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A Four Letter Word --- Komi --- Washington, DC A fine line separates a culinary signature from a tic. Earlier this month I was in Washington for a week, and at the suggestion of friends I tried Komi, Johnny Monis’s Greek-inflected, slightly rustic, comfortable hot spot. And there is much to like – the service, the collection of well-composed Greek wines (and not a stereotypical Retsina) and the finely-prepared cuisine. This night my companion and I selected the dinner: a selection of nine mezzathakia, a pasta, an entree, and dessert. We were well-treated. My only complaint was granular. This chef’s four letter word: salt. Sometimes dishes are oversalted out of incompetence: that is not the case at Komi. Chef Monis uses salt to add zest, a taste dimension that often characterizes his dishes. Once or twice during the meal would have been memorable, but the number of dishes that included salt as an ingredient or distinctive flavoring was startling. From the roasted dates with fleur de sel to the oversalted (although perfectly moist) spit roasted katiskaki (goat) to a rather unpleasant Meyer Lemon granita with red sea salt to salty pecan gelato (this I did not order, but there it was on the menu), one could not escape the condiment. Perhaps we should not have been surprised when the farewell gift was a salted caramel lollipop. A chef whose inventions are as distinguished as Chef Monis can find other ways to enliven his plates. Of the mezzethakia I particularly admired the exquisite, lush cauliflower panna cotta with American caviar, langoustines, and sea urchins. The braised octopus with poached quail egg, capers, pig knuckles (?), and lentil salad was memorable as well. Also successful was a poached lobster salad with bottarga. Both of our pastas were sublime. I particularly admired the tagliatelle with rabbit, snails and eggplant. Here is a chef who knows how to cook al dente. My companion’s rock shrimp risotto with Meyer lemon and sumac-braised pistachio was filled with delicious surprises. Even in my year of dining in New York, I never was treated to such a pair of pastas. As our main course, we selected the spit-roasted katsikaki – as moist a goat as can be imagined with a delightful crunchy skin. Had the salt been halved this would have been an astonishing dish. The side dishes, pickled plum, Greek oregano, eggplant puree, truffled beet tsatziki, and Habanero hot sauce added complexity to the goat and homemade pita. At first bite the salt added to the pungency of the dish, but soon I wished for pure goat. The sides could have provided the pungency. Dessert – toasted almond cake with bananas and rum zabaglione was pleasurable – and not at all salty – flavorful but slightly dry for my taste. I hope to return to Komi on my next visit to Washington with a doctor’s note a demand to lighten our sodium footprint on this fragile planet. Komi 1509 Seventeenth Street (Dupont Circle) Washington, DC 202-332-9200 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Oud Sluis - Sluis, The Netherlands Having friends in high places can challenge restaurant criticism. I recently was invited to spend three minutes asking a question at a Ph.D. oral in Utrecht for which my transportation, hotel, and most meals were paid, plus an honorarium that paid me several Euros for each second of talk. Me and Ms. Hilton, what scammers. With this kind of largess, I decided to blow my pay packet on dinner at Oud Sluis, one of a Dutch trio of Michelin three star restaurants, and the establishment that under the leadership of chef Sergio Herman is making the greatest impact on global dining. I planned my trip carefully, wishing on the one hand to indulge and on the other to be a just and tough-minded critic. But a friend with tasty connection with Chef Herman arranged a special dinner, a plot that I only discovered on my arrival. My evening was an extension and intensification of what other diners might experience. Oud Sluis is a treasure, much in the culinary style of Per Se/French Laundry, a restaurant that is much aware of the latest trends in molecular cuisine, but, unlike The Fat Duck or Alinea or El Bulli, does not fetishize the odd and abnormal, but uses those techniques along with more classical preparations. Herman is a chef who wishes to explore the savory but without permitting strong flavors to brutalize subtle flavors. He embraces the complex and the whimsical in ways that often succeed gloriously. If there is a caution, it is that Chef Herman is still in process of developing a uniquely personal style and a singular astonishing signature dish, although the entire menu and several presentation reveal considerable culinary facility. After three weeks I can still recall vividly some of Herman's creations, always an important sign. Chef Herman is young and some of the thematic linkages of the meal may have been lost in the generous blizzard of courses I was gifted. But my meal was superior to recent meals at Le Bernardin and Alain Ducasse in New York and the equal of those at Gordon Ramsay and Joel Robuchon. Perhaps it was due to my connections that service was impeccable, although as best I could tell those diners sitting near me were happily and efficiently chowing down. The restaurant, comfortable, modern, and spare, with an emphasis on light woods and black trim, was attractive in itself, although not so architecturally fluent that one would visit for the decor. The adventure began with a startling starter. Since these dishes were "off the menu," my descriptions may be less adequate than acceptable on a website of record. The first offering was buckwheat spaghetti with mackerel, marinated in lime and pepper, served beneath an orb of wasabi-sake ice. This aperitif glass was platonic, wakening one's taste buds while revealing the chef's philosophy: a willingness to play with strong tastes (mackerel, lime, wasabi, buckwheat), while moderating them in practice. Despite what might have been a set of clashing tastes and textures, the melding was pure joy. My second opener was a simple cup of aioli with thin crostini. The crostinis of fragile sourdough crust were extravagantly crackly. The garlicky aioli was mixed as an airy cloud. As with the mackerel, this dish played with the strong taste of garlic, but lightened its texture and flavor. Just over the Dutch border, Chef Herman next teased national expectations, producing a Brussel Waffle. This small pleasure was marinated herring tucked inside a mini-waffle, decorated with dots of curry and avocado cream. The theme of the meal becomes ever clearer: herring and curry, but moderated with cream and wheat. Smooth and rough. This four-bite starter was quite lovely, each bite, both those curried and those floral and nutty green. The fourth offering was a Tiffany gem: a gustatory bon bon infused with a puree of Granny Smith apple and a liquid foie gras. The presentation literally bursted with aqueous flavor. This jewel was among the most impressive construction that I have eaten, a surprise that was beautiful to espy, startling to consume, and evocative in memory: rich liver and tart apple, held together by some enlightened gelatin that did not feel or taste like tired and rubbery aspic. This was followed by a double tribute to Chefs Keller and Adria: nitrogenated emulsion of "oyster caviar." It lacked the lushness of Keller's "Oysters and Pearls," but the flinty pearls were more mature than, say, "Caesar Salad Dipping Dots." If one must have such frozen treats, oyster pearls made a lively and amusing choice. Next I was presented with a salad tasting: 1) marinated salmon, champagne, dill and asparagus, 2) a salad of potatoes and shallots, 3) A marinated cucumber salad of lobster and radicchio on cracker, and 4) ratatouille with a espuma of escoviche (a Jamaican snapper). Although I found the potato salad less compelling, the other three were excellent. This is a chef who uses foam carefully, adding an edge of fish to his vegetables. The marinated salmon was a lovely take on lox in a modern style. Of the quartet it was the lobster that captured through its luxury - a postage stamp salad that could be sent anywhere. Finally the menu, as printed, began. First, Tomato Structures with Marinated Gamba, Basil, Sorbet of Cabernet-Sauvignon Vinegar and Olive Oil Powder. I love fresh tomatoes, but I adored the single cherry tomato that was infused with oil and vinegar: the single best tomato on earth. The remaining four structures, although otherwise notable, didn't stand a chance. They were bystanders. The next dish was my star of the evening, a tartare of langoustine with an emulsion of olive oil and yuzu, with caviar, seafood jelly, and cream of sea vegetables. This rather complex dish (and like Tom Keller, Sergio Herman is partial to complexity - except the above-mentioned cherry tomato) was a brave medley of tastes and textures. The fruity, herbal, salty, and buttery notes were symphonic. Even though complex, the dish had an astonishing lightness of being. Herman's strong tastes did not overpower. This was quickly followed with a foamy turbot: turbot with verbena and "barigoul (artichoke farci) foam" with pan-fried langoustine and tempura of verbena. This was another complex langoustine dish that tamed the savory to good effect. Perhaps the turbot is not as joyous a fish as some, but this was an astonishing and beautiful plate that successful melded fish and crustacean. In short order we moved from langoustines to lobster: "Bomba rice" paella with Zealand lobster, chorizo and slowly cooked squid with a sauce of crustaceans and cremolata of peas. Another ravishing and complex dish. Yet, this was the dish that I found disappointing. In comparing this deconstruction to a more traditional paella, my strong preference was for the latter. This was a stripped-down, constricted paella. When deconstructing tradition - "paella" - a chef needs to insure that the quotation marks add value. One can hardly complain about perfectly prepared lobster, but the dish felt cramped and theoretical; it lacked integrity as a tribute. The palate cleanser was cucumber three-way: jellied, foamy, and marinated, served as a cocktail. Cucumber when prepared right is God's treat of summer: the refreshment of Eden. This break was glorious. The single meat course was lamb "Sisteron" with courgette (zucchini) flowers, lamb sauce, Parmesan jelly and "poudre d'or." Granted the gold powder was a conceit of a culture with too much disposable income, but the lamb was ideally cooked - juicy and moist, fully lamby - but with a startlingly crispy crust that must have taken some thoughtful effort to achieve. The strip of cheese preserves was good fun. If not the most compelling dish of the night, it was a straight-forward center-piece with memorable twists and turns. This brings a diner to a trio of dessert courses with their own variants: structures of chocolate and caramel with ice cream from salted peanuts; almond biscuit with strawberries and ice cream of elderberry flower; and preparations of raspberry and coconut. At some restaurants desserts are an afterthought, but desserts at Oud Sluis contain the same attempt to tame the savory, and they largely work. I particularly admired the chocolate cream with passion fruit. The fruit was ripe and robust and the elderberry sorbet was well made. Viewing the photographs reveals a pastry chef who works in the same register as the chef: tart complexity, shaped and channeled by an insistence on subtlety. Oud Sluis deserves the praise it has received. And with a young chef who is still developing his own culinary style, it is likely to improve, although no fourth Michelin star will be in the offing. Oud Sluis may lack the explosive flash and gunpowder of the Fat Duck or Alinea, but it reveals a culinary mind. Today every ambitious young chef is a student of Thomas Keller, but some students are more attentive than others. If Sergio Herman is not a teacher's pet, he is a diner's pet. At high-end restaurants no meal is truly typical, but thanks to an expansive chef my meal was less typical than some, thanks to the soft kindnesses of my network. Yet, the vision and care of Oud Sluis is sure to be evident for every diner, even those not so well connected as this diner-in-full. Restaurant Oud Sluis Beestenmarkt 2 Sluis THE NETHERLANDS (0031) 0117 46 12 69 http://www.oudsluis.nl Vealcheeks

The Fat Duck The Fat Duck, surely one of the galaxy’s most famous dining destinations, tucked away in the London exurb of Bray, is in fact two of the world’s most creative restaurants. The problem is that they do not always fit together harmoniously. One is to be applauded for its culinary brilliance; the other for its cleverness. One is Per Se, the other April Fools. One produces astonishing food; the other forces astonished diners to question what food really is. Is food anything that a chef dares to place on the plate? One is modern cuisine, the other hyper-modern games and molecular buzz. The Fat Duck appears a rural inn from its pubby name to its exposed beams and white walls. The only signal that this is other than small-town Britain is a few abstractions on the walls in yellow and chartreuse. As is so common, service in the temple of modern cuisine is attentive and gracious; service at the house of games is demanding and controlling. At the first the diner is king; at the later, he is a pawn. And throughout the meal The Fat Duck sells itself from the small placard on the table that encourages the purchase of Chef Heston Blumenthal’s cookbooks to the several odd objects emblazoned with the name and visual markings of the establishment. Blumenthal has not moved as far as some in turning himself into a brand, not yet opening branches in Dubai and Las Vegas, but perhaps the time is not so far off. The current chef, overseeing the cuisine at The Fat Duck is Ashley Palmer-Watts, who deserves much credit for the day. One’s tasting menu begins with play. A server appears with a smoking kettle of nitrogenated ice in which she places a white sphere: a immediate freeze by one of MacBeth’s witches. This is the opening palate cleanser of Nitro-Green Tea and Lime Mousse. I am informed that it is to be eaten whole; and when I chose to consider the dish in two bites, I am chided for my effrontery. So much for clichés about the client’s authority. The ball itself is tartly citrus with a smidge of vodka. As advertised, it is a clarifying moment. The second amuse brings a plate with two small squares of jelly: one orange and one beet red. The server orders me to eat the orange first. I follow instructions despite a growing desire to rebel by combining half of each. What’s up? The orange gel tastes of beet; the red square tastes of orange, just like those experiments in home economics in which green food coloring is added to cherry ice and red to mint. As it always has been, this is a cute idea for a class in food science to demonstrate the power of expectations, but the idea triumphs over the senses. This experiment was followed by a lovely, little thing: a fresh oyster with passion fruit jelly and a sprig of lavender. Although the lavender didn’t add much to this particular dish, the combination of fruit and bay was delightful. This is the first of the dishes that demonstrates that the kitchen can cook – although if one is discussing raw oysters, “cook” is not precisely apt. The next small treat was “soup,” although soup that one needed a magnifying glass to spot, Red Cabbage Gazpacho, served with a micro-scoop of Pommery Grain Mustard Ice Cream. The soup was luscious, luminous, and light, all that one expects of a chilled soup. I only wish I had a bowl and not a tumbler. The flavor of cabbage was distinctive, but not overwhelming, and the royal purple contrasted smoothly with the tan custard. The following intersecting courses were described as an “Homage to Alain Chapel.” How the late chef might feel about such an honor will never be known. I was informed that I must first lay a small film infused with oak flavor on my tongue, waking me for the touches to come, adding a whispered note of terror, if not terroir. However, this Sleeping Beauty trick was neither deadly nor delightful. Set on my table was a bonny package of oak moss that was flirtatious enough, but even when a liquid infusion caused it to smoke vigorously, it was more a proposition than than a passion. Here was molecular cuisine at its most jejune. A jest of the dark woods at table. This complaint does not neglect the insistent flavors of the dishes served as sides. The oak moss and truffle toast was carefully plotted and an evocative of the fungal bed. Compact, tightly bound, and explosive with aroma. Better still was one of the finest preparations of the day, an inspiring parfait with layers of quail jelly, langoustine cream, and foie gras mousse. Each satin sheet was urgently composed and together was an amorous moment. This parfait was as much a climax as an appetizer could be. And now the meal became serious and profound – for awhile. The first of the larger course was Chef Blumenthal’s signature Snail Porridge, served with Joselito ham and shaved fennel, described by the organizationally immodest server as “our famous snail porridge.” The snails might speak for themselves, but whether famous, infamous, or anonymous, this was a breakfast of champions – fusing two of the meal’s motifs: breakfast in the woods. The green porridge, the translucent fennel, the rosy ham, and the dark snails made beautiful harmony. Flavors that seemed far distant became as one. This porridge wakens the limp and restless. Following the porridge was is tribute to Foie Gras, what each fat duck will be without: Roast Foie Gras with Almond Fluid Gel, Cherry Sauce and Chamomile Jelly. Here was foie gras marzipan with bursting cherry notes. The fruit was cherry cubed, so intense was its flavor. Not only was the dish symphonic in taste, it was fluid and expressionist in presentation. A magnificent treat. And then “The Sound of the Sea.” Here was molecular cuisine as wack. The server brought out a large conch shell with earphones which I was ordered to wear. Inside the shell – why? – was a small iPod – why? Putting on the earphones, one heard the sound of waves – why? And I sat for perhaps five minutes experiencing a cross between vexation and bondage, feeling little of the wispy shore breeze in this snug little cottage by inland Bray. Let me be blunt: it was dumb. The chef’s desire for discipline outweighed any hint of pampering. As I began to lose hope, fearing that I would be dunce for the afternoon, perhaps feeling a touch nauseated, the food arrived. If the dish was not among the finest creations of the tasting menu, it was far more evocative than the attempt at Radio Free Bulli. The chef sculpted a shore scene with tapioca sand, sea foam, fried baby eels, razor clams, cockles, and a quartet of Japanese seaweed species. It was a curiosity, too clever by half for greatness, but a thoughtful attempt to build on an unusual mix of textures. Finally arrived the crux of the meal: an indelible dishes, a creation of gustatory renown: Salmon Poached with Liquorice, Asparagus, Pink Grapefruit, Vanilla Mayonnaise, and Olive Oil. The salmon, moist and succulent, was enveloped by a dark, mysterious, potent, slightly bitter film. Served on a plate by its lonesome it would have been splendid, but the companion tastes, each paired in a bite were gravely symphonic. Modern cuisine does not get better than this, and inspires me to forgive – sort of – the fooling before and after. I was tempted to ask for Hester’s technique, but then realized that my evening fumblings might tarnish my memories of what Chef Blumenthal unfolded. The meat course was perhaps the most “traditional” of the afternoon: best end of lamb with onion and thyme fluid gel with a potato fondant. The best end of lamb included tongue, neck, and sweetbreads, leaving this lamb silenced – along with part of the lamb’s rack. This was a fine, sturdy dish – and a rich and thoughtful one, unafraid of the dense flavor of the thyme gel. If it was an anti-climax – and in some measure it was – this evaluation was a function of what came before. The liquid palate cleanser was labeled “Hot and Iced Tea.” Two distinctly textured liquids – one rather warm and gummy, the other cool and fresh within the same cup. The trick was that the cup appeared to contain a single liquid, while actually constituting a science experiment. Like teaching a dog to waltz, it was more impressive in theory than in practice. This was followed by a small dish, “Mrs. Marshall’s Margaret Cornet,” named after a frozen dessert pioneer: apple ice cream with orange and ginger granita. This small cone with its smooth flavors and elaborated decoration was a nostalgic reference to the days when visiting the ice cream parlor was an occasion, not merely an errand. I could have skipped the “Pine Sherbet Fountain” – sugar powder with a pine aroma. First, oak, now pine, soon poison ivy. I scooped the power with a vanilla bean that added some taste, but didn’t persuade me that this was other than a tease of the late afternoon heat. The main dessert – Mango and Douglas Fir Puree with a Bavarois (Bavarian cream) of lychee and mango with an intense blackcurrant sorbet – was precisely presented, a stunning picture. As a serious presentation, the dessert was welcome, although I felt that the flavors did not merge as well as some earlier courses. It was a plate in which the sum of the parts was more impressive than the combined taste. After this effort of the pastry kitchen, we returned to ideas, forgetting gustatory triumphs. First, I was served a Carrot and Orange Tuile – a high-end lollypop - with a beetroot jelly square, a reference to the earlier surprise but with the color matching the taste. As the meal ended – perhaps most appropriate for those evening repasts that concluded in the wee hours – I received a box of parsnip cereal – Fat Duck brand - served with parsnip milk. Perhaps one can’t squeeze blood from a turnip, but apparently Chef Blumenthal can tease breast milk from a parsnip. Cereality indeed. I concluded with the second course of a molecular morning repast, another Blumenthal signature: Nitro-Scrambled Egg and Bacon Ice Cream with Pain Perdu and Tea Jelly. Like the opening nitro-Green Team and Lime Mousse, this was a tableside presentation. The kitchen wizards infused an egg in its shelf with bits of bacon, When cracked into a pan, mixed with liquid nigrogen – kazaam! – ice cream resulted. Cuteness trebled, cooled and warmed through magic. Better living through chemistry, although I prefer better living though stovework. It was an impressive end, although not the most impressive in flavor. The conjurer’s trick seemed designed to wheedle a standing ovation. The breakfast was somewhat in-between brilliant and curious, in-between funny delightful and funny odd. With the weak American dollar a tasting menu at The Fat Duck is an investment in reverie, and has some rough patches. Yet, it is not an experience that I would have missed. Perhaps The Fat Duck is two restaurants in one – one molecular, one inspired – but both reveal how magical a meal can be. This is a cuisine agape. I left with my heart aflutter and my mouth agape. The Fat Duck High Street Bray Brkshire +44 01628 580333 http://www.fatduck.co.uk Photos available at: My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Gordon Ramsay on Royal Hospital Road When I was studying restaurant kitchens in the Twin Cities in preparation for my book, Kitchens: The Culture of Restaurant Work, I talked with a prominent local chef who explained to me, with some empirical justification, that he believed that his restaurant was the finest establishment between Chicago and the West Coast. I asked whether he could ever compete with those establishments situated in global cities. He doubted it, and I asked why. He answered in two words, “the touches.” By this he pointed to an economic reality of haute cuisine. In second-tier cities, such as Minneapolis-St. Paul there were simply not sufficient diners who would willingly pay for the extra staff to create meals that in their attention to detail that would reveal the chef’s commitment to elaboration, to nuance, to decoration, and to luxe. Gordon Ramsay has no such trouble. (His troubles are reputed to be otherwise, including those of class cultures, as detailed by sociologist Pierre Bourdieu in his accounts of how one’s class background affects one’s interactional style. This forgets that until recently cooking was a job for the lads.) But touches Ramsay has in spades. Ramsay can gather as much staff as he can stuff into his kitchen, both because of the elasticity of his prices and because of the willingness of ambitious culinary tots to stage (star-jzay – or intern) with him, hoping that glorious gustatory dust may rub off. At a recent lunch the touches were much in evidence. And on the floor an army of staff paced, watching for the wayward crumb. This was a salutary surveillance, but surveillance none-the-less. Gordon Ramsay, one of the most proficient, and often inspired, chefs, suggests that perfection while surely admirable, can have the feel of being frozen in amber, perhaps not always the best advertisement for a cuisine whose cutting edge is hyper-modern. This problem is all-too-common when outstanding chefs leave the stove behind and become overlords. This doesn’t discount the real contributions of the chef de cuisine, but major changes at such workshops require the approval of the masters, a culinary bureaucracy that limits spontaneity. Still, it is hard to have a bad meal at Ramsay’s or even a mediocre one. One change from my previous visit was the color scheme: the deep, rich plum walls were gone, replaced by creams and silvers and blacks. With the plum went something of the adventure of space, replaced by a more serious, more carefully modulated environment. I preferred the plum. As amuse I was served a tiger prawn cocktail with Osetra caviar, gazpacho, croutons, mashed avocado, tomato, and cucumber. This starter was a high-end shrimp cocktail that would have been somewhat pedestrian, if tasty, had it not been for the cucumber. This modest bit of salad added the dish a cool, summery lushness – a subtle, slightly sweet, slightly herbal moistness that created an unexpected and welcome taste. The appetizer revealed just how far the influence of Fergus Henderson of St. John has traveled: from Smithfield Market to the heart of Chelsea. Slow-braised pied de cochon (pig’s trotter) pressed then pan-fried with ham knuckle – and an “egg benedict” with quial’s egg and hollandaise sauce – decorated stripes of Hollandaise and Balsamic sauce – was a creation that very elegant indeed, a work of art, but also a workingman’s craft: haute slaughterhouse. This was the highlight of the meal, and one of the grandest dishes of my British tour: Fergus Henderson waltzing in tux and tails. As a main course I selected chargrilled monkfish tail wrapped in duck confit with courgette (zucchini) and duck gizzard (Fergus again), served over petite squares of red and yellow peppers, tiny Japanese mushrooms, and red wine jus. It was an elegant presentation, perhaps a little heavy, but hardly a combination about which one could quibble. The tastes blended well, but in total were less startling than the remarkable appetizer. As a palate cleanser, I was served a raspberry compote with lemongrass crème – a bistro dissert with its admirable crackly coating. The lemongrass was unfortunately overwhelmed by the raspberry – I would have used pear instead. But I daydreamed of Heston Blumenthal testing us with durian crème, a combination that I lust to try with equally intrepid dining companions. The main dessert was pineapple ravioli with berries, filled with passion fruit, and served with a dense mint sorbet (the later seemingly an alien from some other course). While tasty, the ravioli packaging didn’t quite hold up and the filling squirted about, creating a sweet that was a challenge to eat. Finally strawberry ice cream balls wrapped in white chocolate: perhaps somewhat icy, but intense in flavor. Some chefs create their own distinctive style, whereas others, equally creative, are synthesizers, and it is in the latter camp that both of the meals that I have had at Ramsay’s fall. His staff is proficient and smooth and unfailing. Yet synthesizing produces meals that are only outstanding, not life-changing. Yet, some afternoons outstanding is quite enough. Gordon Ramsay 68 Royal Hospital Road London (Chelsea) +44 (0)20-7352-4441 http://www.gordonramsay.com/royalhospitalroad/ For photos see: My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Arbutus There is a danger to reviewing on the cheap, even for bloggers a notorious tight group of souls. This came to mind in considering Arbutus, a spare and clean-lined establishment just south of Soho Square. Planning to eat at Gordon Ramsay, St. Johns, and The Fat Duck does not come cheap, and I was delighted to learn that Arbutus, a well-regarded new restaurant in Soho, emphasizing Haute-Comfort food, was open on Sunday evening, and offered a three course pre-theater menu for 17.50 pounds. As Arbutus had been named the New Restaurant of the Year by Time Out London, the offer was too tempting to pass up, and, if the choices were not what I would have selected without constraint, they matched my tastes quite well. And, truth be told, these three courses were sufficiently well-prepared that I wondered what I might have been treated to had I placed myself in the hands of Chef Anthony Demetre. Pre-theater menus have two traits that serve them well for diners, but less well for critics. They are designed to be prepared efficiently and are chosen because their food appeals to a wide swath of dinners. So, I was not presented with offal or with those dishes that are awash in the chef’s sweat. Still, considering the rate of exchange, a dinner for $35.00 (with VAT included; service of 12.5% is added) is a deal. I began with a lovely soup of crushed tomatoes, which was as its name suggests a robust and textured red. The soup was fine served hot, but would have been more luscious if chilled later and served in the late summer tomato heat. This chef is willing to experiment with herbs, and I particularly admired the thin slices of fennel that enhanced the depth of the tomato. The main course was a simple Rabbit Loin with Mustard Sauce, Herb Risotto, and Baby Carrots. If the artistry didn’t astonish this diner, the mustard sauce was beautifully puckery, and the emerald risotto was powerfully flavored with what must have included half of a herbarium. The dish was not flashy, but well-proportioned and rapidly prepared. Of the three courses, dessert was the least striking: Rice Pudding Mousse with Strawberry Juice on a bed of fresh Strawberries - appropriate botanically, as Arbutus is refers to the botanical name for the strawberry tree (a tree that once grew in Soho Square). As advertised, here was rice pudding and strawberries. While the pudding was certainly creamy, it seemed more of a pudding than a mousse. As judged from the menu, Arbutus offers more complexity than my pleasant meal provided. Whether Arbutus achieves these goals is a question that I leave for those with deeper pockets. Arbutus 63-64 Frith Street London (Soho) 020-7734-4545 www.arbutusrestaurant.co.uk Photos available at: Vealcheeks

St. Johns --- Haute Slaughterhouse There are some restaurants that change the culinary landscape: gastronomic earthquakes. Chez Penisse, Union Square Café, El Bulli and The American Place are some that come to mind. St. John, set near London’s Smithfield Market, is another. Chef Fergus Henderson believes in using the animal from head to end, as he describes in his respected 2004 cookbook The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating. Chef Henderson is fighting a wasting ailment, and will probably never stand behind a stove, but his influence is profound. St. John eschews the fancy for the solid, the dramatic for the solid. While this style of cuisine has been termed Haute Barnyard, I think of it as Haute Slaughterhouse. It is less the product of the farm than of the butcher. The menu my evening included salted pig’s liver, kid, and chitterlings, but also such rarely served seafood as brill, and pollock. The dining room is ostentatiously simple, more like a nineteenth century workers’ mess, along the lines of Peter Luger. And prices are modest by London standards (my four courses were about 40 pounds). My starter was a single gull’s egg with celery salt. I had some idea that this might be an egg of special flavor, but, despite a spotted shell and startling orange yolk, eaten blindfold this had the taste much like any hardboiled egg. The appetizer, a signature dish for Chef Henderson was Roasted Bone Marrow – four rough cut bones – with their marrow intact, served with Grilled Toast, Sea Salt, and Parsley Salad with Capers and Onions. This was carnally sublime and the recognition that marrow is moral deservedly helped to catapult St. Johns into the influential establishment that it is. St. John’s food is neither complex or fussy, what makes this work so well is that Henderson takes what has not be considered to be restaurant food, and prove its delights. The addition of the parsley salad matched the marrow, both in its lushness and in that it overturns the belief that parsley is not a suitable focus for high end dining. A remarkable appetizer. I chose Veal’s Tongue with Beetroot as my main course. The plate was almost audacious in its simplicity. I was presented with two pieces of veal tongue, baked and fried, and some plain beets. Yet, the modesty of the tongue, a most remarkably tender cut with the slightest taste of cured beef tongue, proved that this is no parlor trick. The beet matched the tongue without being elaborated in any way. As dessert I selected St. John’s treatment of an Eccles Cake, served with a slice of Lancaster cheese. The cheese was perfectly vibrant, but the Eccles cake, filled with a think and dense layer of raisins, was more of a pastry than a dessert, strictly speaking, and might have been more appealing had it been served warm with a scoop of, say, rum raisin ice cream. St. Johns plainspeak is distant from the elegance of Gordon Ramsay where I ate lunch, and yet it is perhaps a measure of the influence of the former on the latter than my lunch included pied au cochon and duck gizzard. While we have not seen a large influence of haute slaughterhouse cuisine on the American shores – and it may take awhile to penetrate, given Yankee squeamishness towards offal – in time we will be consuming veal tongue, unless moral politics intervenes. St. John 26 St. John Street London (Smithfield Market) 020-7251-0848 www.stjohnrestaurant.com For photos see: Vealcheeks

The Armless Dragon was a disappointment. Not a failure like Laguna, but a restaurant that considered itself to be an outpost of contemporary Welsh cuisine was not very interesting - I was excited about the possibilities (I did like the Laverbread - a concoction from seaweed was interesting - but my Wood Pigeon was nothing special, and the wild mushrooms were shiitake and enoki). I did appreciate that one received a soup and three appetizers (sea, land, and vegetable - I forget what they called this trio).

I have been lecturing in Cardiff, Wales (Cymru, to you - pronounced Come-ree) in preparation for two days in London where I will dine at St. Johns, Gordon Ramsay, and the Fat Duck. Cardiff is not the best dining city in the best dining country, but I do have two recommendations to make: Patagonia and Le Gallois. Neither qualify as major restaurants, but both have some ambition and some success (both are located a bit away from the downtown/Castle area of Cardiff) in Canton. At Patagonia I had a superb appetizer of "Sweet Spanish piquillo peppers stuffed with smoked eel, celeriac scented with truffle oil, and sherry reduction." It was both startling and a surprising blend of garden and sea. It has been the single best dish since my arrival. My main course, a duck dish (it was a week ago and I didn't make notes) was good, but a step down from the appetizer. (I learned to my surprise that many Welsh migrants had settled in Patagonia). I don't think that Chef Joaquin Humaran is Welsh, but has made Cardiff home. Le Gallois reflects a modern French cuisine, but with a preference for local Welsh ingrediants. Chef Padig Jones is Welsh. My main course, "Pot Roasted Pig Cheeks with Truffle Mashed Potatoes, Baby Vegetables, and Clove and Honey Pot Sauce" was excellent - both hearty and surprising (think a well-made pot roast with the exotic backtaste of cloves). My starter, Wild Mushroom and Truffle Risotto was nicely prepared and contained generous pieces of truffle. Service was superior at Patagonia, but Le Gallois is more stylish. I do not recommend Laguna in the City Center area. Patagonia 11 Kings Road Cardiff 029-2019-0265 Le Gallois 6-10 Romilly Crescent Cardiff 029-2034-1264

Classic DC Citronelle Our nation's capital is a town of borrowed bliss. What pleasure that is available originates elsewhere: Rembrandts, cherry blossoms, injera. In culinary terms, do not search for Potomac cuisine, only cuisine on the Potomac. My recent dinner at the estimable Citronelle illustrated the point. Citronelle is a restaurant easy to admire, hard to adore. It presents an updated classicism, like so much Washington architecture. Michel Richard's Citronelle aims for three-point-five stars, well-satisfied in its deserved achievement. But it is achievement. Still, a tourist wonders whether Chef Richard is still the creative force or whether the kitchen is fully governed by Chef de Cuisine David Deshaies. When one describes a restaurant as bustling, one often means that customers cram the corners. Citronelle is an establishment in which bustling describes the staff. There are a dizzying and dazzling number of staff charging through the dining room. Each is competent and thoroughly trained (one described lemon as lime, and immediately returned to correct the flub). But Citronelle is one of those restaurants in which the relationship of the dinner and her server is downplayed. Look up and a new face is hovering above. The open dining room - with views of the wine cave and kitchen - was comfortable, although today when architects and designers compete with chefs, Citronelle will not receive attention from Architectural Digest. I selected the tasting menu (labeled the promenade gourmande) and the well-chosen wine degustation. Considering that several courses were composed of a trio of tastes, this consisted of fourteen courses. Three dishes were magnificent; two were unappealing (both small courses), and the remainder were exactingly prepared, impressive, if not dazzling. What is most notable is that Citronelle doesn't ignored the past, the classic. Perhaps as a result, mesmerizing innovation was a minor component of the tasting menu. The degustation menu felt as if it was not newly minted; the goal was to keep the gustatory machine purring smoothly: both a virtue and a limitation. The amusi were three tastes: a barrel of laughs. Least successful was what was labeled the "egg surprise," hopefully not because of the taste. Perched on a sculptural spoon was what appeared to be a wedge of hard-boiled egg - composition of mozzarella and yellow tomato puree, a cube of translucent tomato confit, and crisped rice. While the ingredients seemed eager to please, the amalgam had an odd, perhaps from the confit, perhaps from the expectation of egg. The idea of the construction bettered the execution. The second entree, a "mushroom cigar" surrounded by a pool of ginger sauce, was a Francophile take on the egg roll. I endorse the two crackly, earthy bites. But the best of the trio - and perhaps the high-point of the meal was a marvelously herbal "haricots verts tartar": a combination of baby green beans and shallots: traditional ingredients with a happy twist. I didn't discover the nature of the dressing, but the dish was simply sublime and sublimely simple. A few classic ingredients, carefully chosen, can reach rapture. The tasting menu began with a robust Roasted Chestnut and Peanut Soup. This is not the transparent liquor of modernist cuisine, but a real soup with a rich meaty base. The empty bowl was decorated with foie gras dots surrounding a mound of duck confit. The most distinctive taste was smoky pork, although the chestnut and duck notes were clearly evident. There was less evidence of peanuts than I had expected. It was more meaty than nutty. A soup that might have been a tribute to the Virginia goober country bowed to old Paris. The next dish, as if to mock my Chicago residence, also contained foie gras. This was an elegant Foie Gras-Beet Opera Cake (with a celery root layer) with accompaniments of beet brunois and celery root salad. The dish was more interesting visually than in strictly gustatory terms. The flavors were not sufficiently bright as to make the cake exemplary. The first seafood dish was the most evocative course of the night: Rockfish with Vegetable Pearls (Rutabaga, Zucchini, and Carrot) and Lemon Verbena Emulsion with Crispy Rice. The perfectly-cooked rockfish benefitted from the verbena emulsion, adding a subtle complexity to the otherwise mild fish, and the rice and pearls added an intriguing, modernist textural contrast. This dish revealed the Chef Richard's debt to classical French cuisine with a light and contemporary sensibility. A triumph. Lobster Burger with homemade potato chips was a conceit. By now such a dish seems routine, and not the most inspired use of a succulent crayfish. This was about all that a lobster burger could be in a fine dining room, but, without sea spray, it never stood a prayer against a perfect Down East lobster roll. A good but wasted course. Squab "minute steak" with potato fried rice and citrus-ginger emulsion was another conceit, although more successful in that the comparison with a minute steak was primarily visual. The citrus-ginger sauce - and why not call a sauce a sauce - brought out the slight "gaminess" of the squab without overpowering the quiet poultry taste. The cheese course presented four well-selected - and classic - selections: epoisse, blue, rachette, and Camembert, served with pistachio raisin toast. The star dessert followed: Raspberry Vacherin accompanied by raspberry meringue, fresh strawberries and meringue sticks. The photo indicates the craftsmanship of the construction, but the dessert was more than architecture. It was deeply fruity and luscious. This vacherin matched the main courses in its debt to classic cuisine and in its nod to a lightened contemporary taste. The final course (not including the petit fours) - Chocolate Three Ways - consisted of a rich and smooth chocolate ice cream, an excellent, evocative and buttery coconut macaroon cake with an elegantly swirling chocolate cookie, and a chocolate panna cotta with coffee topping, with jarring, "off" flavors. (Confession: coffee is not my preferred flavor). Chef David Deshaies is the Chef de Cuisine of Michel Richard's Citronelle, and his talent is not to be denied. Of the foremost American restaurants, few now rely on classic culinary inspiration as much as Citronelle. The finest dishes - notably the monkfish and the vacherin - are contemporary inspirations of the classic. And yet this debt tethers Citronelle to the past, rather than opening the door to an amazing cornucopia of the future. Still, Citronelle reminds us that contemporary cuisine stands on the shoulders of giants. Citronelle 3000 M Street, NW Washington, DC (Georgetown) 202-625-2150 http://www.citronelledc.com Photos available on: Vealcheeks

Chowder Games - May Street Market Dining recently at May Street Market, the West Town restaurant, recently celebrating its first anniversary, reminded me of how much I treasure restaurants. Not just the temples - the Trotter, Alinea, Le Francais, or even Frontera Grill - but those two-star templettes, that even when they occasionally stumble, provide so much pleasure at a price that permits middling diners a routine fete. And there are no shortage of these restaurants in Chicagoland, where for well under $100, a diner can indulge as a lesser-sybarite. Consider Avec, Crofton, Lula, Prairie Grass, One Sixty Blue, Spring, Magnolia Grill, Rhapsody, West Town Tavern. The list could go on and on (including Italian and Latin-inflected boîtes). These sterling establishments are hardly interchangeable, but each is serious about food and ambiance, while not performing in the four-star circus. Within this crew is surely Chef/Owner Alexander Cheswick's May Street Market (always confused with the quite distinct nuevo-Latino May Street Café on Cermak). May Street Market sports a clean, spare space. Some find it cool, others simply cold. As a setting for cuisine it has a white box purity (the bar area is more colorful and is more visually striking). May Street is also known for their affordable wine list (they do not have a corkage fee - either select their wines or choose water). We ordered a splendid 2003 Neil Ellis Stellenbosch Cabernet blend for $38 (about twice the asking price for this South African bottle; not an inappropriate markup). Service was cheerful, although at our corner table, the busboy and waiter found choreography difficult. We also appreciated the cheer of Chantal Randolph, May Street's Managing Partner, now in Chicago from her home in Zaire. Much of the food was worthy of song, inspirational takes on current trends in cuisine. May Street is known for their Maytag Blue Cheesecake with Red Wine Poached Bosc Pear, Arugula, Spiced Pecans, and Bartlett Pear Sorbet. The savory cheesecake was heavy, and needed to be speared with the poached pear or sorbet. By itself, the cake didn't merit raves, although the plate itself was an elegant mix. Better - and oh so amusing - was May Street's commentary on molecular cuisine. I thoroughly treasured Cheswick's Deconstructed French Onion Soup with Apple Onion Flan, Mahon Cheese, and a Pretzel Crouton. The soup was sweet and tangy, and lacked the earthy weight that often characterizes Non-deconstructed Soupe l'Oignon. Its cleverness - a twitting of the preposterous outrages of Grant Achatz - in no way marred the favored combination of apple-onion flan, Mahon cheese, and the crouton. Every bite was sublime, including each micro-green. A memorable dish. Both main courses were lush and indulgent. Of the two entrees, I give a bare edge to Stuffed Pork Tenderloin with Pancetta and Apricots, served over black beans with mustard grain jus. It was moist, fruity, and dense with pleasure, although, as with all May Street dishes (so common in our dulcet gustatory age), it leaned toward the honeyed. Perfectly Roasted Venison Medallions in a Pistachio Crust with Carrot Purée, Chive Spaetzle, and Lingonberry Sauce was another sterling dish of joyously juicy deer. Still, Chef Cheswick might be reminded that we have four tastes, not merely sweetbuds. This is a cook who offers no bitter love to his diners. The pistachio crust was an instance in which less would have been more. In contrast, the chive spaetzel, appearing as lime-green lima beans, was a delicate surprise. However, the best spot was a perfection of carrot purée. Was there another vegetable for which the word ethereal would have better fit? I suspect not. For dessert we shared Coconut Panna Cotta with Vanilla Poached Pineapple, Mango Sorbet, and a Coconut-Coriander Cake. After the splendor of the meats, this dessert faltered. Each element lacked a strong flavor. The cake, absent a powerful memory of coconut or coriander, was dry and plain. The dish appeared lovely, but the love ended at the cornea. The dessert menu reads well, but we lost the gustatory lottery this night. Although May Street Market claims to focus on "regional producers" (and sustainable farming practices), a menu that lists apricot, ginger, pineapple, coconut, mango, lingonberries, sea scallops, truffles, gulf shrimp, calamari, Spanish goat cheese, lemon grass, buffalo, and Dungeness crab has an oddly expansive understanding of region. If we eat global, why not think global? Yes, Maytag Blue Cheese is produced by our friends in Eye-o-Way, but for this early spring menu, a claim that ennobles the local seems a conceit. Still, May Street Market is a welcome and smart addition to the Chicago dining scene. Perhaps it lacks a distinctive niche, but this takes nothing from its culinary charms. As far as I am concerned, Chef Cheswick can deconstruct my chowder any time he wishes. May Street Market 1132 West Grand Chicago (West Town) 312-421-5547 http://www.maystreetmarket.com For photos see: Vealcheeks

What's Not to Like? Chicago Carlos' Restaurant The 2006/7 Zagat's Guide to Chicago Restaurants - bless its tiny democratic heart - awards Carlos, Carlos and Debbie Nieto's contemporary French place near Highwood's restaurant row, a ‘29,' the highest accolade in all of Chicagoland. Is Carlos Chicago's best? Perhaps not, but unlike our T&As - Trotter's, Tru, Topolobampo, Alinea, Ambria, and Arun's - Carlos finds few detractors on Nina and Tim's three-point rating scale. Despite this uncertain accolade, Carlos may receive less attention than any other serious culinary location. It is not that the cuisine at Carlos - or its chef - are old-fashioned. Granted this is not molecular cuisine, but it certainly is aware of and indebted to contemporary trends. And Carlos more than borrows. The menu is as creative as the most impressive contemporary fare in the region. Perhaps Carlos suffers from its location on the border of Highland Park (although Vie, Le Titi, and Tallgrass, much less Le Francais, do just fine), or perhaps from the sense that it a proprietor-driven restaurant (Carlos Nieto receives the press), rather than a chef-driven one. Can you name the chef at Carlos? It is Ramiro Velasquez, and he can hold his own within anyone in this diner's town. Still, one of my most pleasurable meals in the last few years was a Valentine's Day dinner at Carlos, and my wife and I determined to return before New Year's. Carlos is not an establishment that trades on frightening pretensions. Indeed, one might consider the smiling, congenial staff to be too playful, lacking in gustatory gravitas. Unlike restaurants that are so filled with themselves that they provide a genealogy of each ingredient, most dishes at Carlos are served without explanation. The cheerful, competent staff is largely Hispanic, but I found no Iberian bows in the dishes. Borrowing from older culinary traditions, servers dramatically whip away the silvered covers of serving dishes, surprising diners with the pleasures underneath. The wood paneled room is comfortably understated, not an architectural gasp, but warm and inviting. Because Carlos looks into Chicago from its perch in Lake County, our amuse was a tiny ramekin of foie gras, quail egg, radicchio, finely chopped vegetables, and the inevitable microgreens - a finger in Richie Daley's eye. Put aside the politics, the dish was an awakening. The compilation was complex without being overwhelming, and the flavors, smooth and creamy, just short of bold, were well-modulated. This was an amuse in which the chef was explaining his authority, both in his choice of ingredients and in his confidence in his craft. We both selected the Degustation Menu, a seven course parade, with a pair of choices for the larger appetizer and the entree. In addition, Carlos invites diners to select choices from the a la carte menu. An inexplicable quirk is that some changes carry a heavy upcharge, while others do not. One can order Chilean sea bass without additional charge. However, if you choose John Dory, you pay $15.00! Both dishes are priced at $39.50. Go figure. We began with a lovely "Parsnip Bisque with Roasted Chestnut Mousse and Valrhona Les Perles Craquantres" (petite Cocoa Puffs). The presentation was an artistic dream, and the soup as bracing as a warming hickory fire. Chef Velasquez laid down a marker; he has a contemporary sensibility. The bisque was a brilliant launch. It is not Velasquez's style to overpower, but those bits of Valrhona confirmed that this was no homey, safe cuisine. I have only eaten at Carlos in winter; I was itching to learn of their summer cuisine. "Mountain Huckleberry Glazed Squab Breast with Grilled Pears, Shaved Fennel and a Cabernet-Wild Mushroom Reduction" was another impressive composition. Perhaps it borrowed too heavily from culinary cliques (the requisite fruity-duck), but if one doesn't think too hard of gustatory history, the dish was so amiable that it was hard to reject. The fennel added a more refined taste that nicely matched the mushroom reduction. "Winter Carnaroli Risotto with Kabocha Squash, Spaghetti Squash and Chestnut Puree" completed our trio of appetizers. I cannot differentiate Arborio from Carnaroli, but the mix of ingredients was another toast to winter, and the chestnut was a melodious refrain of the soup. Risotto needs to be properly portioned so as not to dominate the meal, but to be more than a tasting, and the small timbale of grain and squash was filling without weighing heavily. Provocatively demonstrating Chef Velasquez's brave facility, a flash fried, feathery basil leaf stabbed the mold. Breathless. Passion Fruit-Mandarin sorbet surprised by its refusal to sooth the sweet-tooth. As a good palate cleanser must, it awakened my mouth in its firm and unyielding tartness. The mandarin was a puckery and mighty taste. We split entrees. I selected - from the a la carte menu – "‘Roulade' of Muscovy Duck Breast with Veal Sweetbreads, Baby Shiitake, Duck Confit Stuffed Baby Bok Choy, and a Vanilla-Seven Spice Reduction." This ‘roulade' was striking in its presentation, and complex in its flavor. I was less taken by the flavor and texture of the stuffed bok choy, but it was an interesting conceit. The duck and sweetbreads made for a startling pairing, and the vanilla reduction was impressively aromatic. Better yet was my wife's choice, "Pumpernickel Crusted Barramundi (Australian giant perch) with Pumpkin-Lobster Reduction and Diver Sea Scallop Stuffed Mussels with a Sage Beurre Noisette." Let me be succinct: the barramundi with its napping of pumpkin-lobster was one of the most tremendous dishes of the year, a combination of tastes that I will not soon forget. It was brilliant. The scallop stuffed mussels was another of the chef's conceits, but a very tasty one. But that barramundi with its supremely opulent lobster reduction married to the compliant pumpkin's slightly bulky sweetness! Wow! And now, sated, perhaps we were secretly transported to some eatery down the street. Never have I eaten so well under the hands of the chef and been so dismayed when handed off to the dessert crew. When I asked our server of the pastry chef, not listed on the Carlos website, he responded "Elizabeth." Could she be in the witness protection program? Let me not be too harsh. Perhaps we are in the hands of a novice or a gifted cuisinaire on a bad hair day. In truth, the desserts were neither more or less distinguished than dozens of suburban establishments. We begun with a "surprise dessert." When my wife tasted her profiterole, she muttered that it was stale (or stale-ish). Could this have been the surprise? She might have mentioned that the vanilla ice cream was both over-frozen and under-flavored. She could have noted that the chocolate sauce seemed wan, thin, and ordinary. Aside from an odd pair at Le Bernardin, never had I had two dishes in sequence that traveled so far from zenith to nadir. The sympathy of desserts were only better in comparison. None of the trio were distinguished. The almond tuile with orange ice cream was characterized by more overly frozen custard with a somewhat bitter off-taste. The small cube of pumpkin-chocolate layer cake was less distinguished that cakes found at the better bakeries. The tiny ramekin of Vanilla Creme Brulee was smooth and sweet underneath an overly firm crackly crust. The concluding the petits fours were serviceable, but did nothing to save a disappointing end. We are in the midst of the age of sweets. Here in Chicago (think Mindy Segal) and in New York (think Will Goldfarb) dessertistas are laying down markers. I'll assume that our evening was an off-night, but, if not, a restaurant that is as wise, as happy, as creative as Carlos should wise for us to gasp at the end, not to yawn. A chef as gifted as Velasquez deserves a Goya or Picasso at his side. If not, at least we could have been presented with a lagniappe of candied foie gras for the trek to Rogers Park. Carlos 429 Temple Highland Park, IL 847-432-0770 www.carlos-restaurant.com PHOTOS AVAILABLE ON: Vealcheeks

Schwa de Vivre - Chicago - Schwa 10:01 Wednesday morning found me punching numbers into my cell phone, cadging a new reservation at Schwa, Chicago chef Michael Carlson's hot and intimate storefront amazement. Less than twelve hours earlier I had been finishing dessert under Carlson's command. I had been away last year when Schwa opened to squeals of delight and unaccented schwa-y sighs. Carlson is a graduate of the Grant Achatz school of dining as aristocratic amazement and has worked with Hester Blumenthal at England's noble Fat Duck, but Schwa has a different vision. Cooks fantasize opening a small boîte for the pleasure of a small circle of friends. And some few do. Michael Carlson is one. Schwa is a 28-seat restaurant in what some high-toned folk have labeled a "dodgy" stretch of Western Avenue (an ungentrified area of Chicago's West Town). The restaurant is situated in a pleasant-enough storefront, although sniffers might deduct points for decoration as some did for the late lamented Matsumoto (and seated by the radiator, my hot flashes were not only from the passion of the kitchen). Music piped courtesy of local white rappers, the melodic preference of the staff. Schwa's soundtrack is many leagues from Le Cirque. The staff consists of three cooks, a helper, and a server, although everyone, including Chef Carlson (and Sous Chef Nathan Klingbail), carried plates. With two set degustations (including the eleven course menu I selected), the staff had a firm idea of their evening tasks. With the price of the full menu at $100/person (comparable to Moto or Daniel Humm's Eleven Madison Park in New York), savings from their modest rent is not passed on. Schwa is not a restaurant that is unaware or ashamed of its skills. (Schwa doesn't have a wine list, and the corkage fee is a wildly, trippingly modest $5.00/table). Carlson's cuisine owes much to Achatz and other culinary modernists, although Schwa not as showy as Alinea or as antic as WD-50. I was struck by Carlson's use of negative space. As with minimalism in art, the emptiness directs attention. If the food was molecular, some plates could have used a microscope (OK, a magnifying glass). The pictures tell the tale. When I arrived home after my eleven-course banquet, I prepared a snack. Let my phone call serve as evidence of my esteem. Michael Carlson among the most compelling and original chefs cooking today, an artist to watch. The opening of Schwa is a significant culinary event, dividing the decorator from the cook. As one who has groused at the "Disappearing Chef Syndrome," it is comforting to see Chef Carlson laboring at his stove. This is a chef who unlike some Iron Chefs doesn't need a map to find his restaurant. Should you find a hair in the soup, test for Carlson's DNA. Had not Alinea opened in 2005, Schwa is a dream personally sauteed and souffled. Still, the critic's code of ethics prevents me from claiming that my meal was the brightest of the year (I ate at Per Se three times; Schwa was an improvement over one of those meals). Some dishes were sublime, splendid, and spectacular, some soared, and a few were good. Throughout the meal, a diner realized that there are some luxe touches that only a capacious staff can provide. Schwa's perfection was in the combination of astonishing food in its tight sphere - the diner's faith in the craftsman's touch. Chef Carlson saved the worst for first. The amuse was two small candied apple balls, sprinkled with fleur de sel. The salt was startling, but the apple was more Coney Island than Midtown. Modest, but not deceptively so. I began to muse about hype. Happily the salad course set things right. Chef Carlson composed an engaging salad with white anchovy, apples, celery, celery root, and Manchego cheese. With its bold flavors, subtle colors, and unassuming ingredients, it could have been an homage to Charlie Trotter. It was a dish that owed more to the new American cuisine that Trotter has been linked to than to the revolutionary fervor of molecular dishes. The salad was a blissful, bright introduction to Schwa's range. For soup, we were treated to a theatrical set-piece, Prosciutto Consomme with Melon and Arugula, a dish perhaps inspired by the vertical cuisine of Alfred Portole at Gotham Bar and Grill. Stacked languidly, as if 2x4s left by a casual carpenter, were two thin shaved slices of ham, one crispy and one smoked and thinly cut. The neighboring cup of bullion proffered the purest essence of ham. The fresh melon and arugula flakes were bit players in this moist and porcine drama. Carlson's Quail Egg Ravioli is that rare act of inspiration that could qualify a chef for a Genius Award. My companion asked if he could skip the rest of the menu and be served a heaping bowl. The ravioli was served with ricotta, brown butter, parmigiano reggianno, and as much white truffle as Caligula would need for a month of orgies. Here was a dish that channeled Thomas Keller, while knowing how much truffle to perfume the quail egg before a defibrillator was required. Be still my beating heart! Carlson has created the most erotic recipe this side of Tampopo, lush, gooey, musky, preposterous, and very, very opulent. Looking at "Illinois Sturgeon Caviar with Avocado and Cauliflower," one might imagine another Keller inspiration. It wasn't quite. Serving Illinois Sturgeon Caviar might satirize our desire to eat local at all cost. This was roe that serves in a pinch. The creamy cauliflower was a more joyous match than the avocado. The butter-poached lobster was a surprise, off-the-menu entry, and it was the first of Carlson's minimalist, molecular dishes. The lobster was served with sauteed gooseberries, potatoes, and Swiss chard napped with a lavender emulsion foam. The lavender brightened the shellfish with its flowery floral overtones. In the past year, I have had some remarkable lobster dishes, and this lobster can be inducted into the club. By placing pieces of the lobster on the rim of the plate, Chef Carlson engaged in frame-breaking, emphasizing how much of the plate was unused and how airy his presentation. This was another glittering combine. On the printed menu Nantucket Bay Scallops were scheduled to be served with the gooseberries, lavender, and potatoes. Instead we were served scallops with white truffle (again, happily), chanterelles, and Brussel Sprouts. This was a one spoon dish (silverware that owed much to Alinea), but it was a terrifically powerful spoonful. The mushrooms, sprouts, and truffle created a dish that captured the mind of mid-November. Chef Carlson was surely teasing us with his composition of Sweetbreads, Rhubarb, and Humboldt Fog Cheese. In the middle of a platter was a small pile of thymus, smiling like a goiter. As if emphasizing the embodied origins, a smear of rhubarb red and foggy white flowed from the organ meat. The presentation was characteristic of the Carlson aesthetic, although the dish, tasty in each part, seemed too carefully calibrated, lacking a warm heart. For the main course, we were served "Beef: Raw, Pickled, and Braised." The trio of servings were petite, and their placement on a spacious plate emphasized their bulk - three bites and on to the next course. The raw was tartare with (I believe) quail egg, served on a plastic "ice cube," accompanied by squibs of sesame oil and yuzu. The yuzu was a surprising match. I have bitten my tongue on many occasions, but never had such a pickled bite. Braised short rib was served with a sweet tomatillo puree, and was delicious, if not shockingly so. "Cheese" was another heroic single bite. A spoon of al dente risotto, tart apple and Morbier cheese (a semi-soft, ash-filled cow's milk cheese) was suffused with flavors that revealed a gustatory harmony. The apple cut through the creamy and rich rice and cheese. Like other bites, this might have been followed by a train of other bites. Just as the first sip of wine does not perfectly predict one's ultimate pleasure, one-bite tricks produce similar vexation. The first bite alerts the diner what to evaluate, compare, and combine. Dishes need time to breathe and breed. Our two desserts were less compelling that the main courses. I wasn't fond of the olive shortcake with olive oil ice cream and strawberry mousse. It's sweetness had an off-taste. The plate was startlingly pretty, but not divine on the tongue. Chef Carlson's chocolate brownie with pumpkin seeds was a more satisfying construction, but not filled with the possibilities of memory. It was a fine brownie. Were it permitted, I would have selected other confections. Michael Carlson matters for our culinary future. He is blessed and limited in his locale. How much better he can get in his current location, and should we wish that he has a drive for improvement. Some dishes were a little off and some might have been tweaked or expanded, but the idea that we were eating food this stunningly satisfying in a little storefront on the West Side of Chicago made us brave adventurers with Carlson a bravura guide. I admit - sheepishly - that I award the idea of Schwa a solid four stars with its food at three-stars-plus. But that night I was where the action was - and where the action might not be for long. Does Chef Carlson owe us a sumptuous showplace with a corps of cooks readying an elaborate mise-en-place or does a heady gig more than suffice? I'm not taking chances. My morning-after routine is to schedule a future repast. Schwa 1466 North Ashland Chicago (West Town) 773-252-1466 www.schwarestaurant.com Photos available at: Vealcheeks

Moto 4.0 Chicago Jay Jacobs, the former New York restaurant critic for Gourmet, wrote of what he termed the “home-field advantage.” As applies to dining, it is the “Cheers” phenomenon, the place where everyone knows your name. And an advantage is to be had. These restaurants provide social comfort and the assurance that any problem will quickly be set right. My upscale Chicago go-to place is Moto. Moto is where I bring friends whom I really wish to impress with the possibility of cuisine Dining at Moto is not for everyone, and perhaps is not for many. A diner who wants to stick a toe in molecular cuisine should choose the snappy and accessible Butter. But Moto provides an unforgettable and joyous evening. And, unlike so many other establishments, the entertainment is dancing on the plate and in the twinkling of eyes. I never have so much fun as when I dine on Fulton Market Street. The other grand molecular establishments - Alinea, for one – have a seriousness of purpose, absent at Moto. And, happily for diners, their price points are different (if $300 can be differentiated from $400 for the full show – less expensive for smaller menus). Chef Cantu’s problem – or perhaps it is our problem – is that at times he seems constrained by his techniques. One feels that he has set his challenge as what dish can he make using one of his Tom Swift toys, rather than beginning with the conception of the dish and then discovering the method. Some dishes were spectacular creations, but others were modified versions of previous efforts. We were served an edible menu, dippin’ dots, nitrogenated fruit, fish cooked in a box, pizza and salad soup, liquefied Krispie Kremes, packing peanuts - greatest hits, but with the danger of soon becoming same old, same old. At his best, Chef Cantu serves remarkably evocative dishes, but at times his ideas are cramped. And as dearly as I love Moto, his genius does not shine as consistently as Trotter or Achatz. Still Cantu regularly provides a cuisine of amazement, a Cuisine Agape, distinct from what has been labeled as Molecular Cuisine. At least in the West Loop, shock and awe triumphs. Our group of four decided on the Grand Tasting Menu. This is not the choice that I would have preferred. Once one knows the range of Chef Cantu’s abilities, he seems more accomplished working on the larger plates of the five-course menu. However, my three companions were Moto-virgins, and we selected the twenty course tour. Moto (and other similar outposts) does not make a course-by-course evaluation easy. The menu is designed to misdirect diners: “ITALIAN food” (the pizza and the Caesar salad soup); “Chili-Cheese Nachos” (the final Ben Roche dessert with frozen mango, milk chocolate, diced kiwis and candied tortilla chips); and “Synthetic Champagne” (apple cider and verjus). The servers announce the ingredients, but in the rush, this scribe could not inscribe the complexity of the dish. Although I didn’t realize it at the time (and although I would have enjoyed the hefty version on the five course menu), the dish that I best recall is “Rabbit and Aromatic Utensils” (utensils with a sage tassel). The dish was served with several preparation of rabbit, scarlet runner beans, white truffle power, and puffed rice. The serving was too small for its intensity, but it was a brilliant combination. A second astonishing dish was Maple Squash Cake – a squash soufflé with maple flakes and cider sauce and diced bacon. It was one of the most complete and integrated dishes I have enjoyed at Moto. The “main course,” a perfectly cooked Lamb Chop with stone-ground mustard, braised cabbage and ground kielbasa, revealed Chef Cantu’s skills in a recognizably traditional preparation, Passion Fruit and Crab, perhaps owing something to Wylie Dufresne’s attempt to create noodles of everything, was remarkable with a surprising, herbal Japanese shiso sauce and buttered popcorn puree. The Hamachi and Nitrogenated Orange worked as well – or perhaps better – than when the citrus was paired with lobster, and the Bass baked tableside had a lovely paprika smokiness. The Chili-Cheese Nachos, although a conceit, was the most impressive of the five desserts. I find Chef Cantu’s ice creams less appealing; the least stirring dish was Jalapeno ice cream, too salty, served with toasted quinoa. The goat cheese snow with balsamic vinegar was quickly passed over. Tonight’s doughnut soup was bubbly. I preferred the velvety version I was served at my first meal. At the first dinner (our seven-and-a-half hour banquet referred to in Time), I commented on the wonder of the wine pairing. Since then, Moto has a new wine director, Matthew Gundlach, and I had been less impressed with the pairings, but tonight was splendid. The vintage Quebec beer (Unibroue 2005, Chambly) was eye-opening. Also notable was a 2004 August Kesseler Spatlese Riesling Rheingau, a 2004 Huia Pinot from New Zealand, and a honeyed Austrian Meinklang 2001 Trockenbeeren. We quaffed memorable dozen with only a single unimpressive pour (a 2001 Susana Balbo Brioso Mendoza). The Martini library, a set of colorful cocktails served in plastic pipettes, was an odd, giggly curiosity. Like other diners, we were given a tour of the kitchen. Let me confess my misgivings. My guests (and I) welcomed meeting with Chef Cantu. However, this was an attempt to make the backstage a performance. Wearing goggles (and being warned not to remove them), we were to be wowed by technology. Yes, this was a memorable break, but perhaps distracted from the fact that we were there to eat and perhaps distracted the staff who were there to cook. This tension between cuisine and technology is the line that Chef Cantu must tread carefully. Moto is a restaurant to treasure and to revisit. When I wish to persuade friends that some meals will never be forgotten this is where I take them. There are many worse things than to be known as the man from Moto. Moto Restaurant 945 W. Fulton Market Chicago (West Loop) 312-491-0058 www.motorestaurant.com Photos available on: Vealcheeks

North Chicago -- Sanford Restaurant As I frequently announce, my favorite Chicago restaurant is to be found in Milwaukee (perhaps I exaggerate, but only slightly). Sanford, the eponymous restaurant of Chef Sanford D'Amico is a gem, benefitting from its relative absence of the glare of national publicity. (It did make Gourmet magazine's list of the Top 50 American restaurants). Since 1989, Sandy D'Amico has been turning out complex, thrilling dishes in a room that is quiet and sedate. Sanford is a restaurant that doesn't feel the need to hire Norman Foster to design their toilets. After meals at Moto, Alinea, or Avenues, Sanford may seem a bit old-fashioned, but fashion is not always what it is cracked up to be. Sanford's dishes have more in common with those of Trotter, a thoughtful global cuisine, but with a penchant for game (a delightfully undercooked chargrilled loin of elk was on the menu. My friends and I ordered from the menu (declining the seven course tasting menu at $85; most main courses at Sanford are priced in the low $30s). My appetizer will surely make my list of the top ten dishes of the year, Lacquered Squab with Salt Cured Foie Gras, Candied Leeks, Rhubarb Compote and Maple Gel. Just like Chicago in an alternative universe that lacks a Councilman Joe Moore. As good as the slightly salted duck liver was, the squab, with its Chinese taste notes, was even better. Although the dish had a sweetness, the sugar was never overpowering. Diners may believe that they love a stark cuisine, but a little bit of maple is a joy. While I sometimes complain about excess complexity, on this plate, all the ingredients combined in exquisite harmony. To complete the theater of culinary cruelty, only veal can match foie gras. (Once we win the battle of moulard, let us celebrate with some ortolans.) I selected Chargrilled Loin of Strauss Veal with 17 Hour Veal Breast, Crispy Onion Potatoes, Tart Apple and Endive. And no, the veal wasn't slaughtered 17 hours after its birth, that refers to the slow cooking, capturing the essential juices of meat. Here was another excellent dish that reveled in its complexity. The veal was splendid, and the accompaniments added much to each bite. The weakness of the plate was in the chef's generosity in providing accompaniments, which lacked poetry apart from the meat. Dessert was a richly adequate Banana Butterscotch Toffee Tart with Banana Rum Ice Cream. It was precisely what one might imagine from the description. Very pretty, but more at home at a restaurant with a less creative vision. Chef D'Amico has just opened a high-end Bakery in downtown Milwaukee (Harlequin Bakery) and the dessert seemed not all that different from a tart one might purchase from an excellent public bakery. On the basis of this recent visit Sanford D'Amico shows no sign of slowing down. His dishes seem neither stale or trendy. Perhaps being head chef in a one-veal town allows one to escape the harsh, hot spotlight of the national gourmet maw. And we Chicagoans like that just fine. Sanford 1547 North Jackson Street Milwaukee 414-276-9608 http://www.sanfordrestaurant.com camera unavailable My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Butter Battle Chicago Review Butter Three years ago molecular cuisine was but a gleam in the eye of some odd visionaries. Here and there (often here, this being Chicago) was a Grant Achatz, a Homeru Cantu, a Graham Bowles, and at a distance Ferran Adria. These Americans learned from the kitchens of Keller and Trotter (and some stages abroad), but they were creating a singular and off-kilter style in their fits and starts. They were building a new paradigm, just as the eminent historian of science Thomas Kuhn suggested was true for Newton. Over time - and time shrinks in our media saturated era - the word spreads. Outrageous experiments are tamed and become normal cuisine. The opening of Butter in Chicago reveals, if any additional proof is needed, that the molecular virus is spreading beyond its medicinal quarters. Butter is a sedate, contemporary, and rather elegant restaurant in Chicago's up-and-coming West Loop area. If local avenues are not yet bustling, they will be. After what was a considered a rough start (with some glowing if not overly helpful publicity in Esquire), Chef Ryan Poli, a native Chicagoan trained at the French Laundry, Le Francais, and La Broche in Madrid, has by recent accounts found his place, and perhaps that place is to be in the spotlight. When it became clear that our table had some claim to culinary sophistication, we were invited into the kitchen to meet the chef (the restaurant was about half filled on this Friday). In my year in New York, such an invitation was a rarity, outside of a few chummy West African establishments. Servers might be trained to avoid patronizing their diners, so they won't be so startled if those at the table are not the farm-fed rubes they might imagine. I won't proclaim our tasting menu as among the truly stellar meals of the year, but it was an impressive attempt to create a menu that bowed to the creativity of a Cuisine Agape while providing enough Midwest Comfort for those who do not chose to indulge in the aromas of laughing gas. I left persuaded that if high-mid price restaurants like Butter were willing to chance avocado foam and bacon ice cream the experiment had become the establishment. (The five course tasting menu was, if memory serves, $85). We began with a trio of snacks. Shrimp crisps, potato chips, and popcorn with truffle oil. The popcorn was terrific, stressing that truffles are to be treasured for their aroma, not for their taste, much less for texture. Any film would be recalled as a classic with enough of that corn. The other snacks, adequate, were perhaps not worth the time in preparation. Our amuse was a quite pleasant sweet potato soup with a brown butter gelee. I wished that even in the small taste Chef Poli had ladled more gelee. It just slipped right down. If the amuse was not as elaborate as some, it did demonstrate that this was a restaurant whose jellied hopes were real. First course was Tuna Tartare with Avocado, Mango-Yuzu Vinaigrette, and Puffed Rice. If the dish seemed tame if rich in Omega-3s, its pleasures should not be held against this chef. In its architecture, the plate bid us recall that we were experiencing a measured construction. The Mango-Yuzu dressing was sparky, enough to insure that no one would conclude that this tartare was sushi in disguise. The risotto, bolstered with sweet corn, white truffle oil, and shaved summer truffles, was an exercise in aromatic pleasure. I would have been as pleased without the shaved fungi, but its thin presence demonstrated that the dish was what it claimed for those blessed anosmics. For the rest of us smellers the oil would have sufficed. Perhaps by so much truffle Chef Poli wished to demonstrate his concrete commitment to luxe, but simplicity would suffice. The main fish course was a Stripped Sea Bass (with modern chefs one should never assume typos - but this striped bass was not stripped of its skin). Notable was the earthy mix of "wild mushrooms": hen of the woods, trumpet mushrooms, and - despite the claim of the kitchen - cultivated shiitakes. Many fish dishes over the years will be recalled longer than this bass - stripped or striped. Yet, the well-cooked fish matched nicely its garlicky broth, garlic scapes (not a typo), and gnocchi. Well-conceived and well-executed it suggested that the kitchen was in secure hands. As our beef entree we were presented Kobe Beef Sirloin with Glazed Turnips and Carrots, Kobe Short Rib Ravioli, and Bordelaise Consommé. The ravioli brought the plate (slightly) above Kobe routine, but it was not a dish of remarkable vision. Like the bass, it was admirable in its competence, but lacking in the imaginative zest that one might expect from a FL-trained chef. Throughout we were served a set of amuses, amusing, but apparently Alinea homages. The bacon ice cream exemplified cute standards of molecular cuisine, as did an earlier plate with avocado-cilantro foam, celery confit, and "guacamole and chips". It was in these bits and pieces and in his dessert that Chef Poli most clearly signaled his allegiance to a post-modern cuisine. Dessert was an Italian deconstruction, a fugue of reds and greens - the most post-modern of the main dishes: Cream of Sicilian Pistachio with Semi-Candied Rhubarb and Strawberries and Sweet and Sour Red Pepper Sorbet. The plate was lite up like a Christmas tree in a Curry Hill diner. The pepper sorbet had the grassy tartness of peppers, but one that I found harsh against the creamy sweetness of the nuts and fruits. Where sweetness was, I was sated, but the deconstructed pieces could not easily be constructed, despite the prettiness of the conceit. Butter finds a niche slightly below the temples of Chicago cuisine, and this may be proper as Chef Poli weighs his allegiance to Midwestern haute cuisine and to his outrageous brethren. Butter is not yet a destination restaurant, but it is a serious, energetic one. With time, Swanson may produce molecular TV dinners. By then we can think back to Butter and realize that chefs like Ryan Poli helped make these culinary test less fearful, more heartland. Whether we will be grateful as we wolf down Puffed Salisbury Steak with Mashed Potato Foam and Nitrogenated Peas while ogling Rachel Ray staging on Survivor: Joliet, only time will tell. Butter 130 South Green Chicago (West Loop) 312-666-9813 www.butterchicago.com Photos available at: My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Will the Frog & Owl Be Reborn? Oak Street Grill, Highlands, NC About thirty years a young chef - along with her husband - opened a restaurant on the back road between Highlands and Franklin, North Carolina. The restaurant, the Frog and Owl Café, owed a lot to Alice Waters and her revolutionary tradition. The young chef, Jerri Broyles, was clearly learning from Ms. Waters. The F&O was Chez Panisse without the heavy weight of Alice's ideological baggage. And I preferred the Frog and Owl to its Berkeley progenitor. Jerri cooked simply and elegantly, a minimalist cuisine. Each dish had a few herbs or spices to show the master's hand, but it was a pure as a western Carolina spring. My in-laws own a home in the region, and my wife and I made the pilgrimage to the F&O each year. The dozen or so meals that I ate persuaded me that the Frog and Owl Café was among the ten best restaurants in the United States. I have never eaten a better meal in the former Confederacy. (Macon County had designs on seceding from the Confederacy. These mountain communities had little sympathy for the plantation economy of the rest of the south). Her lamb rack and her trout in a court bouillon were definitive. The fact that the restaurant was located in a former grist mill along a serene stream certainly contributed, but I would have appreciated her cuisine if it had been located in an old paint factory along Greenpoint's Newtown Creek. I imagined that a meal with Chef Broyles would be a part of my life for eternity. However, in the early 1990s, the Frog and Owl was shuttered, and I shattered. Whether because of a busted septic tank or the challenges of raising a family, Chef Broyles opened a lunch place - the Frog and Owl Bistro in Franklin, the local county seat, about dozen miles from nirvana. The food, lunches only most years, reflected a cuisine than most chefs could prepare. Salads and simple preparations. It was as if Heifetz decided to play bar mitzvahs. Yes, the Bistro was the best restaurant in Franklin, but that is rather like saying that Applebee's is the finest restaurant on the way to the airport. Every time I ate there, I cried. However, Jerri is back, at least part way. As of last year, she is no longer involved in the Bistro, and is now cooking at the Oak Street Café in Highlands (although she is not the proprietor). The OSC is a nice, casual restaurant with touches of inspiration. One can see Chef Broyles' hand, even if the restaurant is not yet sufficiently serious as to deserve a long detour. Some friends and I ate brunch there. I was particularly impressed by a friend's trout in court bouillon served over curls of carrots. It was perfectly cooked and the carrots spoke of a sense of balance. My low-country shrimp, served over creamy cheese grits, was an excellent dish - moist and buttery, and prettily presented with a richly flavored seafood sauce. I have been eating at the OSC grill for some years, and the step up is welcome. The restaurant is too casual for fine dining and the prices too modest (and I imagine the kitchen staff too small). When I returned for dinner, I was less impressed. The appetizer was first rate, Fried Green Tomatoes with Goat Cheese slices, Shoestring Beets and a lively horseradish tomato sauce. It was a nice and attractive twist on a southern classic, a plate most often found in Fannie Flagg's roadside cafes. The main courses were less successful, and both deviated from the purity of the preparations at the Frog and Owl. A rack of lamb in a minted demi-glaze ($29) sounded fine, until the dish appeared. The lamb, somewhat overcooked, was sitting in an overly sweet minty gravy-soup, served with some colorful but uninspiring broccoli florets and overcooked squash. The garlic mashed potatoes were fresh and pungent. The main course special was pan-seared scallops with a prima vera angel hair pasta, mushrooms, tomatoes, spinach and squash ($22). Too much, too much. The dish consisted of some sweet (but still rather gritty) scallops atop what can only be described as a mash of pasta and vegetables. As at many middle-brow outposts, quantity overwhelmed quality. If brunch is an indication, Oak Street Café will be a nice local addition; if dinner is the model, Chef Broyles has not yet regained her touch. However, the Frog and Owl Café was so splendid that one can only hope that next year will increase the care and vision revealed in the evening entrees. Currently the high-end restaurant in Highlands, a resort community in the southern Appalachians, is a hotel restaurant named Madison's (part of the renovated Old Edwards Inn), a restaurant with New York pretensions and New York prices. This is a restaurant that serves, as appetizer, "Peanut Dusted Breast of Quail with Seared Foie Gras, Vanilla Braised Cabbage, and Blueberry Scented Duck Essence ($19.00, mains run to twice that). Had I not eaten there (last year), I might have assumed that this was a parody. But it is real, and as misguided as might be imagined. You can't construct a menu by placing gourmet magazine in a blender. Oak Street Café 322 Main Street Highlands, North Carolina 828-787-2200 Madison's Old Edwards Inn 445 Main Street Highlands, North Carolina 828-526-5477 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Shellfish's Bitch New York City Entry #110 Jordan's Lobster Dock, Grand Central Oyster Bar, Per Se, Eleven Madison Park For most Americans July is hot dogs and apple pie, for me it is lobster and drawn better. Even since I vacationed on the Cape as a tot, lobster announces the heights of summer. And now the divines at Whole Foods damn me as a sadistic cad for my overheated pleasure. Perhaps I should stick to foie gras and placenta. But the truth is that I am shellfish's bitch. In the past week I have repeatedly indulged in my cruel sport within our city limits: Per Se, Eleven Madison Park, Grand Central Oyster Bar, and Jordan's Lobster Dock. I regret not traveling to Nick's Lobster Restaurant on Jamaica Bay and the Lobster Box on City Island. Both Nick's and the Box may share the Down East ambiance I crave. Jordan's Lobster Dock is a real estate tragedy. The restaurant and seafood market are situated in a fetching saltbox house on Shellbank Creek off Sheepshead Bay. Once diners could relax on a deck with a stunning view of the creek with its lobster skiffs. However, the damnable owners sold the half of the restaurant with the view to T.G.I.Friday's. Oy! Diners must choose between a sublime view and some pretty fine lobster. We chose the lobster, but it was served in one of the most depressing lunchrooms in seafaring history. The room, closed in and windowless might have served as an ethnic outpost if someone had cared to decorate it. For $60 for a three pound lobster, the industrial space was crushing. The staff matched the decor. No bibs, insufficient napkins and silverware, and astonishingly we were forced to leave a $3.00 deposit for a lobster cracker when we requested one. I grant that the clientele was more happily diverse than at most lobster shacks (a one pounder was $15.95), but it is hard to imagine a black market in plastic crackers. The only worthy offering at Jordan's was the lobster, a very moist, tender, and creamy crustacean. Boiled simply, if not to the lobster's preference, it was excellent for an urban market. The cole slaw and French Fried potatoes were a wan afterthought. Grand Central Oyster Bar, opened in 1913, has a different problem. The space in the bowels of Grand Central with its tile-lined vaulted ceilings is one of the treasures of New York culinary architecture. Service was friendly and efficient. We enjoyed our oysters (a mixture of excellent Kumamotos and good Blue Points). The Cajun sauteed moonfish (opah) was passable, and the string beans didn't even reach that level. The lobster (a two pounder) was satisfactory, but not at the level of tenderness one might discover on the coast. The meat did not match the room. In the last month I have been returning to some of my most treasured restaurants to give my memory a jolt. This week it was Per Se and Eleven Madison Park. I have said to all who listen that my two best meals in New York this year were at Per Se. However, after eating the Chef's Tasting Menu recently, I can't claim that Per Se wins, places, and shows. My meal was exceedingly pleasing, and it is only in comparison with Per Se 1 and 2 that I must subtract a star. There was much complexity and many quotation marks. However, fortunately for my story, the best dish of the evening was Chef Benno's lobster, described with quotation marks included as: Sweet Butter Poached Nova Scotia Lobster, "Ragoût" of "Ris de Veau," Corn Kernels and Morel Mushrooms with Watercress "Leaves" and Corn "Pudding." It was a sweetheart of a dish and exquisite in design. Its tragic flaw was its size, one reason that I have shied away from long tasting menus. This dish would have been a memory-maker had it been doubled and astounding had it been tripled. A plate with this much complexity needs to give the diner time to cogitate and masticate. We were eventually served some fourteen courses. If I could have selected a four course menu, what a meal it would have been, and the lobster would have been the star. Eleven Madison Park was the most pleasant surprise of the year: some friends consider Danny Meyer's haute restaurant the comeback kid under the brilliant Chef Daniel Humm. On this second visit, I was convinced, until I reached dessert, that this might be the meal of the year. (There is no restaurant with more congenial or happier service: not in the Alain Ducasse metier). The cheese course and two desserts were not as assured or compelling. Cornbread ice cream might seem like a good idea on paper, but it is less inspired on the plate. However, our text for this sermon is lobster. Chef Humm's lobster dish was the equal to Chef Benno's: Orange-Broth Poached Nova Scotia Lobster with Purée of Chantenay Carrots and Gewürztraminer Foam(and think of the savings on quotation marks!). Dining at Per Se and Eleven Madison Park reveals that while both are influenced by a Molecular (Agape) Cuisine, Chef Humm is the more experimental, and yet throughout there is a confidence that flows from a chef who persuades us that he knows what he is doing. Of the chefs working in this vein - tradition not quite the most apt word - it is Chef Humm who has transcended the constraints of this style. Never attempt flinging paint until you can a limn a portrait. The lobster chunks were surrounded by large squares of carrot (one might call them dice a la Las Vegas craps). The orange sauce, carrot puree and a foamy swig of Gewürztraminer was an ideal mix. And it was one of four astounding dishes that night. Yet, despite these triumphs, I ache for a buttery New England boiled dinner served with sea spray on the Cape: God's lobster. Is He shellfish's bitch? If if He is, do crustaceans damn him too? And, now, home to Chicago. That's all folks! Eleven Madison Park 11 Madison Avenue (at 24th Street) Manhattan (Flatiron) 212-889-0905 Oyster Bar Grand Central Station, Lower Level (42nd St. and Vanderbilt Ave.) Manhattan (Midtown) 212-490-6650 Jordan's Lobster Dock Knapp Street and Harkness Avenue Brooklyn (Sheepshead Bay) 800-404-CLAW Per Se Time Warner Center Manhattan (Columbus Circle) 212-823-9335 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

For a discussion of my dinner at Blue Hill Stone Barns, see Blue Hill Stone Barns "Dinner"

Guys, Let's Put on a Meal New York City Entry #108 Blue Hill at Stone Barns/Blue Hill The first serious meal that I ate in New York this year was at Blue Hill. So to provide symmetry my friend and I decided to return, but now to Blue Hill at Stone Barns. We dutifully made a commitment and assured the reservationist that nothing could prevent us from showing up at the appointed time. And so we fought our way through Grand Central. Upon alighting in Tarrytown with plenty of time in the gray, thick, heated air, we hailed a cab to be told that a storm had blown through and traffic was slow. Yet, our cabbie was a roadmaster and we arrived at Stone Barns at precisely 5:30, just as promised. Stop the presses! Tarrytown had just experienced what in New York passes for a tornado, not an Oklahoma Supercell, but what my friends in Tulsa call "a bit of wind." The storm knocked out local electricity. And after our long trek, we were informed by a staffette that the kitchen was closed. Say it ain't so, Dan. At most restaurants this might be a problem, but Blue Hill should treat it as a challenge. This is a restaurant that prides itself on its ingredients. No heat? OK, let's picnic. At 5:30, there were daylight hours left and a few candles were to be had. This was an opportunity for Dan Barber to demonstrate that cojones are not just to slice and fry. Here is where we separate the chef from the sheep. A stream of hungry diners appeared, each turned away with an apology and a smile. We were informed that the staff didn't want to enter the coolers because the food would spoil! Sheesh! An opportunity squandered! Use that luscious asparagus, luxurious berries, oysters, clams, apples, beans, mint, lettuce, nuts, and guanciale. Whip up some Hollandaise. Who needs a blender? Pour oil and vinegar. Open some wine. Start a campfire for S'mores. Have the staff at Blue Hill downtown form a caravan. Show the customers your stuff and show it gratis. If Chef Barber was unwilling to turn lemons into lemonade, we weren't. Returning to New York, we plotted to visit the Blue Hill farmstead in the Village. And we were welcomed by Franco, the Blue Hill manager and his congenial staff. Yes, Blue Hill had electricity, but somehow the power never satisfied the air conditioner. Blue Hill was a steaming meadow until the restaurant emptied out, and as Blue Hill is a tight restaurant with low ceilings, and absence of a cool breeze was noticeable. Still, the meal was noticeably superior to my first meal on the Hill. Hoping to capture the Barns oeuvre, we selected the Farmer's Feast, and began with a pungent, elegant and herbal Garden Green Gazpacho. It was a nicely chilled blend of vegetables, perhaps peppers, parsley, green tomatoes, and garlic. The amuse was paired with an olive oil financier, a cake that satisfied through its subtlety and being paired with the more potent soup. Summer Bean and Herb Salad with Pistachios and Stone Barns Lardo, another cold dish (get the point!) was the high point of the meal. This is the cuisine that Blue Hill is known for. Profound and evocative ingredients, transformed but without being gussied up. The wax and green beans were luxurious, even the parsley - not one of my beloved foodstuffs - was as bright as a garden morning. This was a delightful opening for an agricultural repast. The Lightly Smoked Lobster with Creamless Corn Chowder, Guanciale (cured pig's jowl) and Clams was another sublime dish. Granted Lobsters are not to be found up the Hudson, but they had a freshness that compared with any local fish camp. The dish was airy, and with bright summer corn was a candidate for the ideal summer dinner. Splendid. The Blue Hill Farm Pastured Chicken with Roasted Nugget Potatoes, Local Chanterelles and Black Trumpet Mushrooms was as fine a piece of chicken placed before me since I was last at Jean's in Mount Vernon, Kentucky for their pan-fried poultry. Here was a tender, moist, flavorful bird, succulent and sensuous. If the potatoes and mushrooms didn't improve the meat, they didn't need to. Both desserts were a letdown. The Cherry Soup with Mint Sorbet was a mismatch. Not only was the sorbet grainy and harsh, but it clashed with the sweetness of the soup. Few sorbets are unpleasant, but this was not a dish to reorder. Steamed Cheesecake with Marinated Blueberries was served in a mason jar. Aside from the idiosyncrasy of its presentation, it was ordinary and could benefitted from a more generous helping of the marinated berries. At a moment at which exquisite low-bush blueberries are taking flight on the hillsides of Maine, these berries were pedestrian. Blue Hill is ingredient-driven, as evident in our appetizers and entrees. And had our intended destination been the steamy streets of Washington Square Park, we would have been well-pleased. But for this night we wished to be gourmets eating on the land, and no cyclone should have upended our fantasy. Dan, you're not in Oz anymore. Blue Hill at Stone Barns 630 Bedford Road Pocantico Hills, New York 914-366-9600 Blue Hill 75 Washington Place (at 6th Avenue) Manhattan (Greenwich Village) 212-539-1776 For photos of the meal see: My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Gastro Chic New York City Entry #107 Spotted Pig One of shocks to the Gotham culinary mind was the awarding of a Michelin star to New York's first - and perhaps only - "gastropub." Here was the cute little Spotted Pig in Babbo's rarified company (Chef Batali is reported to be a silent partner at the Pig, along with Ken Friedman and London Chef April Bloomfield). There was no doubt that the Pig was a convivial neighborly place, but could a saloon be anointed for its haute cuisine? It is said that there is no accounting for fashion, and somehow the Pig has transcended its West Village neighborhood to become a "phenomenon." When we arrived at 6:00, the bar had a pleasant Cheers-like feel; by the time we left, two hours later, we had to push our way to the exit, and the night was still in its infancy - a good six hours left to play. Indeed, arriving in time for the Senior's Discount, we missed the true Pig experience. With its wood floors, exposed brick, and inviting bar, the Spotted Pig (which last year expanded to a second floor) is homey, if in a somewhat generic way. Emptied of customers, one would have no idea that this space will become the center of the downtown universe. The staff, as befits a generous community center, moved with verve and humor. Whether their joy derives from images of tips to come or from the pleasure of being a part of a happening is hard to tell, perhaps both. The menu, beginning with such bar routines as Chicken Liver Toast, Marinated Olives, Pickles, Roasted Almonds, and Duck Egg, suggests modest satisfactions. However, further reading suggests Chef Bloomfield's ambitions. Having six entrees and desserts and ten appetizers the kitchen is not overtaxed. With its signature chargrilled burger and ricotta gnudi with pesto, the dishes avoid the fussy or challenging. Whether the Pig used to indulge in "modern English cuisine," the British influence is muted; the menu has a vaguely Italianate feel with its Mozzarella with Fava Bean Bruschetta; Gnudi; Pork Tonnata; and Squid and Fennel. Despite the odds, the Spotted Pig provides early diners pleasure. We began with a pair of appetizers, Radish Salad with Parmesan and Arugula and an order of Sheep's Ricotta Gnudi with Pesto (a cross between gnocchi and ravioli). The Salad was the star of the evening, one of the most potent salads that I have ordered. Radish are a vegetable less often seen in Manhattan than durian, but I recall it fondly from my childhood, sharing a chilled bowl with my radish-relishing dad. The parmesan cut some of the bitter edge of the radish. It was both gentle on the eyes and zippy on the tongue. The Gnudi did not live up to its billing as a key offering. I found the gnocchi blanketed by a salty sauce and rather mushy dumplings. It was rich and filling, but not of star quality. We shared an entree, Pot Roast Rabbit with Green Garlic. The dish was unpretentious but compelling. This is not complex cuisine, but is undeniably well-made. The garlic-based sauce did not overwhelm the pieces of hare, but bolstered its rural charm. This dish, like the others tasted, didn't require extensive culinary acumen, but it evoked a blessed moment before cuisine became finicky (repeat in unison, "what splendid food in a pub!"). With our entree we chose two sides: the Pig's famous Shoestring Fries with Rosemary, as delicious as it was impossible to eat daintily. Bits of spud flew everywhere. Thank goodness this is a pub where no one examines the floor. The heirloom beans were stewed, passable with a subtlety of color, even if the tastes were indistinct. Dessert was what the Pig labels Banoffee: Banana-Toffee Tart. What a sweet tart: luscious and sugary with strong flavors of ban and offee. A Sundae pie for those who take their calories straight up. The Spotted Pig works nicely as a modest restaurant that is both joyous and serious, but of course it is more. The Pig combines community center, dating bar, tavern, and nosherie. That the kitchen has ambitions makes it a dining destination for the beau monde. Whether this tiny, crushed, and charming pub can shuffle its audiences is for time to sort. Today this piglet is a spot of alright. The Spotted Pig 314 W. 11th Street (at Greenwich St.) Manhattan (Greenwich Village) 212-620-0393 Images of the meal available at: My Webpage: Veal Cheeks

Although I haven't eaten at Mario's on Arthur Avenue, I felt that Rao's was producing food with a greater level of competence than Roberto's and Roberto's was in a different class than Dominick's. And this come from one who really enjoyed his meal at Dominick's, but one had to appreciate it for what it was, a neighborly, neighborhood joint - and cheap.

Our dinner for four including tax, tip, and wine was $600. However that included two bottles of wine for $110 each. The bill for the food alone was about $250 for four. My point is that some restauranteurs can manage a far-flung empire, others can not. Rao's is known for its local persona. To what extent will having a Rao's empire detract from this. Of course, no one expects Jean-Georges to be like Spice Market in the level of attention or cuisine.

For My Money New York City Entry #106 Sushi of Gari A few days ago I had a reservation for dinner at Masa. I couldn't pull the trigger. My New York dinner adventures have dented hopes for retirement, and, even for you dear readers, I chose not to put myself on the street, begging seal-style for raw fish. With two days and counting, I canceled. A sushi banquet whose tariff would have landed on the far side of half-a-G was too lush for this working stiff. For a sliver of Masa's charge, I could indulge in Sushi of Gari's omakase. Gari is the compact outlet for contemporary sushi on the Upper East Side. If Jewel Bako is a paragon of purity, Gari toys with the genre. The space itself is comfortable if close. The restaurant is dominated by a sushi counter behind which five black-clad chefs labored. While one chef seemed to have greater sway, the lines of authority are not tightly drawn. During the late evening, there was little interaction with the customers. This is a restaurant where efficiency rules. Around the center space were placed some dozen small tables. The room is not startling austere or elegant, but pleasant in a somewhat nondescript fashion: black tables, flowered carpet, airy white hanging light fixtures, and the ever-present oak accents. More nice than noticeable. Omakase at Gari is a straightforward matter. For $79, I received a dozen carefully prepared sushi. Dining solo, the meal lasted an hour. It wasn't exactly rushed, but the twelve pieces of sushi appeared together and it was time to chow down (without miso to conclude). The quality of the fish was excellent (and the otoro exquisite), but it was the twists and turns that made the meal so filled with fun. And, for all the virtues of Japanese cuisine, playfulness is not a label that often gets attached to these repasts. (Some vegetables or fish paste in miso can appear in cunning shapes). As is proper, soy sauce is not provided, but is incorporated in the preparation (the variation is part of the taste contour of the meal). The image below depicts the plate. Read the selections in three rows. I begin with the diagonal row nearest the front and read from upper right to lower left (three, five, and four): 1) Bluefin Tuna with Creamy Tofu Sauce. This is, in effect, the chef's amuse, waking the palate. Of all the pieces, Gari uses soy sauce most assertively with the bluefin to contrast with the creamy tofu. Simple and thrilling. 2) Red Snapper, Baby Greens, Lotus Root, and Olive Oil. Of the snappers, this was my favorite, perhaps the most glorious creation of the evening. The lotus root gave a lovely crunch, and the greens (or vinegar) had a compelling sour taste. 3) Salmon covered with sauteed tomato and onion. Here was a heated piece, almost a sushi pizza. Very rich and flavorful, a textural surprise. 4) Mackerel, Daikon, Scallion, and Caviar. This was somewhat chewy in consistency. The oily texture played off the previous fish, but this was one of the least compelling creations. 5) Golden Eye Red Snapper with toasted seaweed. A simple and rich preparation. In its simplicity it contrasted the more complex preparations that had come before. 6) Seared Salmon. Another simple presentation, and stunning in reminding me how buttery fresh fish can be. 7) Miso Marinated Grilled Yellowtail. Subtle and good. Less memorable than some other pieces, although the purity of the fish was satisfying. 8) Fatty Tuna (Otoro) with Mashed Daikon. The daikon puree was too wet for my taste. A relatively unsuccessful piece. 9) Fatty Tuna (Otoro) with Garlic and Ginger Jelly was brilliant in its contrasts. A dance of complex tastes and beautiful fish. 10) Mackerel. I missed the waitress's description, but the taste of the sauce reminded me of coffee. Whatever it was, the combination was odd, more curious than brilliant. 11) Pike Eel with Plum Sauce. I loved the slightly sweet, salty, and smoky taste of the eel and the plummy drop of red atop. Here was a traditional sushi transformed in a fashion that delighted. A treasure of the kind in which Gari specializes. 12) Snow crab. A simple, straightforward close to the dozen pieces. Although this was not the finest crab I've had, it made a sweet, pure contrast with its predecessors. This omakase intrigued and provoked, but it was one that would have been more satisfying had pieces been served in three courses, row by row, forcing a more intense focus on each piece. One had to fight against the temptation to treat them as Sushi McNuggets. These nuggets demand consideration bite by swallow. Negotiating the way to the washrooms reminds diners that Gari is not Masa, and, as creative as Chef Masatoshi "Gari" Sugio reveals himself to be, Chef Masayoshi "Masa" Takayama may win the battle of the Sushi Masa's (just a hunch). Yet, for my money - and it IS my money - Sushi of Gari does just fine. And as Chef Gari is my namesake, this is a lagniappe too delicious to ignore. Sushi of Gari 402 East 78th Street (at First Avenue) Manhattan (Upper East Side) 212-517-5340 My Webpage: Vealcheeks

Indeed it is so. See Rao's Opening at Caesar's Palace The challenge that Rao's faces is how to franchise itself while keeping the local character that makes it so special in East Harlem. Will the ten table restaurant maintain its cachet if the downtown NY restaurant or the LV restaurant are too similar. Will Frankie No become Frankie Yes? Will Rao's face the problem of Alain Ducasse, or will it manage as Jean-Georges has in considerable degree?

Pleasant Dreams New York City Entry #105 Rao's Rao's - the old school Southern Italian clubhouse, founded in 1896 at what is today a rare Italian corner of "Spanish Harlem" - is stuffed with "mystique." New Yorkers joke about the networking necessary to snare a reservation, six degrees of culinary separation. And those who are not so blessed (and some who are) turn up or look down their noses at a restaurant that represents, in this view, the "hysteria of hype." As Groucho realized, if Frank Pellegrino were to select YOU, is this really the place you would wish to dine? Rating restaurants by the effort to get a table, Rao's deserves three Michelin stars, but how would they know? Those Gallic judges surely didn't make the cut: Rao's is not listed. When I arrived in Manhattan, I tried to get a reservation the old-fashioned way. I soon learned that the phone number was never answered (could it be caller ID?). It was a jape played on hopeful hicks. And in time, I came to believe that I was no more likely to meet Mickey the Vest (Rao's legendary sommelier) than I was to meet Mickey Mouse. And like a childish fantasy, I pushed Rao's from my mind, satisfied with Dominick's, Roberto's, Falai, and Marioland. A few weeks ago, a deus ex machina occurred, implausible had it been scripted on Broadway. A colleague to whom I confided my fantasy informed me that a friend of a friend of a friend (and so on) who was supposed to dine bowed out. Let no seat be wasted; I was invited, warned that sometimes even reservations do not come to pass. And there I was - on leafy corner of Pleasant Avenue, a congenial lane if there ever was one. Being on my best behavior meant no flash photography, so a thin gruel of words must suffice (Bouley and Boulud don't seem to mind, but why chance it?). From the street, Rao's resembles an upscale English pub, and the front bar dominates the room. (Rao's website needles hopeful applicants that "If you do not have a reservation, you can always have a drink at the bar." I am slightly dubious of this happy welcome, fearing the challenge of crowd control, but perhaps it is so). The room, walnut booths and circular tables, is of modest size with its most distinguishing design feature the excess of framed photographs on the wall. Of course, one no longer finds people strategizing to get into Sardi's, so that can't be all there is. The room is tight enough that gazing at the pictures is not likely. They reflect a surfeit of celebrity, rather than a visual guestbook. Life in Bloombergia insures that Rao's is smoke-free, but with enough imagination one can still smell those pungent Havanas. Some trattorias trade on the celebrity at the stove - the auteur in the kitchen. Rao's is not among them. Anne Pellegrino Rao (the beloved "Aunt Anne"), the wife of then owner Vincent Rao, used to work the burners, but those nights have passed. Neither the website nor the gossip mill mentions the chef de cuisine. Whoever is cooking has much talent, but the food requires quick hands more than a nimble mind. Unlike Arthur Avenue's Roberto's, which chalks up its specials, suggesting the value added of kitchen inspiration, the verbal recital of dishes at Rao's does not advertise any offering as newly emergent from the gustatory brain. What is crucial, what makes us all fighting fish, is the company. A possibility exists of being "where the action is." The restaurant is a cioppino of mugs, molls, toffs, cops, pols, profs, players, and the odd immortal Scientologist. This is a room that if one calls, "Hey, Fat Guy!," a dozen beefy necks swivel. But the heart of Rao's are Frankie (Frank Pellegrino, the co-owner), Joey (the maitre d'), and Mickey the Vest (the sommelier, outfitted in one of his 156 vests). Our night all three were present, and perhaps it was the sweet summer air or their innate charm, but we could hardly have been more accepted. Frank greeted us - and sized us up - at the door, and Joey and Mickey each visited the table. Joey pulled up a chair to explain the dishes and Mickey seconding our choice of a smooth, deep Banfi Brunello di Montalcino (I believe this was the Banfi we finally selected). From whatever random act of a chuckling God, we received a prime table, able to observe the community at the bar and in the booths. To insure that the evening was proceeding apace our reservation broker appeared to check on our good behavior, validating our bona fides (Rao's is the kind of place where that matters, a tactic less evident at Chez Panisse). We felt fuzzy, warm, and welcome, and were ready to spend on the dubious assumption that the size of our bill and our repetitious enthusiasm might at the end of this honeysuckle eve translate into a candied, "you'll come back now, boys." So, we live to eat, no? Point one, no. My Dinner at Rao's was among my most memorable evenings through the Theater of Being There. For a few hours I belonged, and was damn glad. That night is recorded on the DVD of my DNA. Granted Woody Allen, Tony Bennett, Harry Potter, or the cast of South Park were not about, but we could imagine whom our fellow diners might be. And we were treated as if we might be them. Point two. The food was, given its genre, impressive. I can't imagine traditional Southern Italian cuisine prepared with more mastery and panache. If Socrates were Bruni, he might label Rao's roasted sweet peppers as Platonic. Recall the sad tomatoes at Luger's. After tasting Rao's tomatoes, matched with mozzarella, I suspect some fiendish vegan gavage. Purists might have groused that the baked clams had gone missing under a mound of luxuriant buttered crumbs, but thinking of these bivalves as a oceanic stuffing made it lovely. We selected two pastas, each perfectly prepared. Orecchiette (Shells) with Broccoli Rabe and Sausage and Penne with Tomato Sauce. I loved the mild, sweet spice of the tomato sauce, and the shells were as buttery as any. With two dishes split among four, we were on the right track. As entrees, we chose herbed filet of sole, lemon chicken, and veal chop with peppers. The lemon chicken was simple, astonishing, and simply astonishing. The broiling of the chicken, browned to a moist blackened perfection, was matched by its snappy citrus marinade. No steamed yuzu, not even candied kumquat. The veal was juicy and tender, and the pepper, contributed a sweet-sour-spicy relish. I was less impressed by the sole, no danger of this fish being undercooked. It was fish of the old-school. The flavor was evocative, but the texture lacked bounce. With our entrees, we ordered sides of escarole and spinach. I particularly treasured the slightly bitter bite of the escarole, but these were straightforward greens, boiled and buttered. Tartufo, a bombe with vanilla and chocolate ice cream with a bit of raspberry jam, was surrounded by a rich chocolate shell. This dessert was as direct and immediate as a sweet can be, but none the worse for that. My friend's cheesecake was smooth, rich, and sweet. It was less the traditional New York slightly sour, slightly dry, slightly dense cake than how cheesecake is currently served throughout the land. So, how was Rao's? If I claimed that it was a once-a-lifetime experience, I might falsely be on record that I have no desire to return. I lack the street cred to cadge a table without strings, but if I had to choose a place at which to be a benevolent patron, I can think of no sweeter spot than this starry venue on Pleasant Avenue. Rao's 455 E. 114th Street (at Pleasant Avenue) Manhattan (East Harlem) 212-722-6709 My Webpage: Vealcheeks