The Degusting Diary: April 2012

I thought my plan was foolproof: two months to the calender day as soon as 11am Eastern Time struck, I would call Alinea and presumably have no problem securing a reservation. Well, I was under a misapprehension. It ultimately took 3-5 phone calls per minute for 95 minutes before I finally made it through to a reservationist. I hated the restaurant before I had even crossed the border into Illinois.

During my final class of the semester, when the subject of Chicago restaurants surfaced, one of my stats professors mentioned that Alinea delivered the best meal of his life. I found myself struggling to agree with him. It's not the best meal I've had, I said, nor is it the tastiest food I've ever had. But it doesn't need to be because it's the most fun I've ever had in a restaurant tout court.

Alinea's impishness is on display from the moment one is seated, as the table's centerpiece is a large block of ice gravid with beet-hibiscus-black licorice juice that becomes a palate cleanser following an aggressively seasoned purée of scallops--intended to mirror tofu, except with flavor, of course--sitting in, inter alia, dashi.

With one playful dish after another, the occasional pratfall is bound to occur. And it did, several times. Nothing fell flatter than a utensil-free course of Mangalitsa ham, squid tentacle, orange and fennel, which tasted as if the kitchen had discovered a way to transmogrify orange into a dog's chew toy, making for one of the more unpleasant adventures of the evening. And then there was the edible helium-filled green apple taffy balloon. The balloon is temperature sensitive, and due to the moderate humidity that day, on first delivery one of the balloons shriveled into an unattractive mass, at which point a collective dejection cascaded across the dining room; based on the runner's reaction and how quickly he absconded back to the kitchen, you would have thought he arrived with his pants down.

And lastly, there's the final dessert, wherein a silicon mat is draped over the table before someone from the kitchen paints dessert atop it (see below for a link to the Blair Witch-style video*). The ratio of white chocolate to vanilla cream, strawberry and English peas is just too lopsided. It's actually a testament to Alinea that I ate as much of it as I did since I generally find white chocolate thoroughly unpalatable.

Michigan-cured steelhead trout roe, carrot-curry-coconut emulsion

Oyster leaf with mignonette; Alaskan king crab; mussel with orange and chorizo; habachi charred razor clam in sweet soy

Syphon that prepared the dashi for the scallop course

Mangalitsa ham, orange, fennel and squid tentacle

Puréed scallop, carrot, cucumber, celery in dashi stock with yuzu

Palate-cleansing centerpiece of beet-hibiscus-black olive juice

Those lapses can be easily overlooked given the deep-water greatness of several items. After a few introductory courses that amount to throat-clearing exercises, the kitchen demonstrated its ability to walk on water with four courses of outright genius that detonate on your palate unlike anything you've experienced before. It started with a mouthful of spring: four torrid stones holding first of the season morels coated in the feathery baste of beurre monté, asparagus, maitakes, mushroom purée, fried mizuna, and a sixty-three degree quail egg.

Next, we'd be treated to an Achatz original: hot potato-cold potato, which leaves your brain trying to conduct an expeditious inventory of details--hot, black truffle-topped Yukon gold potato (check!), cold, velvety potato soup (check!)--as it reconciles two seemingly incongruous sensations.

Moving on to what would constitute the main course**, first a mirror with sixty ingredients was placed in the middle of the table, soon followed by a plate with three immaculately prepared cuts of lamb: the shank, the saddle and the loin. This almost seemed like the kitchen's way of saying, "Hey, just in case you thought all we do is play around with gels, hydrocolloids and unconventional plating techniques, check this shit out."

Spacing out the classics, then came the black truffle explosion, Achatz's successful effort that lasers in on the flavor of black truffle. As if it had been read a sob story, the raviolo gushed forth its black truffle goodness. And despite instructions to seal one's lips tightly, I managed to spray truffle stock half-way across the table.

Overseeing this playground was our server Kevin, a hirsute redhead. I had read that service could be on the cold and condescending side, but that certainly wasn't our experience, for everyone who made a pit stop at our table was delightful and most courteous. My one gripe is that while a meal at Alinea will leave one giddy, there's also fatigue that comes with two-and-a-half hours of instructions that precede each course--don't grab the burning end of the cinnamon stick, don't bite down on the metal ball, please don't wait too long to enjoy this dish as it is time sensitive and on it goes--such that there are points where one wonders, "Is this a restaurant, or am I in the principal's office?"

One final point: it seemed to me that tables were a bit too close to one another.*** This wouldn't be such a problem if menu length varied by table, as it did several years ago (when the restaurant offered a 26-course option). However, since every table now experiences the same sequence of courses, there's a reasonably high probability that many of the surprises can be sullied if you find yourself gazing in any direction for too long.

Notwithstanding these minor quibbles, the food is stunning. It's the equivalent of running a red light over a dozen times and not crashing, and I cannot wait to return the next chance I get.

Morels, maitakes, fried mizuna, quail egg, asparagus and mushroom purée

Hot potato-cold potato with parmesan, black truffle, butter and chives

Lamb shank, saddle and loin, 60 garnishes, including gingerbread, tomato caviar, huckleberries, fig, fennel gelée, blueberries, slivered almond, peanut, cilanto, saffron, carrot

Black truffle explosion, parmesan and wilted romaine

Squab with, among other things, foie gras custard and prune jam inspired by Juan Miró

The vessel into which one is asked to place each finished spoon

Brie tempura with brown sugar, pear pate de fruit and roasted onion

Tasting of week-old Hawaiian ginger and turmeric

Frozen sorrel, citrus tea, blueberry, buttermilk and macadamia nut

Helium-infused green apple taffy balloon

White chocolate, whipped vanilla cream, sherry reduction, English peas, strawberry, mint, flowers

My brother and I went to Alinea knowing it wouldn't constitute an ample meal, and the staff could not have been more helpful in offering post-Alinea dinner suggestions. We ended up deciding on Blackbird with the intention of ordering 2-4 savory dishes and 1-2 desserts. Once we learned that they offer their tasting menu at the bar, the decision was made for us. And how better to indulge for our second dinner of the evening. Did it end up being too much food for one night? Definitely, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

I'll keep this short as my notes grew considerably less reliable over the course of the evening (and there wasn't even alcohol to blame). I cannot say definitively if the desserts were unprepossessing, or if it was a function of the sensory pounding my palate had been taking for over four hours that rendered them indistinct. What I do remember, however, was the expanse of suckling pig--and its concomitant porcine essence, even at room temperature--hiding a bed of smoked dates and hazlenuts and just a tincture of acidity from pickled shallots to equilibrate the plate.

And then there were the fiendishly delicious lobes of cholesterol: first, a torchon of foie gras so smooth that it almost seemed as if it was melting (the accompanying pickled parsnip, however, was far too astringent to enjoy) and then the pièce de résistance, a chicory glazed lamb belly with superfluous vegetal elements. After finishing the lamb belly, I went for a stroll and happened to walk past Chef Posey, who was overseeing the pass at the time; suspending what is my generally imprecation-free vocabulary, I said, "Chef, that lamb belly was fucking amazing." A rakish smirk fanned across his face as he acknowledged the compliment. While the food was consistently good, to fully appreciate Blackbird, I know I'll need to return with both a clearer mind and emptier stomach.

Taken from their website (as it was actually full when we arrived)

Sturgeon belly, asparagus and charred onion purée

Garbanzo bean soup, house-made falafel, caramel egg yolk and celery leaves

Confit octopus with pea porridge, pickles, buttermilk and dill chips

Roasted Alaskan halibut with turnips, almond, pickled turmeric and smoked butter

Hudson Valley torchon of foie gras

Confit of suckling pig

Dry-aged prime strip with rosefinn potatoes, spring onion, miner's lettuce and smoked bone marrow

Lamb belly with escarole, turnip, pine nut hollandaise and preserved meyer lemon

Grape sorbet, toasted sesame and (more) white chocolate

Pear parfait with vanilla pudding, red wine poached pear and chocolate

Espresso chiffon cake with blood orange, honey and golden turnip ice cream

Toasted peanut cake with balsamic carrots, buttermilk and lime

Chocolate pavé and caramels

* Note: it was my first time ever using the video function on my camera: Tableside Dessert

** Based on the menus we were given, this was the 11th of our 18 courses, and we would learn that the four bites of seafood ended up constituting four courses, which struck me as a bit used car salemen-y.

*** Fortunately, we were on to dessert when the Real Housewives of Chicago arrived. I'm convinced their shrill cackles and concentrated nonsense would considerably limit anyone's enjoyment of the experience. My condolences to the two-top that occupied our table once we departed.

Leaving Tru, I asked inly--before directing the same question to my brother, who dined with me--is there a better one-star Michelin restaurant in the country? If there is, I certainly haven't found it.

From my initial email correspondence with the restaurant's general manager to the deft handling of our table by Hanna, our server, and Aaron, our captain, every aspect of service demonstrated nonpareil attention to detail: the choice of black or white serviette, the synchronized clearing of plates, the sweeping of crumbs after every course, the ushering to the washroom (and the staff's militant commitment to ensuring a safe return to your seat) and everything in between. And then there was the food, which is almost without fault, especially on the savory side. More on that shortly.

I made sure to get an early start to the day of my 6pm dinner, so that I'd be able to attend several panels on voting behavior before my brother arrived in the afternoon. By noon, though, mid-way through an underwhelming discussion about strategic voting in patriarchal parts of East Asian--few subjects could be further from my research interests--inanition set in due to two days of modest intake, and I was seriously wondering if I'd be able to make it until dinner on an empty stomach. Ultimately, I was glad I resisted the temptation to snack, for otherwise, I'm not sure I would have been able to manage the Niagara of plates that was about to descend upon us that evening.

We started the meal, as many restaurants do, with Comté-filled gougères (yes, I'm aware that other fine dining titans tend to use Gruyère), the ratio of which was tilted a bit more in the direction of choux pastry than I would have liked. But that's not to suggest that their starch program isn't on point. Indeed, Tru convinced me to end my year-long moratorium on consuming bread in restaurants. Let me explain why. Of the four breads on offer, I asked to have a round of rosemary impregnated brioche. With the gentlest squeeze, an indentation formed, leaving buttery residue on my digits. At that point I knew I would have to indulge.

Comté gougère

Brioche

As for the more substantial items, three courses in succession left me genuinely puzzled why the rouge guide would consider the restaurant inferior to the townhouse on Armitage from the previous night. First, there were the back-to-back fish courses--a roasted striped bass with a sensorily balanced combination of brown butter purée, pickled daikon, white soy powder and key lime supremes followed by tilefish anointed with an umami-laden mushroom broth, shitakes, sake, ginger and soy--beautifully cooked with each fillet teeming with moisture and flaking into bite-sized quadrilaterals.

And then there was the anticipation that preceded the Jidori chicken. First black serviettes were placed on the table. Not a minute later the plated dish arrived on a halved piece of timber. Finishing tableside, Aaron glazed the breast with a rosemary-chicken jus. With the foie gras cream, chicken crackling, quenelle of mushroom purée and pile of honshimeji, this was not a dish for the sodium sensitive, to wit, for me it was the jam.

Not everything was as stunning as the first twelve or so savory items, however; a coconut milk snowball palate cleanser that formally transitioned us into the dessert portion of the meal had the texture of poorly made ice cream: gritty, icy and the mango-passion fruit purée in which it was sitting was cloyingly sweet. And then there was the penultimate dessert course--a half inch plane of dark, dense Valrhona chocolate--which proved to be tantamount to the experience of driving with a flat tire: one may be able to make a little progress, but eventually it becomes clear that one has no choice but to stop. There was just too much chocolate and nothing the timid pear sorbet could do to cut down on the dish's richness. However, with the unrelenting fusillade of friandise that included, inter alia, root beer floats, canalés, mango pate de fruits and exploding chocolate truffles, neither minor lapse had the slightest wobble in my affinity for Tru.