My involvement in these events has afforded me the privilege and honor of helping to bring some of our country’s finest chefs to Kansas City to raise money for two, great charitable organizations.

Yesterday, the last chef fell into place. With all confirmed, I’m pleased to announce the final roster of guest chefs for both events this year. Please save the dates.

* * *

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The Chefs Classic, held in late June, raises money for Harvester’s, a local food bank. I serve on its planning committee. Every year, we invite three guest chefs from Kansas City, and three from abroad. Last year, we were pleased to welcome Sean Brock (Husk and McCrady’s), Curtis Duffy (then at Avenues, soon to be Grace), and Shawn Gawle (pastry chef at Corton) to Kansas City. Locally, Gold invited Michael Foust (The Farmhouse); Charles d’Ablaing (Chaz, at the Raphael); and Josh Eans (then of blanc burgers + bottles). You’ll find photos of that dinner here.

This year, we are pleased to welcome the following six chefs to Kansas City for the Chefs Classic, to be held on Sunday, June 24 (for reservations, please visit the Harvester’s website):

Howard Hanna
(The Rieger Grill & Exchange; Kansas City, Missouri)

Danica Pollard
(pastry chef of Lidia’s; Kansas City, Missouri)

Carl Thorne-Thomsen
(Story; Prairie Village, Kansas)

~

William Bradley
(Addison at the Grand Del Mar; San Diego, California)

Susur Lee
(Lee; Toronto, Canada)

Matthias Merges
(Yusho; Chicago, Illinois)

* * *

~

The annual Friends of James Beard Foundation dinner at The American Restaurant, which Debbie Gold helped start in the late nineties, was put on pause for a couple of years. Last year, she asked me to help her revive it.

I asked Curtis Duffy to come back for a second time in the year. He agreed. I was also thrilled to welcome Scott Anderson (Elements; Princeton, New Jersey); Christopher Kostow (The Meadowood; St. Helena, California); George Mendes (Aldea; New York, New York); and John Shields (then of Town House; Chilhowie Virginia) to Kansas City to help us raise money for the James Beard Foundation. Marc Aumont of The Modern agreed to be our guest pastry chef. It was a spectacular dinner. I wrote about it here.

We are very pleased to be welcoming the following list of chefs to cook at this year’s Friends of James Beard Foundation dinner, which will take place on Sunday, November 4. (Please call The American Restaurant at 816-545-8001 to make your reservation.)

Michael Cimarusti
(Providence; Los Angeles, California)

Michael Ginor
(Hudson Valley Foie Gras; Ferndale, New York)

Brooks Headley
(pastry chef at Del Posto; New York, New York)

Gavin Kaysen
(Café Boulud; New York, New York)

Joshua Skenes
(Saison; San Francisco, California)

Bryan Voltaggio
(VOLT; Frederick, Maryland)

Photos: Shawn Gawle of Corton and Curtis Duffy of Grace plating at the 2011 Harvester’s Chefs Classic at The American Restaurant; John Shields presents his dish at line-up, along with Debbie Gold and Curtis Duffy, at the 2011 Friends of James Beard Foundation dinner at The American Restaurant.

~

New York in May.  It’s always a feast.

I’ve attended the James Beard Awards, which is held annually the first Monday of the month, for the past six years. For the past two, I’ve had the privilege of photographing the event for All-Clad Metalcrafters (a sponsor), which was the primary purpose of my latest trip.

Last year, my Beard weekend grew to irreplicable proportions, stretching into weeks and onto other cities. This year, I scaled things back, slightly.

I still ate very well, and visited multiple cities, managing to whittle down my bucket list a bit. I also caught up with friends from near and far, and made new ones along the way.

Two weeks, four cities, dozens of meals; here are the highlights:

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Daniel Boulud hosts one, classy after-party.  At Boulud Sud, there were whole, stuffed suckling pigs, and yards of charcuterie, cheeses, and more. The restaurant’s pastry chef, Ghaya Oliveira, was nominated for the James Beard award for Outstanding Pastry Chef this year, and she arrived from the gala to find a buffet of her own desserts stretching from wall to wall, complete with an ice cream cart of mini cones. It was generous. It was amazing.

Gramercy Tavern was packed with partygoers, all there to congratulate its chef, Michael Anthony, for winning this year’s Best Chef New York medal. The place was so thick with bodies that I never made it past the tavern room.  I heard there were hot dogs in the back.

I ended the night at Eleven Madison Park, perennially the hottest after-party in the city, with speakers pounding and some of the industry’s finest dancing on tables. In the six years that I’ve attended the awards, Daniel Humm and his team have collected just about every medal they can: Outstanding Service (2004), Outstanding Wine Service (2008; John Ragan, formerly the wine director, stayed with the Union Square Hospitality Group when Eleven Madison Park split off with the NoMad group), Best Chef New York (2010), Outstanding Pastry Chef (2011; Angela Pinkerton), Outstanding Restaurant (2011), and this year, chef Humm was named Outstanding Chef by the James Beard Foundation.

Congratulations to all the winners (here’s the final list).

*  *  *

*  *  *

I ate all over the city.

On the Upper West Side, I visited Stephen Starr’s Caffé Storico in the recently renovated New York Historical Society Museum, where Jim Burke (a Food & Wine Best New Chef, formerly of James in Philadelphia) is cooking Italian food for a dining room (literally) lined with fine china. The chicken liver crostini there is great.

On the Upper East Side, I went to Dragonfly, Cornelius Gallagher’s re-entry into the city.  Ever since Gallagher left Oceana in 2006, I’ve been waiting for him to resurface, haunted by his brioche-crusted loup de mer with tamarind curry and basmati rice. Sadly, I didn’t find it on the menu at Dragonfly. But I did find a wonderful coconut curry with shrimp, and a delicious dish of beef cheeks coated in a tangy tomato-tamarind sauce. The restaurant is only a few weeks old.  I hope it does well. (p.s. If chef Gallagher is reading, please revive that loup de mer.)

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Also relatively new to New York is Jungsik, in the old Chanterelle space on the corner of Hudson and Harrison in TriBeCa.  Not only was I pleased to find an old, college fencing teammate of mine working there as the general manager (We hadn’t seen each other in over a decade. Jin Ahn was at per se, and Jean Georges before that.), but I was also very impressed by the cooking. I’ll write about it. I promise.

In the West Village, I ate cocas and bocadillos at Tertulia (Seamus Mullens’s newish, Spanish restaurant) and pastas and more at Joey Campanele’s lovely l’Artusi.  In NoLIta, I had a delicious meatball sandwich and demolished a spumoni ice cream cake at Parm, Torrisi’s sandwich sideshow.

And in Midtown, I paused for an interview over a slice of crack pie and some pretzel milk at Milk Bar, the one upstairs of Ma Pêche at the Chambers Hotel. My goodness, that was a lot of sugar.

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*  *  *

Gotham Bar & Grill has been opened for nearly three decades. It is, in many ways, the quintessential New York restaurant.  I can’t believe I had never eaten there.  So, I finally went.

I also finally made it to Prune, Gabrielle Hamilton’s matchbox in the East Village. While earning her M.F.A. at the University of Michigan, Hamilton had cooked at a restaurant around the corner from where I earned my J.D. Although we weren’t in Ann Arbor at the same time, that’s where I first learned about her and Prune. It was nice to finally complete the circle with a lunch at her cozy counter one rainy day.

I can never escape returning to some of my favorite restaurants. Inevitably, friends request that I go with them when I’m in town. So, back to The Modern (to celebrate with the Garreltses and Crafts, fellow Missourians with James Beard Award nominations), le Bernardin (for a friend’s surprise birthday dinner), Corton (for Shawn Gawle’s desserts), Eleven Madison Park, Café Boulud, and a couple of others, I went.

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Last November, when Marc Aumont, pastry chef at The Modern, came to Kansas City to cook at an event I helped organize, I had asked him how Butterfingers (the candy bar) are made. He offered to teach me.

But, the last time I was in New York (in January), at my request, he showed me how to make macarons instead.

This time, I spent an afternoon with him and his pastry assistant, Angela Kim, pulling hot sugar and folding in peanut paste to make praliné feuilleté, the crunchy, peanutty interior of that buttery bar. We coated them with Valrhona Jivara milk chocolate. They tasted great, but we found the praliné feuilleté a bit stiff, not as flaky and brittle as we’d like. So, Aumont and I have a standing date to retry them anon, when I’m in New York next.  I can’t wait.

Otherwise, my schedule in New York was so stacked that, that I barely had time to sleep. Somehow, I did manage to make a leisurely morning of Central Park with a couple of friends and their adorable kids. I needed that.  And, between meals, I did manage to sneak into the IFC for a screening of my friend David Gelb’s film, “Jiro Dreams of Sushi.”  If you haven’t seen it, you must.

*  *  *

*  *  *

I tweeted this, but I’ll repeat it here again: I want to do violent things to the person who designed Penn Station.

On that ugly note, I left New York by train for Levittown, Pennsylvania.

Do you know Alex Talbot and Aki Kamozawa of Ideas in Food?  If not, you should.  They are not only great thinkers and talented chefs, but amazing hosts as well. They’ve written one book (Ideas in Food: Great Recipes and Why They Work), and they’re currently working on a second one, to be published next year.

I spent two days with them, photographing, cooking, tasting, and getting a sneak peek at their recipe development process in their amazing test kitchen.

We had no agenda other than communing with good food before us.  Between trips to the farmers’ market for produce and fried chicken, we stopped for ice cream (once in Princeton at The Bent Spoon, and once at OWowCow in Ottsville) and to rummage through antique shops along the way.  After a hectic week in New York, it was a needed respite.

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*  *  *

I called my friends John and Karen Shields, formerly the chefs at Town House (sadly, it closed a few months ago), now plotting their next venture in Philadelphia. They joined us at Alex and Aki’s for a pizza dinner one night. Using Ideas in Food’s no-knead dough, we grilled them on firestones.  They came out beautifully, with a knobby, blistered rim, and a bubbly middle of meat, cheese, and grilled eggplant.

I woke up to the smell of donuts, both fried and baked (made from a modified version of Ideas in Food’s no-knead brioche dough). Some were tossed in sugar and nutmeg, others were glazed with buttermilk and dusted with lime zest. I’ll be making these at home.

Marbled rib eyes, served with seaweed salsa verde; juicy boar chops, finished in a C-Vap; purple asparagus, grilled on the open fire and showered with pine buds; veal tongue, sous vide for 24 and 48 hours; oatmeal “carbonara,” topped with a steamed egg; strawberry pie; and an unforgettable caramel ice cream sundae doused in hot, buttery caramel: it was an amazing collection of ideas in food, and a good reminder that, with a little effort and creativity (and, in a few instances, some expensive toys), cooking at home can be just as rewarding (if not more) than eating out.

*  *  *

*  *  *

Alex and I hit the road, and headed south for a two-day, whirlwind road-trip.

In Baltimore, we stopped by Wit & Wisdom at the Four Seasons, primarily to try Chris Ford’s desserts.  We had every one of them.

At Woodberry Kitchen, Isaiah Billington, the restaurant’s pastry chef and right-hand man took us on a tour of their amazing operation, showing us walk-ins full of pigs and shelves lined with preserves. It’s a beautiful restaurant with a beautiful philosophy.  Spike Gjerde, the chef and owner, and a friend of Alex’s, joined us for dinner there.

We were in Washington, D.C. just long enough to have a 12-course lunch at Tony Conte’s Oval Room. (I’ll write about this one too. I promise.) Afterward, we swung by The Four Seasons in Georgetown to say a quick hello to Lincoln Carson, the corporate pastry chef for the Michael Mina group.  He happened to be in town for a few days working at Bourbon Steak.  He and Alex had worked together, opening Olives in New York years ago.

*  *  *

*  *  *

It was a fast and furious race to Bryan Voltaggio’s VOLT in Frederick, Maryland, where we celebrated Alex’s birthday with 21 courses at the kitchen counter.  After a midnight tour of Family Meal, Voltaggio’s upcoming diner (slated to open by mid-June), we turned back to Baltimore for the night, Frederick having already been overrun by the press corps in anticipation of the G8 Summit at Camp David.

Espresso: every morning at Jay Caragay’s indie coffee shop, Spro, in Hampden. We did serious damage.  The dude knows his coffee.  He also lent Alex an ice shaver.  I can’t wait to see what comes of it.

On the way out of Baltimore, Caragay took us to a little Mexican restaurant for pambazo (basically, a grilled, chorizo torta glazed with guajillo sauce), tacos, and quesadillas, a final feast before heading home.

*  *  *

*  *  *

I constantly get asked how I manage to eat so much without getting bored or disenchanted.  Hasn’t the magic of restaurant dining worn off, yet?  Doesn’t the sameness get tiresome?

No, not really. While I thrill at the novelty of newness, I also welcome the repetition of foods and flavors (I note: I saw a lot of rhubarb and salted caramel on this trip); it enables me to compare and contrast, it gives me more dots to connect.  The more I see and taste, the more I learn.

Also, never underestimate the importance of good company.  I’m blessed with amazing friends, who challenge and teach, and make me laugh too. I owe a big thanks to all of you who made every meal and every day of this trip new and exciting for me.  I hope for many more.

Until I find time to write about these meals, you’ll find the photos linked below.

Maryland
Fiesta Mexicana (Rosedale)
Spro Coffee (Hampden)
Wit & Wisdom (Baltimore)
Woodberry Kitchen (Baltimore)
VOLT (Frederick)

New Jersey
The Bent Spoon (Princeton)

New York
Annisa
l’Artusi
le Bernardin
Café Boulud
Caffé Storico
Corton
Dragonfly
Eleven Madison Park
Gotham Bar & Grill
Jungsik
Kin Shop
Locanda Verde (once, twice)
Milk Bar
Modern, The
NoMad
North End Grill
Parm
Prune
Tertulia

Pennyslvania
Ideas in Food (Levittown)
OWowCow Creamery (Ottsville)

Washington, D.C. 
Oval Room, The

Photos: The open kitchen at North End Grill in TriBeCa; two Daniels, Boulud and Humm, toasting each other at the James Beard Awards; Wolfgang Puck, this year’s Lifetime Achievement awardee at the James Beard Awards; fancy coat checks at le Bernardin in New York City; Prune in New York City; Angela Kim and Marc Aumont pulling sugar for praliné feuilleté at The Modern in New York City; Ideas in Food’s oatmeal “carbonara”; John Shields and Alex Talbot making pizzas in Levittown, Pennsylvania; flowers and preserves at Woodberry Kitchen in Baltimore, Maryland; Bryan Voltaggio at the pass at VOLT in Frederick, Maryland; espresso cups at Spro Coffee in Hampden, Maryland.

~

My parents are getting old. When they were young, they used to cart us kids all over the world with great ambition, covering an amazing amount of ground with diapers and carriages in tow. I don’t know how they did it.

But recently, when we asked our parents where they wanted to go for their fortieth wedding anniversary, they said they just wanted to be parked somewhere by the sea and be fed.

Well, I couldn’t imagine a worse idea, especially since they wanted us to join them.

The words “all-inclusive” make me angry. They represent a level of laziness at which I hope I never arrive.

But, it wasn’t my anniversary to celebrate. Forty years of marriage is quite an achievement. And in that time, my parents spent the lion’s share of it toting us to the most amazing places. If they now wanted to relax and be pampered, how could I say no? So, off to the beaches of Mexico we went.

* * *

* * *

It wasn’t as bad as I feared.

I mean, the food could have been much, much better. And, I would have happily traded the excessive square footage of my suite for a faster internet connection (I hope you’re not taking me too seriously here). But, I was pleased to have the water to myself, since everyone else seemed to prefer sunning on the sand. For me, the beach is merely an annoying obstacle between the ocean and me. I’m there to swim.

I did persuade the family to leave the resort one day for a quick walk through Playa del Carmen (never again), and lunch at los Aguachiles, which my friend Adam (A Life Worth Eating) had recommended. If you ever find yourself in that area, the raw tuna tostada there is well-worth your trouble.

* * *

* * *

I also convinced my family to join me for a day trip to Chichen Itza, the famous Mayan ruins located in the middle of the Yucatan peninsula, a three-hour drive from the coast.

There, we marveled at the Mayans’ mathematical prowess, and their astrological astuteness. We saw the famous pyramid, where the Mayan serpent god, Quetzalcoatl, appears on every equinox (its pleated body descends the steps, a shadow cast by the setting sun). And we experienced the amazing aural achievements inside of the pok-ta-pok court, the largest, known Mayan sporting arena of its kind.

Man, was it hot in the jungle. And it was only April.

* * *

* * *

I cooled off at Ik Kil, a cenote (or sinkhole) near Chichen Itza, where it is said that Mayan princesses once bathed. I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but I do know that this is where Brooke Shields was filmed swimming in “The Blue Lagoon.” The water was as clear as day, full of black, velvety fish swimming as far down as the sunlight reached into the inky depths. Water trickled in little falls over the edge of the hole’s opening. It was like swimming in paradise.

Back at the resort, I spent the remaining days napping in hammocks and swimming along the shoreline. I went south, where I found a fisherman, casting lines by hand – no rod – and pulling in quite the haul. He was cleaning his catch on a rock, with gulls circling above, waiting for a chance to poach.

It was like a glimpse back in time.

I was told that, before the resorts arrived, the Riviera Maya (the coastline from Cancun to Playa del Carmen, and south to Tulum), was once a quiet string of fishing communities, some of which still exist in pockets, here and there. If I ever return, I’d like to explore those areas more.

* * *

* * *

Chilaquiles in the morning, umbrella drinks by the sea, and pineapple ice cream every night before bed.  A brilliant sky stirring a million shades of blue in the glassy Gulf.  It wasn’t so bad.

Happy anniversary, mom and dad. For you, I’ll go anywhere.

Photos: motorbikes along the road, near Chichen Itza; dinner for two on the beach, near Playa del Carmen; the pyramid at Chichen Itza; Ik Kil cenote; hammocks at night.

While those who commented or replied agreed with the sentiment that I attached to the photo (which I posted to Twitter, Facebook, and Flickr), I realize, from the reactions it elicited, that my sentiments were slightly misleading.

So, I’ll take a moment to clarify them here.

First, here is the photo and the caption that I attached to it on Flickr (I had to shorten the caption on Twitter, taking out the parenthetical):

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Just because food looks like this doesn’t mean it tastes good (neither does it mean it doesn’t taste good).  It seems more and more people are eating with their eyes and ears instead of with their mouths and minds.

*  *  * 

To be sure, this photo was not intended as a jab at Rene Redzepi (chef of noma), or Andoni Aduriz (chef of Mugaritz), or any other chef or restaurant that is plating food in this modern, landscaped fashion. Neither is this a dig on foraging.

Rather, this photo is a commentary on what I’ve observed to be a growing blindness among eaters – be they gastronauts or cooks, bloggers or food journalists – as to what they’re eating.  I question whether we’ve arrived at an era where form has outpaced function at the dinner table.  Are we eating with our eyes and ears – chasing aesthetics and hype – more than with our mouths?  Do we no longer care whether food actually tastes good, or is properly cooked, as long as it follows a certain, visual protocol, which we’ve collectively decided is “cool?”

Or, have we become so smug in or modernity that we dismiss food just because it doesn’t look “modern,” even though the version we prefer is nothing more than a revision of something we’ve seen before?

Do we care whether our Black Forest cake looks like this, or like this, as long as it tastes the same?

Do we ignore this version of baba au rhum just because Paul Bocuse has been serving it for decades, and favor instead Marc Aumont’s stunning version at The Modern just because it’s new?  Both were fantastic; I really couldn’t choose between them.

Look at Diego Velásquez’s “Las Meninas,” painted in 1656 at the court of Philip IV of Spain.  Now look at this version of “Las Meninas,” one of over fifty painted by Pablo Picasso in 1957 in a series of studies.

Who’s to say one is better than the other?  Certainly, we all have our preferences.  I am not saying that modernity has nothing to offer. Food is art, and art evolves.  As a photographer, I’ll be the first to cheer on beautiful food.

At the same time, I eat primarily because I love the sensation of flavors and textures in my mouth, temperatures too.  To me, these aspects of food give me the most pleasure. If meaning and looks can be added, that’s also great.

When all the color is stripped away, what I see now is a whole lot of strutting and not a lot of originality. Even worse, sometimes the food isn’t even properly made.  Are people fawning over the food, or the style in which it’s presented?

We’ve become so accustomed to this modern, landscaped style of plating that, at a quick glance, the photo I took might be mistaken for a plate of food you’d find in a modernist restaurant.  If so, then the photo achieved my goal.  I’ve gotten quite a few emails and responses in which people admitted to having been fooled. And their initial reaction was curiosity – they wanted to know which chef, which restaurant served it.  Here, form gave it legitimacy, even though it’s largely inedible.

The reality is, I went into my garden and randomly gathered a bowlful of dirt, rocks, twigs, flowers, and weeds, threw them on a plate (with a tiny bit of style) and took a picture. The whole process took less than five minutes.

Very little thought, a whole lot of strutting.

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~

Asked to draw the United States, would your map look like this?

If so, listen up, this post is for you.

Once the frontier to European immigrants migrating west, the stretch of mountain and meadow between our country’s coasts is, once again, the frontier. Finally, we, the middle, the easily forgotten, the hardly noticed, and the barely known, stand at the gateway to our nation’s culinary future.

Or, that is what the media will conspire to have us believe in the coming months and years. Just you wait. They’ve spent their quota on the big cities, made destinations out of satellites (like Brooklyn and Oakland), raised Austin and Portland from obscurity, killed the pig, and most recently, discovered the South, Bourbon, fried chicken, and grits.

So, what’s left?

You’re looking at it.  The jumbled mass between San Francisco and New York, Chicago and New Orleans.

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As I’ve said on this blog before (and here too), most of what is being cooked in the Midwest has already been done, and done better elsewhere. Very little, outside of barbecue, church potlucks, and mediocre corporate chains, has been created here in the Heartland.*  So, until fairly recently, it’s understandable why the mainstream media overlooked the middle.

But there’s a rising class of Midwestern chefs that is writing an exciting, new chapter in our region’s kitchens. As I have been advocating for quite some time, these chefs have begun to take ownership of our local, culinary identity, looking within instead beyond for inspiration.

I am, in many ways, one of my region’s harshest critics. Ask the chefs in Kansas City who know me.

But I’ll be the first to champion its causes too.

I happily devote my time and resources to learning about our culinary community and bringing awareness to it.  I have, for example, worked with Debbie Gold at The American Restaurant to bring some of America’s best chefs to Kansas City to raise money for Harvester’s, a local food pantry (This year’s Harvester’s Chefs Classic will be held on June 24. Guest chefs will include Susur Lee of Lee in Toronto, Matthias Merges of Yusho in Chicago, and William Bradley of Addison in San Diego), and to move the national spotlight  to the middle, if only for one night, with a Friends of James Beard Foundation dinner each fall (This year’s dinner on November 4 will include chefs Joshua Skenes of Saison in San Francisco; Bryan Voltaggio of VOLT in Frederick, Maryland; Michael Cimarusti of Providence in Los Angeles; and Brooks Headley of Del Posto in New York, among others).

I had the tremendous privilege of helping Colby and Megan Garrelts tell the story of bluestem, one the Midwest’s first restaurants to wade against the tide to establish fine dining in Kansas City. The bluestem cookbook not only features six important farmers and food producers in our area, but, for the first time in recent memory, put a Midwestern chef on bookshelves across America.

And, most recently, when Anthony Bourdain came to Kansas City to film an episode of “No Reservations,” I was thrilled to introduce him to Green Dirt Farm, an organic sheep farm in Weston, Missouri, a few miles from my home. You can watch us eat Sarah Hoffman and Jacqueline Smith’s lamb and award-winning sheep’s milk cheeses on the Travel Channel.

I don’t tell you these things to publicly congratulate myself, or to shamelessly plug events with which I’m involved. Rather, I do so as a reminder that, although it may not be readily apparent from this blog, which is heavily devoted to my travels abroad, the Midwest remains ever in my sight, ever on my mind. It is home, after all.

More importantly, if not people like me, who will advocate on behalf of the growing, silent majority here?  Certainly not the mainstream, which remains largely parochial in its scope.

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So, allow me to take you to the other side of my state, to St. Louis, where a band of brothers is growing an exciting dining scene just this side of the Mississippi River.

I had visited “The Lou” briefly in January and welcomed the opportunity to return last week when Kevin Nashan hired me to photograph a Celebrity Chef Tour dinner at his restaurant, Sidney Street Café, in the city’s historic Benton Park neighborhood.

For this dinner, Nashan gathered four of St. Louis’s best chefs, including Kevin Willmann (Farmhaus), Gerard Craft (niche), Josh Galliano (formerly of Monarch), and Fabrizio Schenardi (Cielo at The Four Seasons).**

He also invited some chefs from afield, including Debbie Gold of The American Restaurant in Kansas City; John Shields, formerly of TownHouse in Chilhowie, Virginia; Michael Sullivan, the butcher at Blackberry Farm in Walland, Tennessee; Kelly English of Iris in Memphis (he also owns Kelly English Steakhouse in St. Louis); Martin Rios of Restaurant Martin in Santa Fe, New Mexico (Nashan’s hometown), and the august Alex Lee, formerly the chef de cuisine at Daniel, now at Glen Oaks Country Club on Long Island, New York.

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I spent the day with the chefs in the kitchen, moving from station to station, as they prepared for over a hundred and thirty covers. The kitchen at Sidney Street is capacious; two rooms with two stoves, and a large storage area with a separate walk-in space at the far back. But with more than ten chefs, and a fleet of prep cooks, who trickled in throughout the day – never leaving, only coming – we were a cozy crew.

While John Shields foraged for spruce shoots outside (literally, on Sidney Street), prep cooks shucked nearly two gross of oysters for his dish, a swirl of colors and flavors from land and sea: spinach, seaweed, oysters, buttermilk, spruce, and mussels.

I watched Debbie Gold fillet a dozen mackerel, sleek and spotted, leaving not an ounce of meat on the bone. She lightly pickled the fish and served it over stewed morels with a ramp stalk to one side, its bulb tempura-battered and fried. Dusted with dried red miso, Gold’s fish dish was aptly described by a diner as being umami-rich.

Josh Galliano’s prep cooks turned hundreds of cavatelli, colored green with nettles. They trimmed just as many asparagus, unusually sweet ones. The color of butter, with beautiful, purple tips, they’re grown and harvested by a local farmer who’s in his seventies, Galliano told me.

The lamb that Alex Lee used for his dish was also grown locally. It was from the cleverly named EIEIO Acres Farm, about an hour west of St. Louis.  Lee’s station was perhaps the most animated corner of the kitchen. He, Nashan, and chef Carey McDowell of Winslow’s Home, who came to lend a hand – all three veterans of Daniel – recalled their days in Boulud’s kitchen while they helped Lee prep. The stories they told were priceless.

Lee’s dish showcased EIEIO’s lamb beautifully. He served a nugget of shank meat, coated with a bubbly, rich gravy, beside a blushing slice of loin, juicy and moist. The duality of this plate carried over into the garnishes as well: two different radishes (white and daikon, both glazed in fonde blanc), and two crispy toppings – chopped almonds and fried Meyer lemon zest.  The chefs and cooks swarmed the left overs like no others’. It was a great dish.

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Throughout the day, chefs and prep cooks circled Michael Sullivan’s station to watch him at work, stuffing sausages, slicing terrines, and butchering a whole lamb.  They also paused to swipe scraps off his cutting board: a variety of saucissons, a jellied pig ear and tail terrine, pâte, and slivers of pickled pig tongue that he sandwiched between mini biscuits with red pepper jam as a canapé.  By the time guests arrived, he had assembled a magnificent buffet of charcuterie for the reception, a pre-meal feast that, alone, was worth the price of admission.

Bob Zugmaier, the pastry chef at Sidney Street Café, worked quietly, migrating from corner to corner, as space became available.  You’d hardly know he was there.  I had been impressed by his desserts when I ate at Sidney Street Café in January.  And I was impressed by the dessert he served at this Celebrity Chef Tour dinner, a tahini-black sesame sponge with pickled green strawberries, dill, and buttermilk sorbet. It was mellow in sweetness, and tart too. I loved it.  Bob Zugmaier: that’s a name you should know.

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Kelly English walked up to me with a mischievous look. He opened his palm, revealing a mini meat pie he named Natchitoches, the town near New Orleans where he was raised. It reminded me of the meat pasties of the Caribbean, spicy and hot. Later, he came to me with a tempura-fried pickled okra stuffed with pimiento cheese. I can’t tell you how delicious that was. I’d go to Memphis just to have it again.

The one thing I’ve learned about chefs is that they love to feed. And they love to eat.  I do too.

Nashan had welcomed all of us to St. Louis the night before with ribs, pastrami, hot wings, and all the fixings, catered by Mike Emerson’s Pappy’s Smokehouse.

The next morning, when we arrived at the restaurant, there were dozens of World’s Fair Donuts waiting for us: glazed, cakey, braided, and ones filled with pastry cream.

And, as if all the grazing and snacking during prep wasn’t enough, in the mid-afternoon, everyone paused for family meal. Nashan had made a pot of posole and roasted two whole suckling pigs, which we wrapped in freshly pressed corn tortillas.  Afterward, Nashan handed out cups of Ted Drewes’s frozen custard, a St. Louis icon, like it was Christmas morning.

We were well fed.

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Collegiality and patience goes a long way when plating over a hundred covers in a tight space.  Service was a rush, but smooth.  It was a joy to watch these chefs at work and play.

At the close of service, Nashan toasted the crew with shots of Pappy Van Winkle bourbon.  Afterward, chefs and guests from around St. Louis, showered the kitchen with gifts – chocolates from Bissinger’s, beer from around the world, and Ben Poremba of Salume Beddu passed around a plate of his charcuterie, which was excellent.

We wrapped up the night at Gerard Craft’s Taste by niche in the Central West End.

Here is the Sidney Street Café Celebrity Chef Tour menu in full:

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Hors d’Oeuvres

Crispy Okra Tempura
Pimiento cheese, local cucumbers, Greek yogurt
(Kelly English)

Natchitoches Meat Pies
Buttermilk.
(Kelly English)

 Baci di Dama
Pecorino cheese and rabbit truffle mousse.
(Fabrizio Schenardi)

Charcuterie
(Michael Sullivan)

1st Course
Oyster Seasoned with New Spruce
Spinach, an infusion of fresh seaweed, frozen black radish, buttermilk vinaigrette.
(John Shields)

Segura Heredad N/V

2nd Course
Illinois Asparagus
Stinging nettle cavatelli, local pecans, bottarga, purslane.
(Josh Galliano)

Château Chase Sauvignon-Blanc, 2010

3rd Course
Cauliflower
Lamb, green garlic, mint.
(Gerard Craft)

Rodney Strong Reserve Chardonnay, 2009 

4th Course
Grilled, Wild-Caught Cobia 
With its “belly bacon,” spring onion Soubise, quick-braised greens,
Golden raisin chutney.
(Kevin Willmann)

Bethlehem Valley Chardonel, 2009

5th Course
Mackerel
Ramps, morels, finger lime.
(Debbie Gold)

Domaine Serene “Evanstad Reserve” Pinot Noir, 2007

6th Course
Crispy Newman Farm Pork Belly
Roasted tenderloin, cherry-soy caramel, curried celery root, polenta parchment.
(Martin Rios)

Hirsch Pinot Noir, 2008

7th Course
Roasted EIEIO Acres Lamb Loin and Shank
Moroccan spices, apricots, olives, spring turnips and radishes.
(Alex Lee)

Ethos Reserve Syrah 2008

8th Course
Tahini Sponge
Green strawberries, balsamic, dill, buttermilk sorbet.
(Bob Zugmaier)  

Chateau St. Michelle Late Harvest Riesling 2008

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I stayed in St. Louis a couple of extra days to eat.

For lunch, I dropped by Winslow’s Home with my friend Laundry Girl. It’s a modern-day general store, more boutique than convenient mart, with a menu of homey comforts like egg salad (served as a scoop, with a toasted slice of baguette on the side) and torta rustica, layered with spinach, mushrooms, fontina cheese, and red bell peppers. The brisket sandwich, served on a hefty rye scarpetta, is saucy and delicious.  It arrived warm, with Brie cheese oozing out the sides.  If you go, you must order it.  From the dozen or so baked goods, I can recommend the pecan pie with a rich carmel-like filling sweetened with maple syrup.  You should order that too. (See all the photos here.)

The next day, I met my friends, the Herefords, for a midday meal at Willmann’s Farmhaus. For lunch, the restaurant only serves one “blue plate,” which changes every day.  Wednesday was fried chicken day. For $10, we each got a drumstick and a juicy fist of breast meat with macaroni and cheese, and mashed potatoes and gravy. Also included is iced tea, sweetened or unsweetened. (See all the photos here.)

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For dinner, to niche, where I hadn’t eaten since 2008 (the dinner  in January was a collaboration dinner inspired by the bluestem cookbook, so it wasn’t Gerard Craft’s food).  Gerard Craft, offered to cook for us.  I did not resist.***

I’ll highlight my favorite dishes.

At the beginning, there was a delicious cheese roll made with tapioca flour. Named after Dia, the Brazilian woman who taught Craft how to make them,  they were served with slices of Benton’s ham and whipped lardo.

I loved Craft’s take on the lobster roll. The nuggets of lobster were coated in a creamy, brown butter Hollandaise and served with a toasted clod of squid ink Pullman bread, togarashi sugar glass, and green apple.  Hello!

And at the end, there was beef.  In the Midwest, there’s always beef. This rosy round came with creamy whey, potatoes pureed with leeks, and a fibrous paper made of leeks.  It had all the flavors of comfort, in a lighter, unexpected form.

Summer Wright should be added to the list of pastry chefs you should know as well. Both of the desserts we had at niche were great, especially a lemony “Vacherin” with lavender and thyme.  But it was her lemon-chamomile sorbet – just a scoop, served as a pre-dessert – that stole my heart.  That was delicious.

(See all the photos here.)

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A big thanks to Kevin Nashan for hosting a great event in St. Louis – the Midwest needs more ambassadors like you.  And, to all the other chefs that I met, thank you for being a fantastic group to photograph. It was a privilege to work alongside of you all.  Thanks also to The Four Season for the great accommodations and hospitality.

St. Louis, I’ll be back.

PHOTOS: Flower garnishes; Kevin Willmann’s grilled, wild-caught Cobia; Kevin Nashan plating; long exposure shot of prep work; Michael Sullivan breaking down a whole lamb; posole and suckling pig – family meal; plating dishes for service; brisket sandwich at Winslow’s Home; pig’s head with rhubarb, mint, and buttermilk at niche; chefs from the Celebrity Chef Tour dinner.

* Of course, the Midwest is only one of many regions between out country’s borders.  But it is the one I know best, and the one with which I’m primarily concerned in this post.

** Only Gold, originally from the north shore of Chicago, is a native Midwesterner. Nashan is from New Mexico; Willmann is from Florida; Craft grew up in the D.C. area; Galliano is from New Orleans; and Schenardi is from Italy; near the French border.

*** I was a guest of Craft’s family, and was refused a bill.

~

As I sped along the coast to Nice from Monte-Carlo for dinner one night, a page out of paradise popped up: Eze.

This Medieval town, preserved almost to the stone, juts out on the Corniche Moyenne, a rocky rise with a breathtaking view of the Côte d’Azur, which sprawls at its feet. I pulled over to take a photo.  It was a clear night and the moon was full, glinting off of a yacht moored in the distance.

Yes, I knew of Eze, because friends of mine had eaten at Château Eza, one of the two Michelin-starred restaurants inside the village’s walls, a few years before.* And here it was, glowing in the moonlight, begging me for a visit.

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When I pulled up Château Eza’s website, I saw that the hotel had just welcomed a new chef, Axel Wagner, formerly the executive chef at Georges Blanc in Vonnas, a Relais & Châteaux that has had three Michelin stars since 1981.** [Editor's note: readers have notified me that Wagner has been at Château Eza since 2007. See the comments below for more details.] While I’ve never eaten at Georges Blanc, I know of the chef, once scion to a French, culinary dynasty. And I’ve read about his cuisine, which sought to lighten French cooking in the 1970s and 1980s by focusing less on butter and cream and more on the natural flavors of the ingredients.

But that’s Georges Blanc’s cuisine. What about Wagner, a German by birth?  Now, on his own at Château Eza, what would he cook?  Why would he leave a three-starred kitchen to take  a post in a one-starred kitchen?  Was he wanting an easier life with a fantastic view?  Or, was he hoping to build a name of his own?  If so, this could be an exciting time to be eating at Château Eza, I thought.

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I made a morning out of Eze, weaving through its maze of cobblestone streets, thankfully too narrow for cars or buses. Despite its charming looks and breathtaking vistas, Eze is now one, big tourist trap, full of boutiques and restaurants, and a few pricey hotels.

Château Eza’s dining room is lined with picture windows. But for lunch, I was seated on the hotel’s wrap-around patio, with a panorama of the Côte d’Azur, dropping away from my table at a dizzying rate.

I ordered the larger of the two tasting menus, the “Menu du Prince,” a four-course lunch for 55€.  Here is what I had:

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Canapés
Green Tea with Mint
Merguez Sausage Tagine
Parmesan “Lollipops“

Amuse Bouche
Lobster Bisque with Root Vegetables

1st Course
Bouillon corsé aux Legumes des Jardins de Provence
“Comme une soupe au pistou.”

Sausage with Pistachio

2nd Course
Tombée de Champignons du Moment
Aux échalotes fondantes et confit de lard fermier.

3rd Course
Filet de Canard Rôti
Tartines croustillantes de figue, Gorgonzola et vieux Balsamique.

4th Course
Fraises et Rhubarb à la Vanille
Sur une compotée de pêches, paillettes de romarins.

5th Course
Pâtes des Fruits de Pêches
Financiers du Fraises et Amandes
Macarons du Citron Verts

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*  *  *

The better the view, the worse the food.  That seems to be an inescapable rule of thumb that European restaurants are able to defy more than restaurants elsewhere.

Judging by the cars and tour buses lined outside of the city’s walls, not to mention the immense wealth that visits the coast year-round, Château Eza has a fairly steady and captive stream of business. Add to that a magnificent view in a historic setting, and you’ll arrived at a generous margin of error.

But, the Michelin star – especially in France – is supposed to be a fairly reliable standard.

Well, judging by my lunch at Château Eza, it is not.  I was slightly disappointed.

Keep in mind, my four-course lunch was only 55€ (around $80), fairly inexpensive for lunch at any restaurant at this level in France, not to mention the Riviera, where prices are slightly inflated. So, I was not expecting luxury ingredients, or excessive frills.  I knew what I was getting for the price; it was printed on the menu for all to see.

But great meals can be made of humble ingredients. It simply depends on what you do with them.

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I could overlook the stale toast on which a rather sloppily sliced sausage, topped with pistachios, was served.

I could also overlook the mute black truffle that was shaved over an otherwise delicious cocotte of wild mushrooms cooked with lardons. Summer truffles are usually pretty weak, so this wasn’t surprising.

The fact that the Parmesan “lollipop,” one of three canapés, was rubbery, wasn’t surprising either, given the humidity on the coast.  But it should never have been served that way.

And, having to fish out a forest of herbs, flowers, and a bay leaf from a tiny bowl of lobster bisque before I could drink it was slightly annoying. I’ve never understood why chefs finish soups with inedible garnishes.

But, overcooked duck I could not overlook.  It arrived under a shiny, silver cloche, unveiled ceremoniously. The presentation was gorgeous:  two strips of blushing breast meat topped with figs melted onto strips of “tartines croustillantes” with Gorgonzola cheese.  All of it was drizzled with aged balsamic vinegar.

The duck was so tough I couldn’t cut it. After a couple of bites, one from each piece, I moved on. I ate the figs, which were wonderful, and the “tartine croustillante,” which was more bread-like than crust-like, despite its appearance.

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*  *  *

But I don’t want you to walk away thinking that this meal was a complete loss.  It wasn’t.

There was a lovely pasta pistou soup at the beginning, full of nicely diced vegetables and ditalini. The server poured over it a clear bouillon, stirred up the pesto at the bottom, and showered the soup generously with shaved Parmesan cheese. Provençal.

Despite the flavorless and odorless truffles, I also loved that cocotte of wild mushrooms infused with the flavor of bacon.  That was probably my favorite dish.  It was simple, but nicely cooked and flavorful.

Dessert was delightful, a cup of peach and rhubarb compote topped with a snowy rise of rosemary granité. I could have done without the quenelle of olive oil sorbet nestled on top; it was much more color than flavor. But, together, this dessert was refreshing and light, a nice end to a summer lunch.

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Overall, my lunch had a solid frame. If nothing else, it did a lovely job of showcasing the flavors of the south of France.

But there were a few too many rough spots, perhaps left uncorrected due to too many tourists blinded by the magnificent view, or honeymoon couples blinded by their love.  Or, maybe I just got the B-Team that day.  Either way, I found the errors sloppy, and that overcooked duck inexcusable. A Michelin-starred restaurant should really be more precise regardless of its clientele.

If Wagner left Vonnas to make a favorable impression on Eze, it didn’t happen at my table.

But, for the view, go.  You won’t find one better.

Château Eza
Rue de la Pise F-06360
Eze Village, France
+33 (0)4 93 41 12 24

* Note, the town’s name is Eze.  The restaurant’s name is Eza.  Chevre d’Or, with two stars, is the other Michelin-starred restaurant in Eze.

** The fact that the restaurant has retained three Michelin stars for thirty years is astounding. Surely, Georges Blanc’s status is not being sustained by innovation alone; Blanc’s food is passé by modern culinary standards. So, I imagine consistency must be its calling card.

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Nothing dulls my appetite more than hype.

It makes me suspicious, for example, when members of the press tweet weekly (nightly?) from a restaurant’s table, raptured to the point of incoherence. I suppose the enthusiasm is endearing. But what could be that good?

I take no issue with the media doting on its darlings. Everyone has their favorites. But clinging to the point of cloying can be a curse, building unattainable expectations that leave both restaurateur and diner disappointed. Worse, it can create monsters.*

And it was this kind of frothing at the mouths for chefs Mario Carbone’s and Rich Torrisi’s restaurant, Torrisi Italian Specialties in New York’s Lower East Side, that kept me from it for so long.  Well, that and the difficulty of getting a table.

So, instead of trying to claw my way in, I decided to avoid the whole situation until everybody calmed the eff down.

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But my attitude is irrational. My approach is flawed. I’ll be the first to admit it.

There’s no reason to avoid a restaurant just because the media shamelessly cheers it on. Hype usually happens for a reason. I’m just reluctant to wade through it.

So, when my friend Soldier told me that he had snagged us a table at Torrisi Italian Specialties in early February, I didn’t resist. Actually, what Soldier got us was one of the few tables that are reserved nightly for the chef’s tasting menu, a 20-course dinner for $125. At the time, “Torrisi 2.0,” as folks were calling it, was a relatively new offering, an alternative to the regular, 7-course prix fixe ($65).**  Here is what we had:

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Bar Snacks
Our Americano
The “Quail’s Olive“
“Pretzels“
Scallops and Oysters on the Half Shell
Sable “Cigarettes“
Escargots Casino
Buckwheat Caviar Kashi
Chicken and Cashew

1st Course
Brighton Beets
Pumpernickel, dill pollen.

2nd Course
Mackerel Aqua Pazza

3rd Course
Foie Gras Newburg
Brandy glaze, Newburg sauce, and brioche.

Delmonico Tartar
Bearnaise, cornichons, and “potato chips.”

4th Course
Coach Farms Goat Cheese Gnocchi
“Leather”

5th Course
Lobster Cantonese
Vermicelli, poached lobster, fermented black bean dust, and scallion.

6th Course
Sunday Supper
Dry-aged ground beef, sesame roll.

7th Course
“Jewish Lamb“
Manischewitz glaze, agrodolce, grapes.

Bitter Greens

8th Course
Cheese Danish
Fig marmalade, fresh sliced figs.

9th Course
Lemon Italian Ice

10th Course
Marischino Float

Petits Fours
Apple Cider Fritters
Pine-Nut Biscotti Sandwiches
Vin Santo Cakes
Butternut Squash Custard
Celery Cake with Grape Jelly and Peanuts
Pizelle Cannoli with Salvatore Filling
Sesame Saltwater Taffy
Chocolate-Mint Truffles

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Torrisi takes you to a different era.

Partially, it’s the neighborhood, populated by extras from “Gangs of New York,” bearded and plaid.  I believe they’re called hipsters.

Partially, it’s the restaurant, a cozy little box with lace curtains, a tin ceiling, and shelves lined with canned goods. It too looks like something from the Five Corners a hundred-some years ago.

And then there’s the food, which takes you back in time with just as much caricatured authenticity, resurrecting the past with inventive license, like with a pair of escargots casino. It’s a mash-up; a flavorful couple you’d be hard-pressed to find apart now, let alone together back then. Yet, here it was, more yesterday than today.

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Setting the time travel aspect of the restaurant aside for a moment, let me tell you what I loved most about Torrisi 2.0: it paid tribute to your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, the immigrants that made this country so deliciously diverse.

Of course, being primarily an Italian restaurant, there was aqua pazza (with a very clean strip of mackerel, served raw), gnocchi (a clever double entendre showcasing both Coach “leather” and goat cheese), tangy Italian ice (lemon, to clear away the lamb and beef that came before it), and a jadite carousel of petits fours that included cute little pizelle cannoli and a take home box of tri-colored cookies.

But there also came Cantonese lobster with vermicelli and scallions, and “chicken cashew,” two fried nuggets rolled in chopped nuts. I’m not sure Chinese immigrants would have served them on century-old sterling spoons from Tiffany & Co., like they did at Torrisi. But, like those escargots casino, they were an evocative approximation, no more or less the cultural adaptations invented by immigrants (and beloved by Americans) in their new homeland, unapologetic and delicious.

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The buckwheat crêpes, rolled with crème fraîche and caviar and served on a bed of toasted kashi, clearly belonged to the Russians.  And the lamb, presented on the bone, table side, glazed with Manischewitz, definitely belonged to the Jews (with “bitter greens” served on the side, I’d know it even if the menu didn’t tell us so).

But what about those “Brighton Beets,” served with pumpernickel and dill?  Were they a wave hello to the Russians (who still heavily populate that oceanside stretch of Brooklyn dubbed “Little Odessa”) or the Jews, or Russian Jews?  Who cares?  I loved them, bright and dewy, a beautiful start to our meal.

I have no idea to which ethnic group the “Cheese Danish” should be assigned, a fluffy mattress spread with fig marmalade and paved with a fatty fromage, sweating a funky flavor.  All I know is that it was, quite possibly, my favorite dish of the night.  We were presented with the whole, served half, and offered seconds. We cleaned house.

*  *  *

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In any other restaurant, the Torrisi 2.0 menu might come off as confused, a poorly pitched pot luck on Ellis Island. But, here, Torrisi’s costuming, however affected it may have seemed at first, seamlessly stitched up the story, sewing a sepia-soaked reminder of our past. Where else might period plates from Delmonico slip onto the table with such little notice?***  At alinea, just this stunt was jarring, albeit aimed at a different effect.

But here, foie gras Newburg and steak tartar (made from the Delmonico cut – eye of the rib eye) with bearnaise seemed perfectly normal, even if they weren’t original masterpieces. Lobster Newburg? Yes. But who’s ever heard of foie gras Newburg?  Steak tartar? Yes. But spherefied bearnaise (to make it look like an egg yolk)?  These were the culinary equivalents of I.M. Pei’s glass pyramids, classical in form, but otherwise modern in the making, set against an aged and august backdrop.  Wonderful, both of them.  The French would be proud.

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*  *  *

I have one criticism.  And it’s not about the cooking.  Everything we had was spotless, especially that lamb, which was so tender, so juicy. And that Sunday Supper sugo (or was it a ragu?), served with nothing but a heel of bread for the sopping, was absolutely perfect, the meat particularly flavorful and delicate.  It melted in my mouth.****

It’s not about the service either, which was pretty great, despite the fact that our server seemed to have a case of the nerves.  The poor guy was a bit shaky at the start, calming down by mid-meal.

If there was one thing that I thought could use a little tightening, it was the  ”bar snacks” portion of the meal, which attempted to recreate a cocktail hour experience.  While I really liked the majority of those beginning bites – especially the chicken cashew and the blini with caviar with roasty, toasty kashi – the two trompe l’oeils were misfits, and not particularly delicious.

There was a quail egg, somehow dyed black as coal, made shiny as obsidian, passed off as an “olive.” I understand the olive’s place at a cocktail party, but didn’t understand how a quail egg substitution made this dish anything more than merely a parlor trick. And those “sable cigarettes,” two strips of gnoccho frito wrapped in smoked sable, dipped in cod roe, and served in an ash tray of poppy seeds, verged on tacky humor. Sure, thematically, cigarettes are a natural prop in a bar scene.  But, if they were aiming to lighten the mood, I think they may have overshot the laugh on this one. It came off as a prank.

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I absolutely loved that our meal ended in a soda shop, something unmistakably American, incapable of being claimed by any one comprising culture, and yet, the sum of them all. Like a page from the Saturday Evening Post: a marischino cherry float, with root beer and a candy “straw.”

I’m still not convinced that there’s a single restaurant worthy of the ravings of the fad-mad media, oft rabid with praise. But, dinner at Torrisi Italian Specialties certainly didn’t dent the credibility of any.

Carbone and Torrisi were just knighted Best New Chefs by Food & Wine.  Congratulations, gentlemen. Well done. Thanks for the thoughtful tour of New York, and our America, legs astride among its many cultures, a new colossus.

Torrisi Italian Specialties
250 Mulberry Street
New York, New York
212.965.0955

* Tangentially, Alan Richman, writing for GQ Magazine, was pushed to explore the role food journalists, like him, have played in shaping restaurant personalities.

** The “Torrisi 2.0″ chef’s tasting menu is only offered for a couple of tables each night, and they must be reserved in advance. Call the restaurant for more details.We had dinner at Torrisi Italian Specialties in early February, not a week after Pete Wells dropped a glowing two-star review on its sister restaurant, Parm, next door.

*** To be honest, I’m not sure that these plates were actually from Delmonico. But the conceit was clear enough.

**** If you think I’m over-thinking this meal, then consider the merits of the cooking.

After sifting through over 40,000 nominations, for the second year in a row, the editors of Saveur Magazine have chosen this blog as a finalist in the “Restaurant/Dining Coverage” category of their annual Best Food Blog Awards. I am honored.

Please take a moment to vote by clicking on the banner below, or CLICK HERE to go directly to the Restaurant/Dining Coverage category. Note that your vote will not count unless you set up a user account with saveur.com, and are signed into the site. Vote now through April 26. Winners will be announced on May 3.

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I congratulate all the nominees, especially those who have been nominated with me in the Restaurant/Dining Coverage category. Please take a moment to visit their sites:

Judging Your Breakfast
Kevin Eats
Paris Patisseries
Snap Food
Tiny Urban Kitchen

To the editors of Saveur Magazine: thank you for recognizing the importance of food bloggers, and the contributions they make to the culinary world today.

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Is the moment of innovation more exciting than the period of enjoyment thereafter?  What happens when zeitgeist changes and context fades?

Although I am old enough to have eaten at Jamin, Joël Robuchon’s first restaurant in Paris, I never did.  And, even if I had, as a toddler, I wouldn’t have appreciated the revolutionary weight of his food, which, by all accounts was at the top of its time.

Now, nearly thirty years later, Robuchon is father to a multi-nippled empire that spans the globe. I’ve been to his table five times: twice to his atelier in New York, once to his mansion in Las Vegas, and twice to the kitchen counter at the Hôtel Metropole in Monte-Carlo.  And the cruel irony is that, with the passage of time and the changing of currents, I’m not sure I’ve gotten any closer to experiencing the excitement of Robuchon in his Jamin years (to be sure, it’s not the food at Jamin that I’m after).  Because the Jamin years were the Jamin years, and they’ve passed, and the world has moved on.

While that suspends Jamin, now closed and gone, in a magical place in culinary history, it has also haunted me for years. Having been uninspired by my meals at both the atelier and The Mansion, I was caught in one of those helpless, “it’s not you, it’s me” scenarios. Did I miss the Robuchon boat?*  Has my age forever barred me from experiencing and appreciating his food as it was when it was exciting and new?

Is dining a state of mind?  If so, could I alter mine to match?

A week in Monte-Carlo gave me the opportunity I needed to reconsider Robuchon’s cooking.  I went twice to his restaurant, book-ending my trip to the principality with a lunch the first day, and a dinner on the last night.

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If the Hôtel du Paris (home of Ducasse’s Louis XV)  is the Boardwalk of Monaco, the Hôtel Metropole is Park Place. Set back from the winding drive that leads to the Monte-Carlo Casino, it holds court at the end of a narrow alleyway lined with luxury cars of all shapes and sizes, purposely positioned out front to advertise the hotel’s status to all who pass by.

This is home to Robuchon’s two Michelin-starred restaurant, known simply by the chef’s name.**  It is a crossbreed, an average of his two restaurant concepts.***

The menu is more akin to the ones you’ll find at his ateliers – a collection of inventive small plates with the option of a fleshier, more traditional main course. But it offers the trappings of his palaces – plush and upholstered, draped in tapestry; bread arrives on a cart (pain au lait!), and so does a selection of classical desserts (an alternative to the ones on the menu, if they sound too abstract).

Although Joël Robuchon at the Metropole focuses on table service, it also offers limited seating at its kitchen counter, a large, communal hightop with a window onto the line. Given it’s amazing vantage, I don’t know why anyone would want to sit anywhere else.  And yet, I found myself alone, twice parked on the threshold of this kitchen’s proscenium last September.

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Here’s what I’ve come to appreciate about Robuchon’s food as it is now: it’s concise.

He distills for you the essence of a thought into each bite, every one complete, with nothing to spare.

Take, for example, a cilantro “smoothie,” my amuse bouche at both meals.  Spiked with chili peppers, it summed up the pleasing tension of the tropics in one foamy sip: spicy, but refreshing.

He rendered Scandinavia on a plate of smoked herring, silky filets interleaved with waxy potatoes and bits of apple. It was elegant and accurate.

And he abbreviated the flavors of the Mediterranean on a plate of octopus carpaccio. The skinned tentacles formed a chrysanthemum blossom, drizzled with fruity olive oil and dotted with sliced olives made to look like octopus suckers (see what I mean about being multi-nippled?).  More tender octopus I have no not had, a more Mediterranean feel I could not want.

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But, is it enough to serve simple foods in fancy forms?  What added value does Robuchon bring to otherwise ordinary dishes, common flavors?  Why is potato purée – a particularly pappy version that I’ve never liked – his signature dish (from his Jamin years)?  If it arrived looking like two quenelles of butter, it did not deceive – the ratio is roughly two pounds of spuds to one pound of fat.  I still don’t get it.

So, why, of all the other restaurants in the area that I could have visited, was I compelled to return to Robuchon’s table for a second meal?

It certainly wasn’t for the service, which, though gracious, was a touch sloppy across the board. At dinner, for instance, I was served the same amuse bouche twice – by the same server.  He realized his mistake, and passed it off as an extra gift from the kitchen. Lying will not charm your way to my heart. That particular server’s antics were entertaining, if not slightly unprofessional.

And, it certainly wasn’t to save a dime.  This food ain’t cheap.

But the cooking is unusually precise.  And the ingredient quality, for the most part, exceptional. Coupled with efficiency of flavor, this is why I returned.

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The veal kidneys I had at lunch were plump and tender, their texture almost indistinguishable from the sweetbreads and roasted chanterelles that came with them. There was a bit of meat jus, which was perfect, really.  And some parsley.  Simple, but flawless, it was balanced and neat, showcasing the flavor of the kidneys confidently.  That’s a rare thing.

Robuchon likes spice – specifically espelette – and so do I.   He used it to enliven confetti of crab meat and vegetables wrapped in tissue-thin daikon, beautiful spring rolls upended tall as “giraffes.”  And he used the peppers to punch up a tagine of purple artichokes with curls of baby squid. The flavor was surprisingly dark and rich. Served piping hot, it was my favorite of the lot.

Green peas, served with a coddled egg and crispy pata negra ham, alone, were disappointing, an illustration of the hazards of using exceptional ingredients. They were flavorless, wrinkled and mushy. Against the other baby vegetables in that dish – all of which were spectacular, both in flavor and texture (they must have all been cooked separately to achieve those textures) – they stood out.  I even asked my captain about those peas (but only after he asked me what I thought of the dish). He insisted that they were freshly picked.  I didn’t doubt him. But they needed to go pea picking elsewhere.

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Maybe I returned for the desserts, too.  I’ve always loved the ones at Robuchon’s restaurants.

At lunch, I had an unforgettable “Fairytale,” a fragrant meeting of vanilla, Champagne, and peaches, all under a crisp meringue dome.  It was one of the best desserts I had last year.

At dinner, a perfect soufflé, with raspberries, and a side of yuzu ice cream. There really isn’t anything else I can tell you about this dessert that you haven’t already imagined.

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If the Jamin years was a state of mind, then I’m not sure I got any closer to achieving it in Monte-Carlo.  Even though I enjoyed these two meals at the Metropole more than my previous Robuchon experiences, neither one excited me the way that other restaurants, both contemporary and passed, have.

Have I cursed Robuchon with unfair expectations?  It’s not him, is it?  It’s me.

Maybe I did miss the Robuchon boat, and now must settle for borrowing time to understand the past in the present.

Or, maybe, I’m making a mountain out of a mole hill, trying to resurrect the dead instead of celebrating the living.

Maybe, just being able to appreciate Robuchon’s food, as it is now, beyond a simple “like”/”dislike” model is reward enough, an informed experience that somehow manages to escape a seemingly inescapable cost evaluation. I managed to at least achieve that.  Isn’t that enough?

You’ll find photos from my lunch here, and photos from my dinner here.

Joël Robuchon, Monte-Carlo
Hôtel Metropole
4, Avenue de la Madone
Monte-Carlo, Monaco
* The same is true for David Bouley. I don’t deny his claim to culinary genius, but after three disappointing meals at his restaurant, I fear I’ll never experience it.

** The blingy shopping mall underneath the Hôtel Metropole is also home to Monte-Carlo’s Ladurée.

*** And because of this, it’s probably the most “normal” Robuchon outfit I’ve seen. Yet, having only dined at either end of the Robuchon spectrum, this middle seemed a strange creature at first.

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When I last left our hero, David Beran, he was in Belle Époque Paris rescuing Auguste Escoffier from growing obscurity. I never wrote about that meal at Next Restaurant in late May of 2011, which took my friends and me back to 1906 in a duck press. But I’ll tell you now: it was opulent.

We had caviar out of a crystal bowl, and warm, buttery blinis on a stack of period-piece china, each plate rimmed in gold, that had to be washed by hand, every one of them. There were egg custards on tulip stands, and turtle consommé, clear as a bell. And there was duck, served on a silver platter, like it was Christmas dinner on the Titanic, with civet sauce – freshly squeezed – on the side.

For an opening volley, that inaugural menu at Next, a restaurant that changes its concept every four months, was impressive.

But this post isn’t about that dinner. This one is about my latest meal at Next, one that took me to Cala Montjoi, a small inlet on the coast of Spain, home to Ferran Adrià’s elBulli.

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In an age when chefs and restaurants clamor to write the next culinary chapter, Next steps back. Its mission, so far, has not been to create, but to recreate and reconsider, with almost anthropologic scrutiny, what has already been written.

After reviving Escoffier, Next gave gastronauts a tour of Thailand, and, thereafter, a taste of the American childhood, collected in a multi-course meal that explored our wonder years.

I was wary of Next’s concept at first; a series of seemingly derivative meals. I was skeptical of its value.

But, based on the two menus I’ve had at the restaurant so far, I’d say that Next doesn’t just offer a second-hand experience, copied and pasted from afar into this West Loop warehouse. Next offers a reasoned glimpse into cooking. It is a museum, where food is the subject of study. Cooks turned curators, Beran and his team mount culinary exhibitions that examine the way cultures think and feel about food.*

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Instead of taking reservations, Next pre-sells tickets. For its latest menu, an ambitious retrospective of Ferran Adrià’s and his brother Albert’s cooking at elBulli, the demand was incredibly high. Understandably so: for those who weren’t able to eat at elBulli, and who now never will, this might be the closest they’ll ever get to experiencing the Adriàs’ food. Tickets for this dinner were bundled together with the restaurant’s two upcoming menus – Sicily (summer of 2012), and Kyoto (fall of 2012) – in a season ticket. They sold out in six hours.

If I doubted the public’s fascination with Next elBulli, my photos of this meal provided a good litmus of its popularity. In the first twenty-four hours the photos were posted to my Flickr account, they collective over 50,000 (that’s not a typo) views, outpacing the number of views that photos from both of my meals at elBulli received in the same amount of time.

And now, I must pause to type a few, unavoidable sentences that may or may not make me sound like the luckiest asshole of the decade.

Having been to elBulli twice last year, before it closed, I had very little interest in Beran’s version of Adrià’s food, especially given the difficulty and expense of getting a ticket (the elBulli dinner was valued at more than $450 a seat, inclusive of tax, tip, and beverage pairings). And, after having watched the video that Next issued as a teaser, I was concerned about the kitchen’s ability to reproduce, with convincing accuracy, the Adrià brothers’ food.

But, as it happened, I was heading to Chicago for a weekend with a few friends, one of whom was so keen on going to Next that she magically produced a table for the four of us. Despite my disinterest, how could I say no?

In full disclosure, the other three at my table were known to the house (and, as I later discovered, so was I, even though my name was not on the reservation). And, in full disclosure, since our table was secured before the tickets went on sale, we did not attempt to pay for our seats until after our dinner, when we were flatly refused a bill. Instead, we were whisked away to the kitchen by Grant Achatz himself, who showed up halfway through our meal, fresh from alinea, to give us a tour of The Office, an exclusive cocktail bar downstairs, and the Aviary next door.

Considering how royally we were treated, is it fair of me to write about my meal at Next? Of course it is. Because, given the disclaimers I’ve just made, you’re free to disregard everything I write.

Or, you can trust that I’ll give you an honest assessment.

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I’m no scholar of the Adriàs’ cooking. In fact, before February of last year, I had read very little about their restaurant and had refrained from looking at photos of their food, for reasons I explained here. For similar reasons, as soon as I was told I would be going to Next elBulli, I sequestered myself from all press surounding Beran’s version. I wanted to experience it with a clean slate. So, keep in mind that what I write here is an admittedly uneducated, but honest retelling of my experience and reaction.

Despite my initial disinterest and skepticism about Next elBulli, I walked away from my dinner pleasantly surprised. Here is why:

1. There was no way that Next could even come close to recreating the elBulli experience in total. Beran and his team knew this. So, beyond a few superficial nods to the Costa Brava – like piping sounds of the ocean into the dining room; pouring Vichy Catalan (that briny bubbly that the Spaniards so love to drink); and hanging a rose above each table, a figurative tribute to the seaside resort town nearest to the restaurant (named Roses) made Mecca by the Adriàs to culinary pilgrims from around the world – Next decided to focus on something far deeper. In twenty-nine courses, roughly one dish for each year the restaurant was open**, Next condensed the Adriàs’ expansive anthology into an abbreviated tour of their achievements and contributions to the culinary world, showing that, above all, elBulli was not about deliciousness, or technique, or showmanship. Rather, Next showed that elBulli was a way of thinking about food. This was an ambitious feat. For those unfamiliar with the Adrias’ cooking, this was, perhaps, the most authentic and meaningful way of being introduced to their food. For those who have been to elBulli, Next’s menu affords a wider look at the Adriàs’ repertoire, a vertical flight of dishes that would not have been served together at one meal in Cala Montjoi. (You’ll find the entire menu, translated into English, at the bottom of this post, hyperlinked to the photos)

2. As I said in my posts about my meals at elBulli (in February of 2011 and July of 2011), the food was not necessarily delicious. In fact, I wouldn’t want to eat most of it again. Flavors were caricatured, often exaggerated to distasteful extremes (doubtless, this is probably partially due to different cultural expectations and norms). I don’t know whether Beran adjusted the seasonings and flavors of his version of the Adriàs’ food for an American audience. But, overall, I found this dinner much more palatable – delicious in parts, even – than my two meals at elBulli. Only three courses at Next were identical to dishes I had at elBulli: the “Spherical Olives” from 2005, the “Gorgonzola Balloon” from 2009, and “Chocolate Donuts” from 2010, which you see at the top of my blog. All three seemed faithful to the flavor of the originals, down to the blunt bitterness of the couverture on those donuts, even though they didn’t look nearly as black in color (which makes me wonder if Adrià dyed his chocolate darker, perhaps to make them appear as Michelin tires, I joke).

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Of course, I had my favorites. Not surprisingly, they tended to be the older dishes on the menu. Actually, the three earliest recipes were my favorite.

The tenth recipe in the Adrias’ anthology, from 1987, was a filet of red mullet – its skin so thin that it seemed sprayed on with an iridescent pink paint – set on a mattress of warm water filled with shells and sea pebbles. The fish – which was so soft, so delicate – was covered in a mosaic of vegetables to evoke the style of Catalan artist Antoni Gaudì. It was a beautiful and delicious tribute to Adrià’s coastal region.

From 1988, a suquet of prawns. I’ve had quite a few suquets in Spain, a seafood stew that, in my experience, has been extremely briny and salty. This one was much less so, more balanced in flavor, in my opinion. The shrimp was taut and tender, the potato, waxy and lovely, a simple but spectacular revision of this traditional, Catalan dish.

From the following year, 1989, a strangely fussy plate that looked like something out of Marco Pierre White’s book, with its radial pattern and symmetrically arranged garnishes. This was carpaccio of wild mushrooms (I believe king trumpets), with toasted pine nuts and rabbit kidneys. This was a hunter’s plate, with the toasty, earthy flavors of the woods. I loved it.

I also loved the flavors of the cuttlefish and coconut raviolo dish from 1997. It was beautiful too, an alabaster packet filled with warm, coconut broth. I only wished that the cuttlefish wrapper had been thinner. Not knowing how it is made, I’m not sure it’s possible.

And the spice plate from 1996, I particularly appreciated because I thought it best represented, in simple terms, the purpose of elBulli: to throw a speed bump amidst a frantic flood of food, to make one really consider, and reconsider, what they are eating, what they are tasting. We were each given a card. On the left column were listed the twelve hours of a clock. On the right were listed the twelve spices that arrived on a pool of green apple gelatin, arranged along the rim of the circular plate, as if points on a clock. We were asked to taste each spice, and match the spices on the card with the hour at which it appeared on the plate. You’d be surprised how much your tongue can extract from even the smallest pinch of spice, if you pay close attention.

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There were two courses that I truly disliked.

The “Golden Egg” from 2001, clever and witty as it may be, tasted metallic. And, whatever was used to gild the quail eggs (they appeared to be sprayed with edible gold paint) collected around the frilly base of the egg, drying into a slightly leathery skirt.

And, although the foie gras caramel custard from 1999 sounded like a dream, I found it bland. I will note, however, that this dish followed the gorgonzola balloon, which was not exactly short on flavor. (I’ve had something similar at Manresa, spiced with cumin, which, if anything, had the opposite problem. Though delicious, I thought Kinch’s foie gras custard was a bit too punchy with sweetness and spice.)

On a separate note, I’ve finally decided that I simply don’t like the snotty texture (or flavor) of Versawhip, which I’m fairly certain was used to make the balsamic “cloud” that enveloped the raspberry kebab, one of many lollies that came out on a whimsical tree of petits fours at the end.

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Our server, John Schafer, was a gem, rolling with my party’s irreverent punches like a champ. We were naughty, and he was so forgiving. And I loved that he conferred the dreaded napkin of shame upon my dining companions for soiling their corners, but left me unmarked. Thank you, John.

At the end, he presented us with a few “hands,” with which he waved farewell to us, thanking us for our visit. It was lovely.

Beran and his team managed to overcome my reservations about their elBulli menu. They exceeded my expectations by going beyond the superficial into the meaningful, curating a four-hour experience that got me closer to Cala Montjoi than I imagined was possible. To the entire team at Next, thank you for your hospitality and your unwarranted generosity.

Next has been nominated for this year’s James Beard Award for Best New Restaurant and David Beran has been nominated for the James Beard Foundation’s Rising Star Award. Based on what I’ve seen – for the thought, the care, and detail that they’ve put into the two menus I’ve had – I won’t be surprised if I see him mount that stage twice at Avery Fisher Hall in May.

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Although the Next elBulli menu has twenty-nine courses, Beran book-ended our meal with two extra ones, normally only served as snacks at Aviary, Next’s specialty cocktail bar (at the beginning, a bowl of “Dry Snacks” – chips of all shapes, colors, and flavors; and “The Morphings,” a tree of petit four lollies at the end). The number that precedes each course is the year that dish debuted at elBulli. The number that follows each course notes the recipe’s order as it appears in the elBulli catalog.

Next offered three beverage pairings for this meal. One was strictly wine. Another was non-alcoholic. The third included a mix of alcoholic drinks, ranging from beer to sake. I chose the mixed pairing; those are the drinks you’ll see on this menu.

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“Dry Snacks“
1998 Puffed Rice Black Pudding 461
1998 Nori Cracker 463
1999 Black Olive Butterflies 537
2000 Puffed Saffron Tapioca 626
2001 Parmesan Crackers 728
1999 Lotus Flower Chips 538
2003 Pork Rinds 838

2004 Nitro Caipirinha with Tarragon Concentrate 967

2000 Hot/Cold Trout Roe Tempure 644
Jané Ventura “Brut Nature” Cava Reserva, Pénedes 2008

2005 Spherical Olives 1095

1991 Coca of Avocado Pear, Anchovies, and Green Onions 105

2003 Ibérico Sandwich 859

2001 Golden Egg 741
Cava with Pineau des Charentes and Farigoule

2007 Black Sesame Spongecake and Miso 1361

1998 Chicken Liquid Croquettes 474

1997 Smoke Foam 400
Cava with Pineau, Farigoule, Malaga Moscatel and Reagans’s Orange Bitters

2003 Carrot Air with Coconut Milk 878

1997 Cuttlefish and Coconut Ravioli with Soy, Ginger, and Mint 416
Kanbara Junmai Ginjo Saké, Niigata Prefecture

1992 Savory Tomato Ice with Oregano and Almond Milk Pudding 159

2001 Hot Crab Aspic with Mini Corn Cous Cous 781
Domaine Bordatto “Basa Jaun” Cidre, Irouléguy 2010

2000 Cauliflower Cous-Cous with Solid Aromatic Herb Sauce 671

1988 Suquet of Prawns 28
Emilio Hedalgo “Marqués de Rodil” Especial Palo Cortado, Jerez

1998 Potato tortilla by Marc Singla 491
Cune “Viña Real” Rioja Gran Reserva, 2004

1989 Trumpet Carpaccio 52

1987 Red Mullet Gaudi 10
Francesc Sanchez Bas “Montgarnatx,” Priorat 2005

2007 Nasturtium with Eel, Bone Marrow, and Cucumber 1404
Half Acre “Sanguis” Ale, Chicago

2000 Civet of Rabbit with Hot Apple Jelly 686

2009 Gorgonzola Balloon 1570

1999 Foie Gras Caramel Custard 580
Gonzalez Byass “Apostoles” Palo Cortado, Jerez

1996 Spice Plate 367
Pommeau de Normandie with White Tea, Lychee, and Mandarin

2009 Mint Pond 1647

1997 Chocolate in Textures 439
Casa de la Ermita Dulce Monastrell, Jumilla 2006

2010 Chocolate Donuts 1820

1993 Creme Flute 225

1989 Puff Pastry Web 66

2004 Passionfruit Marshmallow – “The Farewell” 1089

“The Morphings“
1996 Joules verne Lollipops 385
1997 Chocolate and Puffed Rice 449
2000 Yogurt Croquant and Raspberry Lolly 712
1999 White Chocolate, Lemon, Coffee Lolly 609
1996 Star Anise and Mandarin Lolly 393
2001 Raspberry Kebab with Balsamic Caramel Cloud 813

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Next
“elBulli”
953 West Fulton Market
Chicago, Illinois 60607

* Perhaps my last meal at alinea, before plans for Next were made public, was a preview of this project. I won’t claim to be Delphic, but the title that I assigned to my last meal at alinea certainly suggests that I was seeing a retrospective aspect to Achatz’s menu.

** Ferran Adrià took over elBulli in 1987 and closed it in July of 2011. With the exception of the years 1990, 1994, 1995, 2002, 2006, and 2008, there was at least one dish from every year that the restaurant was open.

*** Thanks, Mango in the Sun, for arranging this wonderful birthday dinner. And, thanks Piña Colada and Pipsqueak for flying out to join me. I will not forget thirty-four.