I didn’t expect a boutique hotel lobby in Waterville to make me wish I’d packed a jacket with elbow patches, but the Lockwood’s aesthetic certainly wears its earth‑friendly convictions on its sleeve. From the agave-fiber straws at the bar—sturdier than paper and banishing any nostalgia for plastic—to the reclaimed wood frames showcasing local artwork, the space murmurs, ‘We thought about this.’ I was thankful I had booked a room; no way was I driving home after a six‑course Pollinator Dinner paired with cocktails rumored to generate more buzz than the average hive.
While I waited for the other guests to finish arriving, two bite‑sized overtures hinted at the night’s theme. First, gin‑infused watermelon crowned with black garlic: a sweet‑meets‑funky cube that convinced me summer could earn a Ph.D. in flavor chemistry. Next, a char‑kissed radish balanced by airy macadamia‑nut butter—a smoky crunch giving way to tropical silk. Both nibbles arrived flanking a sprightly welcome libation of Bar Hill Gin, Cocchi Americano, lime, mint, cucumber, and rhubarb bitters. If June had elevator music, it would taste like that.
Dinner began with mischief: a tomato‑bright gazpacho sphere capped in almond foam. One gentle bite and it dissolved into a garden party on my tongue. Its cocktail partner looked like a science experiment gone rogue—Bar Hill Vodka mingling with tamarind, sesame, passion fruit, honey, balsamic, Tabasco, and soda. The ingredient list read like a pantry purge, yet the drink landed as a sweet‑savory thunderbolt: pad Thai’s flirtatious cousin who spends summers in Montpelier with the bees.
Between bites, a Bar Hill envoy reminded us that every spirit in the lineup starts with raw northern‑forest honey. Fermentation leaves the floral notes intact—a fragrant footnote to the fact that bees do far more for our bar carts than supply quaint garnish.
The fish course restored a hush across our table: beautiful leek ash-crusted hake from the Gulf of Maine, topped with summer squash mini medallions and a tangle of early‑summer greens over a gin beurre blanc. Pair that with an old-fashioned riff starring Barr Hill Chardonnay Cask Gin, rabarbaro sfumato, Galliano, apricot, and grapefruit for a delightful combination. Somewhere between sip and bite, I found myself apologizing to cod for years of unquestioning loyalty.
Then came the meat of the matter—ribeye seared to Penobscot‑sunset bronze, napped in buttery gin‑vegetable jus. At first glance I mistook its sidekick for a rogue leek, but the tidy rectangle proved to be summer vegetables pressed into couture obedience, ratatouille by way of Paris Fashion Week. The beverage: a Manhattan riff that swapped whiskey for Bar Hill Tomcat Gin. Turns out gin can swagger like any rye, especially when it’s been spooning with oak for a spell.
Dessert drifted in like a too-soon farewell: a petite honey‑soaked cake medallion crowned with a jewel of citrus, flanked by a white‑chocolate honeycomb drizzled with—what else?— liquid gold from Swan’s Honey in Albion. My final cocktail folded strawberry and rhubarb into a gentle embrace.
Educational dinners often teeter into lecture, but this one floated on conversational updrafts. The chef spoke briefly of sourcing—blueberries that owe their blush to native pollinators, micro‑greens grown a mile away, honey harvested within county lines—but facts tucked themselves politely into the chatter of conversation rather than marching across a PowerPoint. By the time I drained my glass, I’d learned enough about bees and the seventy‑plus percent of global crops that need them, yet the evening still felt like a relaxed Friday supper—just with better lighting and zero dish duty.
Stuffed, sated, and pleasantly abuzz, I thanked my new tablemates, waved goodnight to our hosts, and padded across that thoughtfully lit lobby to the elevator. My room key slid home with the soft click of inevitability. Somewhere outside, real bees bedded down in their hives. Inside, I did the same—dreaming of tamarind‑sesame cocktails and contemplating whether a lawn gone to clover might be the most delicious investment a Mainer can make.
If you’re lucky enough to land a seat at Front & Main’s next themed dinner soirée, you’ll enjoy it. Bring curiosity, an appetite, and perhaps a spare tote for the ideas you’ll carry home. And should you find a bee in your Manhattan, relax—it’s their party, after all, and we’re just sipping their legacy.
