Over the top

Design flair, fine food, and the ultimate in service in scenic Connecticut

February 25, 2007|Sheryl Julian, Globe Staff

MORRIS, Conn. -- The road from Boston to Winvian takes you by down-and-out doughnut shops, motor lodges, lots of places to get auto parts, and working five- and- dime stores.

Approach Litchfield and the scenery suddenly becomes New England bucolic. Morris, the town southwest of Hartford where Winvian is located (the stationery reads Litchfield Hills, which is the region's name), is all white-farmhouse Connecticut.

At the gates you announce yourself, then drive up to a main house so discreetly marked that we had to guess which one it was. Winvian is a cluster of houses (a designer collection of cottages priced in the stratosphere) where guests go to unwind and forget time. With no tennis, golf, or swimming on-site, you have to wonder who will patronize this newest entry among New England's ultra-luxe destinations, opened last month after three years of construction. If you are looking for a restorative place, if your pockets are bottomless, and your idea of relaxation is a long walk and a good book by the fire, snowshoes, croquet, or horseshoes, depending on the season, this is the spot.

You can stay in a cabin built like a treehouse, or another with greenhouse elements, or a third with a helicopter in the living room. One night costs between $1,450 and $1,950, which includes all meals, wines, and anything else you might want. Except treatments at the spa.

At the door, a gracious Italian gentleman, who turns out to be food and beverage manager Paolo Middei, sets the tone . He doesn't quite say it, but his house is your house. We're late for lunch and it doesn't seem to matter.

We sit down in a long, narrow, sun-filled room called the Smith Ell, which overlooks a pond where koi fish swim all winter below the frozen surface. The room is bright, the landscape stunning, and the light snow that fell the evening before almost sparkling. The Italian waiter, in an ankle-length brown apron and vest, offers menus. We're looking for wine but there are none by the glass.

"Choose a bottle," he tells us. "We open it for you."

"Any bottle?"

"Yes."

One menu selection says simply "turkey soup." This no-nonsense presentation -- nothing that makes you think some poor farmer is toiling away producing your perfect parsnips -- is part of chef Chris Eddy's understated approach. The Vermont native's turkey soup is so dense with flavor it probably turns into poultry Jell-O when chilled. A tiny dice of root vegetables, croutons, and parsley adorn the broth. It's the finest version of this homely bowl I've ever had, enhanced by thick slices of dark, but not sour, homemade pain levain and sweet butter.