Here's where I come to Alinea. It's raining when we pull up to the slate gray, unmarked building, and I have, um, some difficulty parallel parking into the spot the valet points out to us--yay, free parking!--so the dude comes over and does it for me. I think I'll let the Kia take the blame for that.
Another guy comes over wielding an umbrella for us, and opens the door into a dimly fluorescent pink walkway. It's a little 2001: A Space Odyssey re-imagined as a night club inside a cervix, and, I think, this is in keeping with the Modern McModernson, Forward Thinking, Innovative quality of the cuisine. I start to imagine ladies in mod trapeze dresses wearing pillbox hats. (Which, yes, I understand denotes our not very recent past, but somehow still makes me think "future," as do space packs, flying cars, and raggedy knit sweaters with artfully placed, post-apocalyptic holes.)
Once we get past the next set of doors, though, it's a little less cervical and just straight intimidating and hush hush and measured tones. I think the finer the dining, the fewer women there are--except, of course, as patrons--whether it's the kitchen or at the front of the house. So what we have is men in dark suits all solicitous and genuflecting haughtily (I know, I'm projecting), and I'm feeling a little like an impostor, in my $60 dress from Urban Outfitters and my little cotton hooded jacket from H&M.
I'm feeling poor.
But it's okay. I leave Tess to order the champagne and the pinot to split, and she explains to me that the purpose of the swish of wine at the start of a bottle is actually to test whether the wine's been "corked," spoiled because of "cork taint." And here I thought it was for snooty people to be more snooty and send a wine back for not tasting good. The More You Know.
Some background:
This place has been named best in the U.S., #10 in the world, etc. The chef is Grant Achatz, who's studied with Thomas Keller (The French Laundry, ad hoc, Per Se, Bouchon) and Ferran Adria (alas, poor El Bulli). The cuisine: molecular gastronomy--although, I don't know if anyone who practices molecular gastronomy actually embraces the designation. It's possible Achatz repudiates the term like so many other dudes, but...I'll just use it to loosely describe the use of technology to change the texture, presentation, and experience of food.
(What's interesting about criticism of this kind of culinary risk-taking is how similar it sounds to critique of modern and contemporary art. Replace "art" with "cooking"--"that's not art!" and "what's the point?" and "this is so pretentious.")
At any rate, for me, this experience comes nearly seven years after I read that first NYTimes article about Ferran Adria and "Nueva Cocina," "Techno-Emotional Cuisine," and "Culinary Constructivism," as this movement is variously called.
Tess and I are doin' the tasting menu ($150). It was only Tess' sense of proportion and propriety that prevented me from embarking on "the tour" ($225). None of this includes wine, and the pairing represents another 75% the cost of the food.
As I've mentioned before, alcohol disagrees with me (the next day), so I'm not feelin' too disappointed about just splitting a bottle.
And so it begins. A server comes out with two arrangements that he places to one side of the table, counseling us that "good things come to those who wait."
"What is it?" we're whispering to each other.
I am, as usual, incorrigible, and surreptitiously take the corner of the edible flag and rub it between my fingers. It's har gau skin. Or Vietnamese spring roll skin. Embedded with marigold blossoms, cilantro, and mint.
[brain. explodes.]
Course 1
Steelhead roe in a "glass" pocket made of nutmeg-flavored spun sugar; papaya ("green papaya...compressed with vanilla for a slight sweetness and crunch" and "ripe papaya...compressed with cilantro, basil and l"ime zest"; small diced gel rum macerated with sugar, dehydrated into a rum rock candy; cross-sections of cilantro stem...compressed with vanilla"; "an intense, cleansing ginger liquid" carbonated and made into foam, "resembling a ginger beer"; lime zest and finger lime cells, ginger, basil buds, and cilantro; plantain puree for "an element of richness that unifies the dish texturally with a creamy, coating mouth-feel"; freeze-dried banana...
And according to their website:
Creating a compelling presentation with this many small, individual items becomes a challenge. We found a functional and aesthetically appealing solution in the nutmeg film. The isomalt-based shell is broken up by the guest, and mixes with the other ingredients first providing prominent crunchy texture before dissolving on the palate, without stickiness. We first heat the base to hard crack temperature. While the base is hot, we spoon in the roe mixture, encasing it, as the shell rapidly cools. We present the diner with the resulting "film," in hopes to inspire the audible, tactile and emotional satisfaction of both opening a gift and first cracking the surface of a creme brulee.
We're told to break the glass with our spoons. Briney, sweet. Like the ocean as candy. The intense flavor of basil. Shocking and delicious.
Course 2
Palate cleanser entitled a "Distillation of thai flavors." It's a small flute filled with a clear liquid. We taste: chili peppers, lemon grass, ginger. I say: "That better not have been a motherfuckin' course." It is.
Course 3
We're presented with our next course, and directed to remove the glass top off a tray and place it in front of the wooden tray found below. Next, we're instructed to remove the two metal parts set into the wood and create a platform (presumably to keep the har gau from sticking to a plate). The server takes that flag of har gau, marigold blossoms, cilantro, and mint and delicately (lovingly!) drapes it across the metal "x."
He then ladles a confit of pork belly onto the har gau, lists the ingredients arranged on the glass plate--black Hawaiian volcano salt, four miniscule melon-balled beads of cucumber, chips of deep-fried shallot, tiny banana slices dipped in curry sauce, supremed lime with the tiniest corkscrew of the lime zest resting on top, a still-wet spiral of fresh coconut, minced red onion, hot sauce made of red pepper coulis and cayenne with cayenne, cashews, a pinch of herbs, a sesame seed lemon vinaigrette--and tells us to build our own roll. (There's a warm towel already in a tray for us to clean our hands afterward.)
Tess wisely inquires as to how much of each ingredient we should add, and the server tells us that he usually just uses all of it. Good man.
And how is it? A MOTHERFUCKING REVELATION. The sweet of the banana against the savory pork, the explosion of volcano salt, the crunch of the cashew, every fuckin' bite is new. I tell the next server that I'd like 10 of the rolls to go, something I'm sure he hasn't heard before, but being waited on makes me nervous, so I tend to get (more) goofy and (more) gauche.
(Video here.)
Course 4
A globe of dishware with a dimple on top. Lobster parfait with a gelee of lobster consomme, grapefruit, freeze dried lobster (?), and a nutty coulis of some sort (probably not nut) topped with FOAM. I forget what the foam tasted like (Ed.: poppy seed nage). At this point, my brain is still fizzing over the last course. It's actually fortunate that some courses aren't as mind-boggling as others, since they'd probably have to scrape chunks of brain matter off their ceilings if every last course made your synapses snap as much as that last one did. But this is still delicious. Lobster ice cream! Who woulda thunk?!
We've been warned not to touch the globe because it was hot--I do it anyway, and it's not--and to place our spoons into the divot when done to signal we're ready for the next portion of the course. Here, the server removes the top of the globe to reveal: a "salad" of lobster chunks with mung bean and some kind of vegetable (Tess thinks). But wait! Are we comfortable with chopsticks? the server asks--I contemplate making a wry remark, but don't--yes, yes we are. Ready? No! Wait! First, a dousing of a lobster cream bisque over the salad, which drains through holes in the dish. (Alas, poor lobster bisque! I knew you but for a moment.)
Perfectly cooked lobster. But is this course over? Nay! The lobster bisque I'd mourned earlier has been waiting for me, having sat with a pile of chai spices. The server takes that and strains it into a glass to make a chocolatey lobster drink. Chocolate lobster milk?! WHO WOULDA THUNK?!
Sorry to be a cocktease, but it's getting late. I'll describe the rest of The Greatest Meal I've Ever Had in loving, pornographic detail tomorrow.
(The chocolate lobster milk. What would I give up to have that every day? Sunshine, health care, and equity for women, I think.)
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