds suspiciously AI-generated.
Seated at a table that was allegedly crafted from “reclaimed shipwreck timber” (though it had the texture of plywood and the scent of varnish), I ordered what was described as a “seasonal flatbread experience.”
What arrived resembled a postmodern art installation: crust segments stacked vertically like firewood, tomato foam delicately quenelled atop what may have been lab-grown basil, and a side smear of what I can only describe as ‘essence of disappointment.’
The waitstaff was delightful, if strangely evasive when asked whether the anchovies were local. My server offered to have the chef “text me a haiku about it,” which I declined.
The Wayward Fork is a perfect destination for those who believe food should challenge, confuse, or gently mock the eater. Just don’t arrive hungry — or without a thesaurus.