Food Snob

Agree it would not be a step-up, IMO, for Le Meurice to take on Piège. But everyone sounds as if they believe Alleno is certain to leave. I thought it is just gossip at the moment? (regarding this rumour, personally, I find it hard to believe he would quit Le Meurice...from what I have read, he seems a very proud Parisian and has pretty much built up the restaurant since his arrival [remodelled kitchen, designed the plates and even serving trays himself, etc...])

Hi, This is what I thought about my dinner here in April. Please click here for full commentary and photography: HERE On 28th September 2006, Bill Clinton, addressing the Labour Party Conference, introduced the idea of ubuntu to the British public: ‘society is important because of ubuntu…If we were the most beautiful, the most intelligent, the most wealthy, the most powerful person – and then found all of a sudden that we were alone on the planet, it wouldn't amount to a hill of beans,’ said the former president. A couple of years on, Archbishop Tutu reminded them of it, explaining that this Bantu word from South Africa – its literal translation, ‘I am because you are’ – ‘speaks particularly about the fact that you can't exist as a human being in isolation. It speaks about our interconnectedness.’ One individual especially moved by this was Sandy Lawrence, a Miami-based businesswoman, who organised international conferences, attended by thousands, to educate investors about natural resources. Her work took her from the Unites States to Asia and to Africa, where she first learned of ubuntu. In 2005, after twelve hectic (but fun) years, she sold her company, International Investment Conferences, to private equity, before buying a ninety-acre estate in Napa on Mount George complete with its own winery, Lion’s Run. A devout yogi and qualified instructor, she put her beliefs into practice here, hosting retreats at her home. One august evening in 2006, after her weekly Thursday night session, she attempted to arrange a vegetarian dinner for her guests. The best that local restaurants could prepare was shrimp risotto minus the shrimp. It was this, compiled with the fact that classes were growing too big for her house that first led her to entertain the notion of a restaurant/yoga studio. Shortly after, on a walk down Main Street, she stumbled upon a vacant building available for lease – it was love immediate. Only then did the concept quickly crystallise. Although a meat-eater herself, after the difficulty Lawrence faced finding decent veggy fare anywhere nearby, she wanted to open somewhere able to satisfy such greener urges, but was sensitive to the poor reputation that the ‘vegetarian’ tag carried with it. That is why what she wanted was a ‘vegetable restaurant’. Thus, whilst keeping ubuntu always in her heart and her mind on living life without leaving ‘a large footprint on the landscape’, she sought ‘the most sustainable way to farm and produce’ the best possible produce. Discovering this to be biodynamics, she hired Jeff Dawson, assisted by Rose Robertson, to tend the two (growing-to-three)-acre garden, off Monticello Road, already part of Lion’s Run. This seasoned gardener, who had over ten years of experience in this specialised field, previously established gardens at Fetzer and Kendall Jackson Vineyards (encouraging that vintner to go organic) before becoming curator of Copia, the American Centre for Wine, Food and the Arts. The Napa legend believes biodynamics to be ‘another level of quality. [it] connects the plant to the earth and to the cosmos…an incredibly balanced system that takes the whole of nature into consideration.’ Lawrence also needed a capable chef who shared her sensibilities. Inviting several to audition, one stood out, ‘nail[ing] every single dish’, including a cauliflower hotpot with vadouvan that ‘landed him the gig’. His name was Jeremy Fox and he had come from Manresa. She offered him the job and a partnership. He accepted and made the ninety-mile move north to Napa from Los Gatos with wife Deanie, who had not just made the desserts at his try-out, but was chef de pâtisserie at Manresa too. Even as a kid in Cleveland, Fox knew he wanted a restaurant; ‘my grandparents owned a pizzeria in Chattanooga; as a [child], I associated good times with eating in the restaurant. I didn't start with the intention of being a chef, but once I started cooking that was all I wanted to do.’ As a teenager, he moved to Atlanta, where he started his culinary career at the local Chick-fil-A. After a stint at Mumbo Jumbo, he entered the College of Culinary Arts at Johnson & Wales University (then in Charleston). As he studied, he worked at Anson Restaurant, ‘where he got yelled at a lot’, but also realised ‘what good ingredients were for the first time’. In 1998, he left J&W, only a couple of classes short of acquiring his degree, to cook fulltime; he was to spend five years at Anson, which included a stage in Belgium at two-star De Snippe. In 2002, although (or maybe because of) growing up a fast-food-fiend on a Burger King diet, he ‘became obsessed with California cooking and the philosophy of using things straight from the farm’; he delighted in reading menus he had had Bay restaurants fax him. Soon enough, he realised the inevitable, he ‘wanted to [go] out to where all the vegetables were’. And so he did. Fox arrived in California the week before nine-eleven and, initially struggling to land a job, eventually found himself at Rubicon in San Francisco. It turned out that serendipity had led him here. As he toiled at the meat counter, local girl Deanie Hickox made pastries. One day the two went for coffee together at Café Vesuvio – Fox still remembers the menu he cooked that service (squash blossoms stuffed with chard stems; chicken galantine, boned and stuffed with green garlic; and grilled peach panzanella). Four years later, having won over her whole family with that very same panzanella, they were married. Not long after they became an item, the chef left Rubicon. Although he had his heart set on somewhere else – Manresa – he moved to Charles Nob Hill until 2003, when he finally landed a stage at his dream restaurant. ‘It was a beautiful kitchen. Everyone was so serious and the food was so beautiful. And people weren't running around and yelling – it was a lot different from a lot of restaurants I had worked in.’ He loved it. He wanted to stay permanently. Futile efforts to contact Kinch followed however, until Deanie advised him to ‘just show up’. Lucky for Fox, the day he did just show up, another cook failed to come in. He was given the job. So eager was he to work here that, although he already had some six years professional experience behind him, he willingly began at the bottom, ‘wash[ing] the wok and make[ing] staff meals’, ‘stay[ing back] late at night pitting fresh cherries after dinner service.’ Within only two years, he had gained experience at London’s St John and Royal Hospital Road (3*) and been made Manresa’s chef de cuisine. Deanie too knew early on a future in food beckoned – not your average adolescent, when her parents were out of town, she would throw dinner parties for friends. After high school, she worked various non-kitchen related roles, but ultimately enrolled at the California Culinary Academy to study pastry. During her final months there, she started at Rubicon and met Jeremy. After he moved on, she soon did the same, joining Icing on the Cake in Los Gatos before joining Jeremy at Manresa, where, having initially helped out one day a week in the patisserie section, she became its head. Both Foxes credit David Kinch as their biggest influence. Jeremy remembers that ‘he was never satisfied with what already knew. Even in his forties, he was hungry to learn and evolve.’ What motivated him was that ‘[Kinch] was well-known but wasn’t just turning out the food he was known for. He made me love cooking again and I think he took me under his wing pretty quickly.’ Whereas, Deanie claims Kinch ‘pushed me to experiment within the pastry realm…He would ask me to try things out, things that would never occur to me.’ The pair cites his creatively and complex layering of flavours as especially important lessons learned. What attracted the couple to Ubuntu was, in large part, the garden. While neither a vegetarian (although Deanie was, before meeting Jeremy…), at Manresa both saw what an amazing advantage having one’s own biodynamic vegetable farm could be. The chef, who was once, ironically-now, celebrated for his annual whole-pig feasts, says that with the advent of Love Apple Farm, the kitchen’s focus quickly changed and ‘it was my job to make sure the vegetables got used...It was kind of a boot camp in learning how to use all of it and thinking in a way that made vegetables the main thing on the plate with everything else highlighting them.’ For Fox, who feels it is ‘every chef’s dream to have a garden at their disposal, to have things grown for them’ and who had left the East Coast over five years ago in search of vegetables, it was too good an opportunity to miss. Their garden, only six miles from the restaurant, yields forty-five or so crops, all interesting varieties chosen by Dawson and Robertson that ‘make sense’ commercially. Along with a small greenhouse, it provides about three-quarters of the kitchen’s needs, but this figure is growing always. Its harvest is currently supplemented with twice-weekly trips to Marin Farmers’ Market, asparagus from Roscoe Zuckerman, eggs from yoga student Connie Norwick, beans from Rancho Gordo as well as several more select suppliers. Produce from the potager is delivered at least three times a week, whilst the chef visits the plot regularly, claiming a walk in the garden as his greatest source of inspiration ‘seeing the state of each vegetable…allows me to create menus that I think are unique because they’re not based on my past repertoire or what I know goes well; they’re based on what I have and what my staff needs to do to prepare and transform [the produce].’ Opened in August 2007, Ubuntu itself is the personification of the owners’ green philosophy. Residing on ‘restaurant row’ in downtown Napa in the, nineteenth-century Kyser-Williams block building, the eighty-five seat former futon store has been redesigned and refurbished by architects, Michael Bauschke and David Berman, designer T. Beller and consultant Michael Dellar, who together have turned it into an exemplar of environmentally-friendly design. The façade – once metal, stucco and mission tile but restored in 1999 – suggests quintessential small town eatery. Creamy-corn-coloured Roman blinds of canvas swathe large windows which wrap the width of the frontispiece whilst pale powder and cobalt blue bands border and criss-cross its face; ubuntu is stencilled quaintly upon the glass. The interior is, in contrast, more polished and stylish, and surprisingly vast. Immediately through the door, one is met by a large sculpture of a recycled oxygen canister recast like a bronze bell. Beyond this, there is a twenty-foot long, twenty-two seat communal dining table refashioned from a fallen redwood that points to the open kitchen resting along the back. This stainless-steel square is the centre of considered activity, its centrepiece a large oven. Above it is the smell and sound-proof yoga studio, reached by a set of wide stairs on the far right; its frosted glass exterior offers only the outline of real life with just shadows and silhouettes visible. Along the left wall, stools surround the black bar backed with glossy shelves that carry the circa two-hundred strong wine collection, the majority of which are sourced from sustainable growers. Old Asian shipping containers, reincarnated as streaky, mottled wooden flooring contrasts strikingly well with walls of exposed stone and trestle ceiling that flash the room’s piping, girding and air ducts. Along with ample sunlight during daytime, there are six, oversized cylindrical drum pendants and a line of smaller tin lanterns that dangle over the central table. One’s attention is attracted by a large statue of four weathered ceramic ladies side-by-side (three standing upright, one on her head) entitled ‘Alternative View’ by Mark Chatterley. Against the beige-buff brick, injections of colour come by way of big collages, put together in France and comprising Lawrence and (yoga instructor Veronica) Vidal’s personal photographs; some boast inspirational messages, such as ‘make your heart big’. Chairs and tables, hand-crafted locally from reclaimed wood by Heritage Salvage in Petaluma, are coupled with two-tone rusty copper and grey banquettes that bound the walls. More recycled furniture can be found outdoors, where the patio furnishings all from the forties. The crockery is Heath and O! Luna with each naked table topped with a candle holder of different hue. When Aaron and I arrived, we were warmly welcomed. Before menus were shown, the morning’s pickings were shown off: a huge cutting board bore oxheart carrots, purple artichoke, golden and purple kohlrabi, fennel, sage, thyme…Then, instead of the carte, Jeremy Fox told us that the kitchen had put together a tasting menu for us, should we like to try it. We did. Aperitif: Brut Cuvée NV Domaine Cameros, Cameros, 2006. This local sparkling wine from Tattinger was fruity and gently acidic with long, velvety finish. Amuse Bouche: NETTLE and LEMON BALM ice vegan ESCAROLE veloute, WILD SORREL; and marcona almonds, LAVENDER sugar, sea salt. Nettle, lemon balm and shiso granité arrived sitting in a small demitasse, which was filled with vegan escarole endive and asparagus velouté tableside. The coldness of the icy contents was tempered by the tepid, smooth soup whilst the barely bitter nettle-shiso-escarole combo was enlivened by equally lemony wild sorrel and melissa. The signature toasted, milky Marcona almonds, laced with floral, sugary lavender and nicely seasoned, were addictive. Le Pain: Sliced baguette. The artisan Model Bakery, located literally around the corner from the restaurant, supplied the chewy-crusted, bouncy soft-centred baguette. The French butter, brought in a small clay bowl, was decent. Entrée 1: REDHEAD RADISHES andante dairy’s minuet layered with nori, black salt. On one side of the ashen, asperous slate plate sat a cluster of black salt grains, on the other, three brindled beads of Dijon mustard vinaigrette were set; betwixt these two, a terrine of Andante Dairy’s goat’s cheese and nori came nestled amongst Easter egg and redhead radishes, their flowers and hong vit. The minuet – soft-ripened goat’s milk triple-crème enriched with cow’s milk crème fraîche – was unctuous with an interesting flavour imbued by the briny seaweed that lent the cheese an almost blue taste as well as aspect. The peppery, crisp radishes, still intact and as if just removed from the soil itself, accentuated the rustic, bucolic sense. Black salt, or kala namak, was mild and woody whilst the Dijon dressing, made with sweet-sour Banyuls vinegar, was strong and tasty. This was a brilliant dish with which to begin the meal. First, it was acutely evocative of not just the season, but the actual day – Easter Sunday. Ergo, the Easter egg radishes. This egg-y attention was then extended with the black salt, a condiment common in India, noted for a savour similar to hardboiled egg. Secondly, without saying too much too soon, it was the consummate introduction to Ubuntu – natural, informal, attentive, superficially rustic, intrinsically sophisticated and scrumptious whilst encompassing the chef’s nose-to-tail tenet. These ideas, which one will notice recur throughout the meal, will be developed further later. Entrée 2: chickpea fries with romesco sauce, flowering ROSEMARY. Skinny chips of chickpea, their amber crusts encrusted with green herbs, came burrowed between small branches of rosemary laden with bright, periwinkle blossoms and alongside just as vibrant, scarlet romesco. These vivid colours and the flavours that followed instantly suggested the Mediterranean. Subtly spicy, almost sweet Catalan sauce, made with Navarrian piquillo peppers, sherry vinegar and smoked paprika also had crunchy almonds and nice consistency. The fries, hot, crackly-crisp and stunningly clean, were excellent. Their mild nuttiness enlivened with parsley, garlic and rosemary. Entrée 3: 2X-shucked peas and GOLD SHOOTS in a consommé of the shells; White chocolate, CHOCOLATE MINT, macadamia. The image of an idyllic garden pond was mimicked by a pool composed of champagne vinegar suffused with consommé made from the shells of English peas that, having been shucked and skinned, floated atop as if water lily leaves whilst their golden shoots pretended to be bulrush, their rosy flower, a lotus and chocolate mint, canna petals; crumbled white chocolate and toasted macadamia littered the surface and a purple snap pea scaled the side of the bowl. The attention to detail was absolute with dark jade drips of mint oil, meticulously dabbed about the peas, feigning their watery reflections. Picture perfect, summoning the spirit to disturb this portrait was a serious test. But the reward was worth it. Garden peas, which maintained only the slightest crisp resistance before melting in the mouth, were served with their own shells, shoots and flowers that effectively intensified the vegetable’s inherent sweetness. The chocolate mint, underlined by the minty oil, played on the traditional partnership between peas and this herb, whilst introducing the faintest hint of coco. White chocolate, grated on top, accentuated the peas’ sweet savour still more and offered creamy depth with only the minimum of substance. Further, white chocolate’s classic kin, macadamia, seasoned the dish, adding brittle then buttery texture too. The light, gently acidic champagne vinegar – possessing a trace of vanilla also complementary to the chocolate – aided by a little lemon juice, invigorated and refreshed it all. Although an unexpected union of ingredients, the result looked, tasted and felt so true. Each flavour, distinct and precise yet in utter harmony, was integral to the piece. Each savour, singing a different note on the same chord, together proved a perfect chorus. Entrée 4: carta da musica, our crispy sardinian flatbread; topped with the SPRING GARDEN, truffled pecorino. Upon a chunky cutting board crafted into the shape of a pig – with unabashed irony – rested a large, circular flatbread smothered with a colourful muddle of vegetables, flowers, leaves and stems intermingled with bright, white slivers of truffled pecorino and peppered with sea salt and Regina olive oil. Cutlery was unnecessary as Fox encourages diners to literally break bread with one another. Carta da musica or pane carasau, is a Sardinian staple conceived of centuries ago by shepherds as their sustenance during months spent away from home. Essentially twice baked, as is the custom, red pepper and rosemary were also added to the dough giving the crackly bread some woody heat. This was complemented and contrasted by all that the garden had given that morning. Golden frill mustard, sylvetta rocket, mandolined ribbons of radish, chrysanthemums…brought their own warmth; Bordeaux spinach, borage blossoms, pansies, carrots…countered with some sweetness; whilst subtle yet conspicuous Taggiasca olive oil presented fruitiness. However, what really stood out here were the curls of Pecorino Toscano, studded with flecks of black truffle. Creamy, soft and nutty, it was also, and most remarkably, full of earthy, musky flavour. These were probably the most powerful truffles I had tasted all year. Entrée 5: roscoe’s asparagus, “virtual” egg infused with saffron; black trumpet and brioche terrine, SYLVETTA ARUGULA, preserved lemon. A trim smear of lemon-laced Sacramento Delta asparagus purée, embedded with various preparations of the same vegetable – whole tops with brioche crumb-coated bases, demi-spears, raw wafer-thin strips – preserved lemon rind, its coulis, sylvetta rocket and its flowers, faded into a trail of trompette de la mort caviar, itself implanted with similar elements as well as a brace of blanched asparagus pillars. Perpendicular to this lay a brick of Deanie’s brioche layered with more black trumpet and truffled pecorino besides an ersatz egg. A less-than-attentive eater may not actually notice that this is not a regular egg. Having been cooked sous vide, the white and yolk were separated then inserted, with xanthum gum, into separate whipped-cream canisters (with saffron also added to the yellow). The effect was an incredibly light, almost effervescent creation with all its original flavour plus a dash of spice. Being spring, egg had to be teamed with asparagus and thus the green had been incorporated raw, cooked, chopped, sliced, pureed and whole. Supplied by Roscoe Zuckerman, a third generation farmer of this veg, it was sweet, tender and so fresh. The truffled cheese made a welcome return with the earthy mushroom in the soft brioche. Tart lemon was an agreeable touch. Purple tapas 1: ‘PURPLE HAZE’ CARROTS; raw with ‘carrot cake’ mousse, chips with mimolette powder. Purple haze carrots came in three forms – untouched baby roots, tops still attached; carrot crème coated in its own crumble; and sliced then fried with mimolette. The three heaps, although each composed of the entire carrot, each suggested just one particular portion of the vegetable as seen in its native environment; only together did they resemble a whole. The raw morsels, more stem than meat, symbolised the green blades that have burst out of the earth; the orange mousse, the taproot; and the dark chips, the soil. The tiny carrots were sweet and crunchy, the cream mild with cinnamon aftertaste whilst the fried, the most interesting, were nutty, sharp and caramelised. Although the mellow, nutlike mimolette went well with the carrot (their consonance uncovered by Fox by chance when attracted by the cheese’s matching colour whilst making gnocchi with this root…), the difficulty in eating the carrot cake mousse made this dish practically problematic. Purple tapas 2: ‘VIOLET QUEEN’ BROCCOLI a la catalan 2009; pine nut, soy milk, golden raisin. Marinated in sherry vinegar, a single head of purple sprouting broccoli, its myrtle buds streaked with maroon, was inset with golden raisins, pine nuts, pansies, mint and sitting atop soy milk pudding, which reappeared on either end of the plate as two crescents studded with the same nuts and raisins whilst petite tears of red pepper coulis bordered one side of it. The pudding was rich yet delicate and smooth with an intrinsic nutty note that resonated with the vinegar and toasted pignoli. These were joined by raisins, a classic counterpart to the latter around the world and nowhere less so than Catalonia, where this marriage is most commonly celebrated with espinacas a la Catalana. The broccoli, substituted in for spinach here, was a textural treat – the crunchy stems, the succulent sprouts – all underscored with a slight sweetness that was drawn out by the juicy, plump pasa. Purple tapas 3: ‘PURPLE VICIOUS’ ARTICHOKE confit miso “bagna cauda”, BASILS, black olive caramel. Two violet artichokes divided revealed veronese-viridian centres, ravelled down the stalk as if deliberately by gentle, edible thorns, and intricately crinkled buds, their leaves enfolded around each other, becoming paler and brighter, before returning to wisteria towards the final folds. Strewn over with alabaster scraps of parmesan, black (olive caramel) and beige (miso bagna cauda) beads as well as various basils ranging from amethyst to emerald, it was almost ethereal and as dramatically rustic as it was refined. The traditional anchovy element of this Italian sauce had been replaced by akamiso, whose strong nutty and salty savour made it a more than satisfactory substitute, whilst the customary Jerusalem artichoke and cardoon crudités were exchanged for their common cousin, the artichoke. The combination of this thistle with miso and the cheese provided plenty of umami and nuttiness. Purple tapas 4: ‘PURPLE VIENNA’ KOHLRABI “nose to tail” violet mustard and CHARD STEM dipping sauce. A kohlrabi leaf, neatly squared, bore its own bulb wrapped in panko and deep-fried; tempura of its stem; onion brunoise; and a splash of olive oil. Upon a second, identical blade, stood a bowl of chard stalk dipping sauce imbued with moutarde de violette and containing diced kohlrabi and baby basils. The stem was crackly then chewy, if a little oily. Clean, crunchy and salty, the bulb was much better. The sauce was delicious. Made with violet mustard (one of my favourite condiments) – a mixture of black grape, mustard seed, wine vinegar and spices such as cinnamon and clove invented in thirteenth century Périgord that fell into fashion during the Belle Époque, but then fell out again – it was corse yet creamy, sweet yet tangy. Pasta 1: our toasted BRONZE FENNEL casarecce pasta; whole FAVA PODS with their LEAVES and FLOWERS, pepper ‘tears’. Shallow pepper consommé surrounded fried fava pods on one side of the dish and short twills of bronze fennel and farro pasta, blanketed by its on emulsion, on the other. Over both, upright broad-bean blades and black-and-white blossoms, fennel fronds and its yellow flowers, plus rich red roasted pepper paste, were precisely positioned. The casarecce were light with nice, nearly nutty-sweet flavour whilst the flavoursome pods were very interesting and incidentally not dissimilar to al dente pasta. The broth beneath was mildly spicy and the various foliage, invitingly aromatic. Pasta 2: BORAGE gnudi with brown butter and flowering SAGE; Shoots and seed pods of HON TSAI TAI: a red Chinese brassica. A quintet of gnudi quenelles, sat on a bed of hon tsai tai in beurre noisette, came scattered with a fragrant, colourful clutter of sage leaves, its pink and purple flowers, white and blue borage ones, hon tsai tai pods and crushed macadamias and almonds. Ricotta and borage blended together to form warm, moussy dumplings that were simply comforting to eat; the herb’s bright blossoms bettered its delicate flavour. The brown butter was rich, but cut by the lemony sage and sweet-mustard savour of the hon tasi tai. Nutty crumbs complemented with their crunch. Pasta 3: yellow corn grits from Arbuckle with a slow egg; our goat’s milk ricotta and whey, AGRETTI, trumpet chips with SAVORY. Yellow grits are coarsely ground whole corn kernels that have been slowly simmered down like porridge. Fox mixes this resulting mealy paste with goat’s milk ricotta and whey, before plating it around a slow-cooked egg, nearly completely camouflaging it. Upstanding sprigs of agretti, as if growing from the grits evoked a moor scene; this sentiment consolidated by the damp-loving black trumpet chips and the sour whey (moorlands being characterised by acidic soils). Or, alternatively, it could just as easily have been a play on Southern-style big breakfast – grits, streaky bacon (mushroom chips) and fried egg. Sourced from nearby Arbuckle, where it is custom-milled for Ubuntu by Matthew and Erin Sweet, the corn was grainy and syrupy, flavoured mainly by the ricotta and parmesan. The egg added a richness that was balanced by tangy, salty agretti. As we ate, Marty Cattaneo, chef de cuisine, came over. As if we seemed in need of further proof of the ingredients’ freshness, he mentioned how, the kitchen running low on radishes, he himself was at the garden picking the very vegetables we had enjoyed only plates earlier. However we felt before he had arrived, we were certainly convinced by the time he left. Pasta 4: pane frattau: interpretation of a Sardinian classic; slow-scrambled egg, three FENNELS, strawberry soffrito, “music paper”. Pane carasau, the foundation of many of this island’s dishes, is indeed incorporated in pane frattau, which is loosely a lasagne wherein this flatbread, first softened, separates layers of egg, tomato sauce and pecorino that are baked together. Here, roasted fennel, resting in strawberry sofrito, is split into two and separated by scrambled egg embedded with torn pieces of this music paper. Along the rim, three cross-sections from the top half of the vegetable are dressed, like the bisected bulb, with its fronds and bright red and blond nasturtium blossoms. Spanish sofrito calls for tomato, but Fox, believing, as David Kinch does, in the affinity between that fruit and strawberry, cooks these berries for three days with garlic and onions, to create this punchy, sweet sauce. The egg was satisfyingly creamy and contrasted by the crisp chips. Nasturtiums were pleasantly peppery, but the fennel’s texture was somewhat soggy – somewhere in between crunchy and confit. Dessert 1: brioche ice cream; buttermilk doughnuts, ALPINE STRAWBERRIES, strawberry consommé. Four plump little doughnuts, dusted in vanilla, cinnamon and sugar, tucked up in a napkin to prevent them from feeling cold, were partnered by alpine strawberries served in condensed cream with a scoop of brioche ice cream, over which, strawberry consommé was poured. Unsurprisingly, strawberries and cream suited one another very well – the precious frais de bois bursting with flavour – whilst the brioche ice cream was thick and tasty. Pineapple-like doughnuts or, more accurately, ‘doughnut holes’, were excellently fried, very light and full of vanilla. Dessert 2: the spring FLOWER POT; LAVENDER ‘cheesecake”, bee pollen crumble, rhubarb, meyer lemon. A large tray teeming with lush foliage was laid before us. Nestled amongst these fresh leaves, twigs and sprigs were two terracotta flower pots, themselves almost overflowing, crammed as they were with blossoms every colour of the rainbow. It was beautiful. So beautiful. The lavender custard that crowned the contents could just about be seen through the florid spray of inflorescence, efflorescence and even simple flowers too. Plunging the spade spoon into the pot revealed on its removal sticks of rhubarb concealed under the surface. That first spoonful, full of floral, citrusy lavender, along with random calendula, mint and even viola, was deliciously spicy sweet. A second dip discovered bee pollen crumble beneath the rhubarb and, even further down, Meyer lemon mousse. Each subsequent scoop bore savours some mix of herby, creamy, sugary, sharp, crunchy, liquorice and peppery in promiscuous measure. There was perfect balance between the sweet cheesecake, tart rhubarb and sour lemon, whose twang lingered faintly after each bite. Petit Fours: mini vegan carrot cupcakes; “cream cheese” frosting, tiny candied CARROTS. To end the evening, little carrot cupcakes, topped with soy cream cheese and confit baby carrots were presented. Moist and succulent, they were dotted with very sweet raisins whose intensity was assuaged by the dense vanilla cream. The REDHEAD RADISHES, as said, were a revealing beginning. Carefully constructed (physically and by design) and deceptively simple, this deconstructed rustic French salad was an easy initiation to Ubuntu’s unique style. It was followed by the finest fries I have ever tried. 2X-shucked peas and GOLD SHOOTS, which Jean-Georges Vongerichten declares ‘the tiniest peas I've ever seen in my life…spring on a plate’, has become somewhat of a signature here – and justifiably so; this subtle dish was quite outstanding. The carta da musica is another ever-present, but less loved than the last course. What others have criticised however, I would rather compliment. Some have branded it impractical and untidy, but I did not mind the resulting clutter; in fact, I welcomed it. Of the tapas that came next, elements stood out, such as the miso “bagna cauda” and KOHLRABI “nose to tail”, but these courses did not reach the high standard set by the first few. The same comment can be made about the pasta, bar the BORAGE gnudi. This really was delicious. The arrival of the spring FLOWER POT was a special moment. At first, one is unsure quite how to approach it, how to eat it…if they can even eat it. The indecision lasts mere moments though – and after my first hesitant taste, I was quite ready to rip my shirt off and leap into the little jar. It was indeed a comprehensive menu and not every course was a sensation, but even these – into which category I would group the ‘PURPLE HAZE’ CARROTS, yellow corn grits and pane frattau – were simply weaker than others rather than disagreeable in themselves. On the other hand, I thought all the entrées a success and, more specifically, I would select 2X-shucked peas and GOLD SHOOTS, BORAGE gnudi and the spring FLOWER POT as my favourites; and I am glad to be able to (deservedly) include creations by both Mr. Fox and Mrs. Fox in that roll. The quality of these dishes – the best dishes – was tremendous. The first, conceptually was intoxicating; its taste at once recognisable and yet completely new. The gnudi were a gratifyingly good way of showing how simply the garden can improve classic recipes. The last was bliss. What impressed me most may have been how evolved I found the restaurant. By that I mean, how articulate the cooking was, how good it could be and how concentrated, orchestrated and concerted the enduring effect or impact it left. ‘A celebration of vegetable-inspired cuisine’ – this simple statement is Ubuntu’s leitmotif and this ideology is infused into and effuses out of all that one finds and feels therein. Once one enters and takes their seat, it is actually the space and the service, not Fox’s food, that gives the diner a first taste of what will come. Ubuntu is as modern and urbane as it is classic and comfortable. The sounding kitchen sets the tone, which is accentuated by the chitter chatter of diners, the clitter clatter of their cutlery and crockery – there is activity here. There is energy. As the restaurant revolves around the freshness of its ingredients and vitality of its garden, it is only natural that this vigour extends to the whole experience. Staff are animated and engaging. They are friendly, keen and very capable. Our principal serveuse, Mitsy, stood out with her consideration, considerable patience and thorough knowledge; she even managed to maintain her smile throughout the entire (six hours plus) evening. Biodynamic vegetables are obviously the superior building blocks of intelligently, imaginatively designed plates that, having been prepared with exacting precision and attention, possess grace, balance and deliciousness. It must be mentioned that all capitalised items in dish descriptors are from Ubuntu’s own potager. The restaurant’s relationship with the garden, with the environment in general, is clearly at the kernel of Fox’s cooking. There is a bond not only of dependence, but of respect, reverence and affection too. These sentiments appear in many guises, every one intricately interwoven with every other… Fundamentally, there is a cardinal deference for the season, but beyond this, it is in the little details that the produce can be seen to be esteemed most and treated most meticulously. Fox has confidence enough – faith enough – to serve radishes raw, untouched, straight from the soil: ‘it can take me two hours to clean thirty radishes. I look at them like jewels.’ His time at St John taught him all about ‘head-to-tail’, his pig dinners at Manresa expounded this education and all these lessons have not been forgotten here. ‘Before Ubuntu, I was really into pigs. I’d see the animal and think of what I’d do with all the different parts. Now I look at kohlrabi that same way.’ Those same radishes are served entire, their roots and stems still intact. The chef is always eager to utilise all elements of the vegetable, from root to tip – remember the carrots, recall the asparagus and of course the kohlrabi. Fox applies a primitive and provocative aesthetic to dishes that is also really very attractive. Colour is possibly his most basic cosmetic. Bright, vibrant shades instantly make anything more appealing whilst simultaneously also suggesting life. Its effect is also one consequential to and causal of the already outlined flower-to-root point above and, accordingly, it is achieved organically through the flourishes of blossoms, herbs and micro-greens that decorate and substantiate plates. Imitation, it is said, is the sincerest form of flattery. Thus is the chef’s cooking again complimentary to its source. Another, far more subtle, although perhaps far more poignant, way in which he plates is inspired by real life, by Napa’s surrounding scenery. In several dishes does he evoke the native landscape from which he derives his ingredients: ponds, marshes, the soil and even the window sill are all given appreciative recognition. Dining at Ubuntu is definitely fun. The already discussed flowers are again influential – frequently given as gifts on special occasions – these are symbolic of celebration. Therefore the flora here, signifying freshness with its alluring hues, also adds festivity. There is also the inviting informality that is intensified by such courses as the carta da music, when guests, as mentioned, break bread together. On several occasions, Fox encourages diners to get their hands dirty, literally – and indeed, eating with one’s hands is a challenging and clever concept, which engages the guest and makes the experience an interactive one. With it comes the simple gratification endemic to breaking any social taboo; then there is the joy of satisfying a primal urge in a primitive manner that comes before the self-deprecating giggle let loose when one imagines what others watching could be thinking. It is nearly needless to list that last thrill inherent with leaving a mess (that another must tidy). There is a terrific invention and reinvention to be discovered here. Many of Fox’s recipes are rooted in Spanish and Italian tradition, but all refreshed in interesting and toothsome ways. Today, for instance, we sampled sofritto of strawberry and bagna cauda with akamiso for anchovy, but the chef’s creativity stretches to a whole range of other dishes that draw on his butchery past, although none of these featured during this meal. Controversially maybe, he offers such courses as an almost meat-mocking whole-roasted OXHEART CARROT stuffed with satsumas or a ‘BLOOD SAUSAGE’ slider – a mini burger built around a beetroot patty with Italian black rice, radishes, onion apple and sweet spices. In fact, the chef actually entered his vegan rendition into the hamburger contest at the South Beach Wine & Food Festival earlier this year (although he was informed he could not win the (meat-producing) sponsor's award). It is not unusual for vegetable-focused restaurants to include plates like these and I for one do not object to them – as long as they are done well. At Ubuntu especially, it is no surprise to see the chef wanting to show off the skills he was once celebrated for. Where Fox does draw the line though are stereotypically vegetarian foods like tofu, seitan and brown rice. Ubuntu excites. The cooking here seems to be constantly evolving and evolving swiftly. Looking at dishes, speaking to others, the progress is patent. It is not just a case of new recipes being developed, but of old ones always being improved too. The garden is contributing more and more and it is seems to be inspiring Fox. Its infectious effects appear to have spread to the entire kitchen: having spoken briefly to both Marty Cattaneo and later, sous, Aaron London, we were struck by their enthusiasm, curiosity and excitement. It is important to note that, even though I have made much of the innovation, the mental stimulation and evocative physical presentation of dishes, there was still felt to be another focus superseding all this – one on satisfaction. Everything done was directed at elevating one’s eating pleasure and the eating experience. A final point which particularly gripped my attention throughout the evening was contrast. Used purposely, but found undevised too, this seemed a pervasive theme. Foremost, it was realised throughout the restaurant’s interior – wood against stone; eating against exercising. Then there was the juxtaposition seen with sophisticated cooking served in a casual setting, of rustic, natural plates dished out in a fashionable dining room – these plates themselves possessing strong textural plays with hot and cold, raw and cooked elements besides one another. One may even extend this thought to the chef himself. Whilst he did come to California seeking vegetables, he is a self-confessed junk-food junkie who built his career on meat and his personal tastes remain there still; and, after having the pleasure of meeting him, I can also say he seemed a mellow and relaxed individual. However, with all due respect, after so many scrupulously prepared dishes, such critical nicety, I expected to find someone different…I know not whom, but I fear that maybe only a prim and proper German automotive engineer with a penchant for naturalism and wearing white-gloves would have been capable of fulfilling my fantasies at that moment. That being said, later I did learn that Fox’s favourite piece of kitchen equipment is his pair of tweezers… I have deliberately avoided any material discussion over the fact that this is a cuisine devoid of meats/seafood, not wishing to waste words on the merits or shortcomings of such. I only mention it now, with the hope of reminding any readers who are in need of it that when cooking is this thought-through, this pristine and this tasty, it is easy to enjoy just as it is. At the evening’s end, having just devoured our desserts, we were immediately depressed: we did not want dinner to finish. Mustering sufficient nerve, I was volunteered to ask the chef for more. But alas, the kitchen had, unsurprisingly given the late hour, already closed. However, in hindsight, it was actually a rather fitting finale. After all, is not the hallmark of a great restaurant to leave you wanting more?

Sorry, here is a google translation: Google translation The gist, as I read it, is that he will announce his departure tomorrow (i.e. yesterday) and offers nothing concrete about his future plans. I believe there is some suggestion of a swap between him and J-F Rouquette who is the chef at Pur' at Hyatt Vendome...but it remains gossip.

Sorry to out-date Felix's write up so quickly (again), but: Breaking news - Jean-François Piège quitte le Crillon

This my write up of my meal at Manresa the next day. Click here for full commentary and photography: HERE On Friday, Aaron and I had shared a remarkable meal at Manresa. On Saturday, we returned… Aperitif: Solter Brut Rheingau Riesling 2005. Tonight, we began with a light, well balanced Riesling. Soft and delicate, it had a pleasant sparkle. Amuse Bouche 1: Petit fours “red pepper-black olive”. Amuses at Manresa always remain the same. Second time around, the red pepper jelly was similar to the previous night’s rendition whilst the black olive madeleine was noticeably better – more moist and more olive-rich. Amuse Bouche 2: Parmesan churro, crispy kale. Knotted coils of fried fritters permeated through with parmesan were interlaid with crisp curly kale. The churros, thin, smooth and more south-eastern Spanish in style, were well-cooked, but a little doughy for me. The Italian touch from the cheese gave them a nice savoury nuttiness whilst the kale, seasoned and quickly oven-baked, added some saltiness. Amuse Bouche 3: Garden veloute with stone ground mustard. A cold quenelle of Moutarde d’Orléans cream, thickened with fork-crushed potato, came laced with pansy, pea and fennel flowers; over all, a mild garden green velouté of various vegetable tops with yarrow and amaranth, was poured at the table. Yesterday, the Arpège farm egg was a nod to Passard, today it was this; the Orléans mustard, produced by the French chef with a famous vinegar-maker from that city, is a staple of the Paris restaurant’s pantry. Acidic, sweet and simultaneously spicy, this complex condiment struck concurrent chords with the subtle sweetness of the amaranth, flowers and soup itself and with the gentle tang of the yarrow and calendulas. The blossoms contributed leafy crispness to the substance of the ecrassé potato and silky potage. Amuse Bouche 4: Citrus and jasmine tea jelly. Interlocked supremes of temple tangor mandarin, immured in green jasmine tea and mizzled in Meyer lemon and lime juice, was an exercise in simplicity. The first flavour was of floral jasmine, which the tartness of the citric juices soon took over, followed by the juicy richness from the tangerine-orange cross. The last savour was of garden spearmint which lingered lazily. This was vibrant and refreshing. Amuse Bouche 5: Asparagus and foie gras royale. A demitasse was delivered filled with asparagus mousseline splashed with a dash of pistachio oil. This oil emanated a trace of nutlike toastiness whilst its distinct taste matched well with that of the deeper, earthier asparagus. Beneath the cream came a welcome surprise – a secreted deposit of excellent, warm foie gras custard that made this a luxurious treat. Le Pain: Pain au levain, Pim’s butter. These were just as superb as they were during last night’s dinner. Entrée 1: Foie gras torchon, rare ginger lime with toasted rapeseed oil. The previous amuse had offered a hint of what was to come – a considerably-sized slice of foie gras coupled with ginger lime marmalade, sunflower shoots and sprinkled with rosemary flowers, Maldon sea salt and extra virgin rapeseed oil. Having been covered in cloth, poached then cooled, the resultant foie was thick yet velvety, dense yet subtle. The spicy, acidic marmalade, also made by Pim, from little-known ginger lime – a citrus similar to Kaffir lime, native to Assam in India and grown locally by Gene Lessor – was a fine foil to the liver’s fullness. The flowers offered a little bitterness whilst the shoots simply astounded with their intense nuttiness. Entrée 2: Sea bream, sashimi style, with olive oil and chives. Translucent, super-thin slivers of raw sea bream, arranged in a circle that started with flesh from the top of the fish’s back and finished, moving clockwise, with its belly, were drizzled with shiro dashi and Kaffir lime and garnished with shredded breakfast radish, chives, nori and white sesame seeds. The sea bream, brightened by the olive oil and aromatic citrus rind, was succulent and meaty, becoming creamier and gaining bite as one reached the fattier later tranches. Shiro dashi – white soy sauce, kombu, dried mushrooms and bonito – was flavoursome, slightly salty and complex. Crunchy, mild sesame and diced radish varied the texture. Entrée 3: Buckwheat noodles, bottarga and toasted seeds. A bundle of buckwheat noodles was nicely scattered with furikake and bottarga that been brought back by the chef himself on his last trip to Japan. The soba, typical to Tokyo, were thin and stringy with a nutty mildness that married with the sesame in the furikake. The fishiness of the grated grey mullet roe – that turned to paste on the tongue – worked to amplify the effect of the Japanese condiment. There was also an overlying toasted note to the dish. Entrée 4: Asparagus, both raw and uncooked, caviar. Alternating demi-spears of cooked green asparagus and uncooked purple, both from the Sacramento Delta, were wrapped around a hen’s egg that came crowned with a quenelle of Iranian Oscietra caviar; lemon and pistachio oil vinaigrette, parmesan breadcrumbs and spots of swede sauce accompanied. This was picture perfect: brilliant green pikes, flecked with purple, rung round an alabaster blanket layered with golden orange orb, whose colour was reflected by amber crumbs and bright dressing, and which was capped with glossy ebony pearls. The green stems were tender whilst the darker ones, naturally sweeter and less stringy, delightfully crunchy. There was a common nuttiness running throughout the asparagus, caviar, root, pistachio and parmesan that grew as one ate. The lemon and brininess of the Oscietra were a nice counterpoint to the yolk. Entrée 5: Horse mackerel with ginger oil. An empty tumbler. A minute later. A blue bottle of unordered sake. Electric azure, it seemed almost enchanted in its appearance. And the mystique remained as the potion, poured into the glass, instantly became clear. Gingerly, the Koshino-Omachi Daiginjo from the Niigata prefecture was sipped. Its clean, crisp, slightly syrupy savour was like melted ice. This sake – made only during winter and within an ‘igloo’ – although served at room temperature, indeed felt very cold. Another minute. An empty plate. Another minute. Esteban and two assistants arrived. One carried a large tray. It bore two dark slabs. They sat atop folded white napkins. The maître d’hôtel took one, someone else the other. They lifted each. The linen served as a litter. Slowly they were set before us. The suspense was intense. Atop black slate, teamed together with French breakfast radish, mandolined into white wafers rimmed with nearly fluorescent red, were chunky ingots of horse mackerel, ivory coloured at their ends and vermillion in the middle, deepened with puce and speckled with its still shimmering silver skin. From the drops of ginger oil drizzled over the fish, the spice’s warm, sweet citrus scent tickled the senses; it also gave the thick, mild yet tasty mackerel a little smoky heat. The radish had gentle peppery-sweet crispness whilst the ginger notes in the palate-cleansing sake were underscored by the oil. The dish did not disappoint. Entrée 6: Orzo, prepared like risotto, with ramps. Pearl barley, blended with pickled ramps and Benton’s Tennessee country ham, was served with the whole vegetables sautéed and flakes of parmesan rind. Plump orzo grains were creamy and full of flavour; the cheese supplemented pleasingly the seasoning; the pickled ramps were juicy, leafy and delicious; while the sautéed, supple and crunchy. Entrée 7: A spring tidal pool. A bowl bearing barely-transparent broth bursting with shellfish, vegetables and various other ingredients was immediately and strikingly suggestive. As a tide recedes, crevices, spaces and trenches between rocks are left filled with seawater and sea life. Thus, diverse mini-ecosystems are formed, at least until the tide returns. During the recess though, these pools paint a picture that depicts a scene of the sea. In this dish, Kinch scales down this miniature one step further, using symbolism sublimely to create, effectively, a marine-themed rendition of Into the vegetable garden… Scallions pretended to be seaweed; nori played itself; as did uni; golden enoki evoked little jelly fish; and the kombu dashi acted as the seawater. There was a listless floating, a stillness which seemed suspiciously misleading given the semi-suspended nature of the stock’s constituents and small, air-like beads of olive oil locked just below the surface. This was however more evidence of the chef’s already noticed attention to detail: silvery oyster water and rusty mushroom jus, both infused with a little xanthum gum, had been added to the dashi, giving it viscidity redolent of the greater density that seawater has over fresh whilst also aiding to detain the ingredients from stirring and forming the said effervescence that could easily have been air bubbles boiling up from beneath. A chary taste from one corner supplied salty, briny savour from the oyster and umami from the dashi; a stray mushroom was spongy and faintly fruity – golden enoki being sweeter and more intense than regular. Its temperature was warm, just as if the plate, like the rocky puddle would have, had spent the day under the spring sun. Plunging the spoon into the pool brought it to life, animating all the elements who all scattered immediately from the intruding cutlery as if it were really a foreign foot that someone had submerged into what was really a watery habitat. From the depths of the bowl appeared geoduck clam, sea urchin, pickled kabu and foie gras. All raw, they cooled from below, whilst being warmed by the broth above – thus further mimicking an authentic tidal pool wherein the water gets colder the lower one tests it. The foie, at initial sight an irregularity, actually worked very well to enrich the dashi even further and was possible recognition of one of the chef’s own favoured dining spots – Urasawa – where Hiro adds foie gras to his signature shabu shabu. Entrée 8: Atlantic cod and alliums, bone marrow and vegetable tears. An ample cod cheek, skin still attached, arrived sitting on sautéed sweet onions, besides a scoop of chervil cream and decorated with the same herb. Over the cool crème, hot bone marrow jus was decanted at the table, melting the celadon-coloured paste and causing it to mingle with and disseminate through the copper gravy in vivid swirls. Having already had the cod’s jowl and tripe the previous evening, tonight we ate the cheek – firm, meaty, sweet and luscious with a layer of lovely, yummy fat lying under the skin, it is clear why many consider this the best part of the fish. The aniseed note of the chervil picked up on its sweetness as the onions added crunch. Marrow, which shares a natural affinity with the herb and alliums, was very agreeable here. Plat Principal 1: Squab roasted with sunchokes, beets and poorman orange. Breast of young pigeon and its brink pink tenderloin were presented with local Jerusalem artichoke, Poorman’s orange segments, golden beetroot slices, chiogga chips and their tops pickled in champagne vinegar, all resting atop parsnip purée and beet confit. Rustic pieces of earthy, nutty sunchoke had crisp skin; the parsnip was pleasantly sweet; beetroot mousse, intense; but the Poorman’s orange – an orangelo (orange-grapefruit hybrid) also called New Zealand grapefruit or sunfruit – was an excellent surprise. Bursting with mildly acidic, fruity juice, its flavour was light relief to the surrounding deeper savours and matched nicely the tender, soft squab too. Plat Principal 2: Beef bavette roasted in its fat, morels. Large cubes of Kobe-style skirt steak from Snake River farm in Idaho placed on sweet pea purée was partnered with whole and chopped morels as well as pea shoots. The meat, a Wagyu-Black Angus cross-breed raised following Japanese feeding methods – slow-grown and fed Idaho potatoes, soft white wheat, corn and alfalfa hay – barely roasted in suet, was served rare and tempting dark rose. The fatty cut, aged for forty days, had texture and full taste, but was still light. The morels, having absorbed the cooking jus of the beef, were very good and the peas provided a little sweetness to lift the dish. Cheese: Our cheeses, refined and perfectly matured. Shaded Manresa red, the restaurant’s custom-made cheese chariot from France, was wheeled round and the selection shown off. The cart – which is actually the second version commissioned after the original, having been flown over from Europe, was lost after its arrival at San Francisco International airport – carried eight varieties of which we tried each. Florette, a goat’s milk Brie, was creamy and subtle; sour and milky goat’s cheese blue balls, soaked for a day in Californian olive oil and garden herbs, resembled palline azzure; and ewe’s tomme brûlée from mount Baigura in the Basque Pyrénées had nutty-smoky flavour, the latter a result of its singed rind. Another French Basque ewe’s milk, the award-winning Petit Agour, this time from Helette, was smooth and salty-sweet; crumbly Roquefort, another (bigger) winner from famed fifth-generation producer Gabriel Coulet, was strong and a little saline; with the Fourme d’Ambert, a blue cow’s cheese from Auvergne, milder. The platter was completed by two cow’s milks, one from the Catalan Pyrénées – Tomme Catalane Urgelia – and the other from Lorraine – Munster. The former, similar to the Petit Agour, was mild, creamy and slightly salted by its yeasty rind. The latter, a little runnier, was much more pungent and a little acidic. Accompanying the cheeses were cranberry and walnut brioche; crackly and coarse toasted lavash; and a plate of green apple slices, plump Californian dates and Marcona almonds, all with Pim’s own pleasingly tart Meyer lemon marmalade strewn on top. For our cheeses and dessert, we were served Graham’s 10 year old Tawny port. This was quite rich and fruity with gentle, enduring flavour. Dessert: Strawberries in hibiscus, goat fromage blanc sorbet. Dirty Girl farm strawberries, laid over hibiscus jelly and overlaid with fromage blanc sorbet, milk skin and rocket flowers, had strawberry consommé infused with sugar syrup and Eastern long pepper sprinkled on them. The sourness of the goat’s milk (from Healy Farm) balanced well with the berries that were perked by the floral hibiscus, peppery blossoms and spicy long pepper. The milk skin, similar to yuba though slightly sweeter and more fluid, was thick and toothsome. The petit fours and migniardises that followed were those we had already became accustomed to. Petit Fours: “Strawberry-chocolate”. Migniardises 1: Armagnac and tobacco truffle. Migniardises 2: Salted butter caramels. The next day was Easter Sunday and so the restaurant would be closed; since we were the last customers that night, the house was rather generous regarding how many caramels we were allowed to run away with… Once more, all the staff were excellent. Having already spent one evening together, a rapport had been established, thus, this time there was the added element of welcome familiarity and some friendly banter. There was also, once again, a cheery, festive ambience to the dining room – in fact, I even overheard not only one but several diners at different tables tell others that Manresa was their favourite restaurant. The meal had commenced with another bout of assorted amuses bouche, their inspiration sourced from France, Spain, Japan and their consequence ranging from rich to spicy, savoury to sweet. The transition to more significant courses came via a common vein of foie gras, which, first enjoyed in the form of a royale, returned as a serious and quite decadent torchon. Next the chef, having just convinced of his comfort in a classical French kitchen, showed he is just as confident in a Japanese one with exquisitely executed sashimi slices of sea bream. Plates then proceeded in the same pattern, leaping between France and the Far East, until the advent of Italian risotto. The horse mackerel with ginger oil that settled this sequence was simply the most exciting point in my life as a diner. I have never been as thrilled at a dinner table as I was between the arrival of the empty tumbler and the setting of the black slate before me. The unexpected glass, unrequested sake…the deliberate crescendo of events that preluded the actual plate was utterly emphatic. With each step, every action, the momentum matured and the suspense swelled. The anticipation was great – and I do mean that in more ways than one. What finally, actually appeared was as minimal and as understated as might be imagined. Raw mackerel, radish and ginger oil – just three ingredients, immaculately prepared and impeccably presented. Anything less than perfection would have ruined the meal or at least our mood. We were still as giddy as schoolgirls when another of Kinch’s best known dishes was served. Expressive, graphic, imaginative and tasty, the tidal pool satisfied appetite, intellect and emotion. The chef had considered every aspect, down to the smallest detail – remember the bubbles and briny, xanthum-jellied seawater – to create something engaging and engrossing. After two (thorough) meals here, there were some material motifs manifest. The loose structure within which Kinch’s cosmopolitan menus reside starts with a slow ascension consisting of about five very varied amuses, the last of which links to the first entrée. Early after that, a palate-cleansing preparation of raw fish is followed by warm mar y muntanya combinations before the chef’s signatures (vegetable garden/tidal pool). Then hot seafood comes prior to a lighter meat recipe ahead of a heavier one. Dessert itself is relatively abrupt, but as the meal set off, small sweet treats end it in similarly leisurely manner. My tastes more inclined towards fish than flesh, I must admit that the meaty mains did not maintain my interest as the preceding seafood and vegetables had done – and as an aside, I did favour the night before’s goat and lamb combo over tonight’s squab-beef brace. That being said, this part of the carte still drew my attention. The climatic meat course appears, from reading and reports, to almost always be beef or lamb cooked to a more traditionally French formula. What I thought so interesting was that after a flurry of diverse, inventive and exciting dishes, the chef seems to like to bring the diner back from the exotic and unusual to something safe, comfortable and quite classic. The amuses are worth briefly talking about again too. It is during these initial nibbles that Kinch likes to remember those from whom he has learned, his friends and favourites. The two dishes inspired by Passard – of whom he has been a fan for some twenty years (‘the first time I went was an eye-opening experience’), by whom he is felt to possess ‘a similar soul’ and with whom he shares a ‘profound respect for the provenance of ingredients’ – evinced this over these two visits, but he has also been known to include chestnut croquettes (inspired by Marc Meneau), used to serve a version of Barry Wine’s beggars’ purses and has also referenced others such as Aduriz. During dinner, it is clear that the chef is leading the diner on a journey – and Kinch has admitted as much himself. The first evening entailed an expedition from Asia (Yuzu…with mackerel) via the restaurant’s backyard (Into the vegetable garden…) to Spain (Atlantic cod), Italy (Vegetable risotto) and across the western Mediterranean basin (Spring lamb). The second took another route with Japan and France dominating the destinations, although Italy and Spain still featured. Fusing such dissimilar cuisines together on a single menu seems superficially frivolous and, in lesser hands, often justifies criticism. However, where Kinch makes an impact is the smooth segue with which courses flow effortlessly and in flawless fashion from one culinary culture into another. Dishes composed of oriental soba, karasumi and furikake sit alongside plates comprising asparagus and egg – a de rigueur springtime twosome of the occident. More to the point, it feels very much as if they belong beside each other. Cuisinier sans frontiers is a label that I have already applied to another, however with hindsight, perhaps I was somewhat hasty when I did so… Something just as impressive as his versatility was the simple fact that the chef was able to serve some forty courses in all, each different to each other and almost each different to those already eaten by my fellow diner (who has dined at Manresa multiple times), nearly everyone of which was complete and original in design and delectable in taste. The breadth and depth of his repertoire was tremendous. David Kinch is redefining Californian cuisine and these meals left me without doubt how and why. For years, the Bay was best known for Alice Waters and fruit salads. But that is very different today. It is for chefs such as Jeremy Fox, Daniel Patterson and Kinch himself of course for whom curious and excited diners travel the world over to visit. It is no coincidence that Patterson cites the latter as a major inspiration and friend, as does Fox, his former sous chef. Actually, only recently has Fox’s successor at Manresa, James Syhabout, also set out on his own with Commis in Oakland – certainly Kinch’s influence will be felt there too. On one’s (aforementioned) voyage, nostalgia and whimsy are two constant companions. The latter is something that I – hopeless daydreamer and romantic – always appreciate, but have already addressed where it was most keenly felt and intelligently employed – the initial amuse bouche, vegetables with caviar, vegetable garden, tidal pool… Nostalgia – sometimes obvious, but more often not – comes in more than one form. First (or technically last), there are the petit fours at the end of the night that mirror and remind one of the meal’s beginning. Like coming home, one knows their adventure is over when they reach whence they started. But, whilst Kinch offers his guests quixotic, unconscious closure (and maybe a sense of accomplishment even), he also makes sure there is a little surprise awaiting them. All is not what it seems. Memoria gustativa is a concept much contemplated by modern Iberian chefs and essentially relates to the importance of remembering the classics whilst creating cuisine anew. Kinch draws from his affinity for and instruction in Spanish cooking in several respects – his adept ability to arrange extended tasting menus, the dynamic nature of recipes, some of his ingredient choices – but this idea of ‘taste memory’ seems to play an inconspicuous yet powerful part. Taking the basic principal, he at once expands it and makes it introspective and very personal. What one experiences, or maybe more accurately, what I thought I experienced was the vicarious reliving of the chef’s reminiscences, as if he were sharing his own journey with me through an edible chain of comestible clues – each plate a photograph. Consequently, though there was a little wistfulness of my own along the way, it was really the chef’s nostalgia that I was tasting rather than mine. Thus did I form some (sketchy) sense of his style: one rooted in French cooking, but with strong sensibilities for Northern Spain and Japan; his preference for seafood over meat; for savoury over sweet; his fondness for citrus… More often than not, however, I am able to form a reasonably clearer and relatively quicker opinion of the character of a chef’s cuisine than I did with Kinch’s. I was struggling. I felt this way after the first meal and my feelings had not changed by the end of the second. I mentioned as much to the chef himself. His answer was short, but poignant. ‘It’s my style’. Half assured. Half comic. Entirely true.

Some may have read this already, but Andy was at FD today... Andy Hayler at Fat Duck

Hello, I had dinner at Manresa last April, below are my thoughts. Please click here for my full review with photography: HERE René Redzepi, Alain Passard, Mauro Colagreco…this may appear to be a shortlist of world’s most exciting chefs, but their names also comprise a checklist of those who have recently made their way across the world, from Europe to little Los Gatos, to cook at one specific restaurant – David Kinch’s Manresa. Kinch first hit the national headlines in the summer of 2004, when at the behest of Eric Ripert, he prepared a meal at Le Bernadin for a group of journalists. Ripert had just eaten at the chef’s then newly-opened restaurant and was amazed: ‘that guy is seriously talented. I was like, Son of a *****! He has an incredible, obsessive knowledge of his products and the rare talent to elevate ingredients to their best.’ The assembled guests were stunned and delighted by what he had cooked with the local produce that he had brought with him all the way from the Bay Area. Since then, inspired by Passard’s biodynamic gardens, Kinch has followed in his footsteps, establishing a partnership with farmer Cynthia Sandberg to create their own potager to produce Manresa’s produce. This search for superior ingredients, in combination with his creativity and talent as a chef, has won him loyal and growing admiration locally and globally. In 2007, he was invited to speak at Pamplona’s I Congresso ‘Vive las Verduras’ and then at the Festival International de la Gastronomie de Mougins the year after. He is currently recognised as a chef on the forefront of gastronomy. Born in Pennsylvania, David Kinch’s first foodie memories are of his grandmother – ‘my big German grandmother’ – who would regularly cook, for tens of guests at a time, her traditional Teutonic recipes. However his family’s business being oil, he had to move around when young, before finally settling in New Orleans. At just fifteen, whilst at high school, he began bussing tables at Commander’s Palace where he became ‘mesmerised by the chefs. They were like pirates – treating people insolently and working over open flames…they had a free spirit, they were creative – I found myself drawn more and more to the kitchen.’ And that is where he moved to, making salads under local legend Paul Prudhomme; ‘from the first day, I knew I loved it and I didn't ever want to leave it.' Although it was not until a couple of years later when one of his best friends, a trumpet prodigy playing in the city’s philharmonic at fourteen, set off touring the entire country, that his eyes were opened to his own opportunities and he enrolled at Johnson & Wales Culinary Academy in Providence. In 1982, having graduated with honours, he took a position as sous chef at the Hotel Parker Meridian in New York City, then as executive chef at La Petite Ferme. Fuelled by a thirst to travel and to learn, Kinch arranged a stage in France with La Petite Ferme’s owner’s brother, Marc Chevillot at the Hôtel de la Poste in Beune. France was the benchmark and Burgundy was where he wanted to be, both for the cuisine and also for another passion of his, wine. With the money he earned, he ate at the region’s top restaurants and it was on Bastille Day in 1984 that he had a meal that changed his life. ‘I remember it to this day. It made me go back to my room and cry. It made me realise that I didn't know anything. It was so fabulous, so simple, so sublime. It was what food should be all about.’ It was a roast pigeon with fresh peas and braised lettuce at Alain Chapel in Mionnay. ‘What this guy could do with a handful of peas and some lettuce and how the purity of the flavours could be maintained and yet come together, was something I had never learned…I had completely missed the point of what makes great food.’ Soon afterwards, he returned to New York and joined Barry Wine’s Quilted Giraffe – one of the hottest spots in the city and noted for its brilliant/bizarre creativity. What he had uncovered at Chapel was reinforced and a curiosity and confidence were also instilled within him that remain driving forces even today. Whilst Kinch considers Wine his mentor, Wine thinks him ‘a very good student,’ asserting that ‘he understands food. He has great respect for food and flavours.’ Here as well he found a dish that impacted him greatly: Wine’s salmon glazed with mustard powder, sugar and water – ‘it couldn't be simpler, but it wakes up every element on your tongue.’ Every summer, when the Giraffe closed for a month he would head to Spain. Not yet the home of all things molecular, he fell in love with the place, even running with the bulls in Pamplona for five years straight. His yearning for learning though led him instead to Japan where in 1989 he acted as consultant chef to Hotel Clio Court, Fukuoka. A year on and he had moved to Silks at the Mandarin Oriental in San Francisco. This was prior to a two-year tour of Europe that entailed stages at Schweizer Stuben (2*) in Wertheim, Germany; then l’Espérance (3*) in St. Père-sous-Vézeley under Marc Meneau; a summer doing cellar work in a small domaine in Sancerre; and finally and most influentially, six months at Akelare (2*) in San Sebastian. In 1993, Kinch returned to San Francisco as executive chef of Ernie’s, a local landmark, but two years later left to start his own venture, Sent Sovi in Saratoga, which opened the day after Bastille Day, 1995 – ‘a neighbourhood restaurant that's overachieving. That's our model.’ Soon his cooking was attracting attention, but he felt confined by the size of restaurant and especially its kitchen with only a single oven and two electric broilers. He needed more space. After much searching around the Bay Area, Kinch found what he was looking for just seven miles away in small, sleepy Los Gatos, a town in the Santa Clara hills sustained by the riches of nearby Silicon Valley. On a downtown side street, he bought a 1940s single story ranch-house once known as the Village House, formerly a tearoom, but by then long-empty, and hired architect Jim Zack and kitchen-designer Mark Stech-Novak (Keller, Ducasse, Vongerichten) to renovate and modernise it. Wine later said that Kinch had ‘worked and walked his way around the world in order to prepare himself for the ideal kitchen.’ That ideal kitchen was a custom-built, seven-hundred-and-fifty foot-squared laboratory (almost double his previous space). Pride of place went to a two-and-a-half tonne bespoke Bonnet Cidelcem Maestro stove from France; it was so big it had to be installed before the surrounding walls could be completed. He christened the restaurant, Manresa. It opened on Bastille Day, 2002. There are a couple of reasons why the Santa Clara Valley appealed to Kinch. One is the beaches. Indeed even if these are irrespective of cooking, they allow the chef to enjoy daily his (perhaps first) love, surfing – something which he discovered in his ‘skateboard and surf punk days’ on the Gulf Coast. ‘I'm a surfer. I wanted a more integrated life,’ he has said. In fact, it is from one of these beaches, just south of his home that the name of the restaurant stems from, itself so named by the early Jesuit immigrants to California from the same-named Catalan town where the founder of their order, St. Ignatius of Loyola, took refuge in a cave. Coincidentally, Sent Sovi was Catalan too, its title taken from an old cookery book – Libre de Sent Sovi – (maybe) meaning ‘sweet taste’ and celebrated throughout the courts of Europe in the fourteenth century. Kinch believes that ‘there are two characteristics that enable restaurants to transcend the ordinary. First is that someone has a vision…the other is a sense of place – the restaurant couldn’t be anywhere else than where it is.’ He wanted the cooking to reflect who and where he was and to, like Chapel had, ‘create a sense of place’. Thus, sandwiched between the mountains and the ocean (thus bringing to mind the Basque country) and amid some of the richest farmland in the United States, he quickly fell in love with the area’s unique and fruitful terroir. Whilst in Saratoga, the chef had his own herb garden and employed a forager on nearly full-time basis, but after the move to Manresa, he expanded his local supply lines: he buys from (and surfs with) the producers at the much-loved Dirty Girl Farm; sources his cherries, apricots, peaches and nectarines from the nearby Novakovich family; and knows well the retired IBM software developer, Gene Lester, who owns twelve acres filled with hundreds of rare and exotic citrus to which he lets friends help themselves. Each of these suppliers is important yet secondary. It is actually a two-acre plot in Ben Lomond, twenty-five miles from Manresa, which shares a mutually-dependent and mutually-rewarding relationship with the restaurant. It is called Love Apple Farm and run together with attorney-turned-farmer, Cynthia Sandberg. Several years ago, it dawned on Kinch that local chefs were ‘go[ing] to the farmers' market and all…buying the same organic leeks and lettuces. We're all doing the same thing. I wanted to do better.' To him, the natural next step was growing his own. Originally, he thought about buying a farm, but after tasting some of Sandberg’s organic tomatoes, he asked her to supply him exclusively. When it came to negotiations, each had a final condition, which fortuitously turned out to be the same thing – to try biodynamics. By November 2005, the pair had made their first ‘preparation’ of manure-stuffed cow horns to be buried beneath the soil. By summer 2006, the garden’s crop was on the restaurant’s menu. The farm has flourished, furnishing Manresa with more and more of its needs. It is on the verge of completing what Kinch describes as ‘a closed loop’ between guests and garden, farm and fork. Each day, at their usual Surf City Coffee Company meeting-spot, Sandberg and the chef exchange what she has harvested that morning for his leftovers from last night’s dinner. She feeds the trimmings to her animals, who in turn give her the ‘black gold’ that improves the soil. He feeds the pickings to grateful diners. Love Apple is not only a grower of fruit and vegetables – there are bees making honey, chickens laying eggs and goats, sheep and pigs too – it is much more than just a supplier. Manresa’s menu is now decided daily depending on what the potager has provided – ‘it’s not like placing an order with a specific produce company – I open the cooler and decide the menu based on what’s there…the garden is writing the menu.’ It is also a canny business investment, generating significant cost savings, and a source of stimulation with the chef claiming ninety-percent of his ideas transpire while walking through the farm; ‘it has been my single greatest inspiration in fifteen years and it’s the hardest thing we’ve ever done.’ David Kinch is a chef’s chef. ‘I do it because I still like to. I don't want to work in hotels. I don't want three restaurants. I don't want to do five-hundred covers a night…None of this interests me. Call me anti-success...but I just want to cook in my restaurant with my crew in my beautiful kitchen and make people happy.’ His collection of 1200 menus, hung in part upon Manresa’s (bathroom) walls, is evidence that he himself is a lover of good food and in his spare time, reads French, Spanish and English cookbooks and travels around the world to learn and try new techniques. His time out of the kitchen however is limited by his desire to be at the pass for every service. The first time he left the restaurant for more than two nights in a row, to visit France, ‘he was constantly on the phone, checking in.’ Behind the stove, he has a reputation as a serious, intense perfectionist and showed these colours last March when battling against Bobby Flay in America’s Iron Chef competition. For the contest’s ‘secret ingredient’ round, he had readied himself meticulously – ‘I didn't go in blind. I tried to narrow it down so when the ingredient was revealed we had a line of attack’. He had in fact prepared fifteen lines of attack. The mystery item was cabbage. He won. Two weeks later, Aaron and I arrived at Kinch’s lemony-mustard yellow rambler. Set within a small garden and nicely nestled in lush native fauna, it is not easy to recognise the building as a restaurant. There is a modest, wavy sign of rusted metal buried in a bed of red flowers that spells Manresa in funky type, but even this is nearly hidden by citrus trees lining the fence in front. A thin tiled column of red carpets the path to the large, reflective front door. Once within, a corridor leads to the dining area; there is a rippled glass window on the right through which one can spy the chefs in the kitchen, dressed in white and sleeves rolled up, surrounding the stainless steel stove that boasts four ovens, a continuous flat cooking surface and two salamanders. Inside, the theme is rustic Hispanic and accentuated with its warm, characteristic tones of yellow, brown and red, the classic colour of the Iberian kitchen. The dining area, seating nearly seventy, is bound by slate-grey smooth stucco walls and a cracked cement floor that has been fashioned to resemble natural tiles. The ceiling is composed of wooden beams supported by a single steel bar. Tables are nicely spaced with two to each of the Colonial Spanish rugs that litter the ground in an assortment of miss-matched shades. It is spacious and bright with windows stretching wall-to-wall; lighting is from bulb-like hanging lanterns. The room is separated into two by a varnished oak partition that doubles as a wine cabinet. The larger, principal space is occupied by four central tables with several more lining the low-lying grey banquettes that border on two sides. They are dressed in thick white linen and are set with crystal stemware, Villeroy & Boch crockery and miniature enamel beehive candleholders. In the middle, there is a free-standing, sturdy chest laid with ornamental glass flasks, corn potpourri and large red ceramic vase filled with seasonal bouquet - Sansevieria Black Coral today. Upon the walls, crushed silk curtains are coloured gold and various vibrant, geometric art pieces hang. A curved, creamy border behind the entrance conceals the bar and kitchen. The second room, which can be used for private functions, is narrow and long. Large patio doors, fringed with sangria shantung drapes, open onto the garden behind. The showpiece is a corner fireplace, covered in tiny mosaic tiles of sapphire blue hemmed with hues of olive green and comprising a mantle bearing the restaurant’s name and fire-pit filled with candles. First, to quench our thirst… Aperitif: Champagne Diebolt-Vallois à Cramant, 1996. This lingering yet light blanc de blancs, with its distinctly delicate, faintly fruity scent of chardonnay, was an unintended nod to the spring season. Amuse Bouche 1: Petit fours “red pepper-black olive”. Manresa’s signature amuses bouche – black olive madeleine and red pepper paté de fruit – were served on a thick, rustic rough slate slab. The former, memorably and forever famous for its semblance to ‘la valve rainurée d'une coquille de Saint-Jacques’, is also with the sugar-dusted jelly, a compliment to Pedro Subijana, who has a similar habit of offering savouries disguised as sweets – polvorons of artichoke; black pudding that resembles a cinnamon swirl; even his own ‘madeleines’ that are actually cocoa-encrusted oysters – before the meal. It is an amusing play on accepted customs, concurrently comforting those uninitiated to finer dining, whilst also light heartedly teasing those who are. The small cake was warm and biscuity with the subtle sweetness of olive and consistency of cookie dough whilst the red pepper had latent vegetal sweet heat, tasting strongly of roasted capsicum, with a gummy, but not sticky, denseness. Amuse Bouche 2: Garden beignets, vinegar powder. Two beignets of purple and green mizuna were sprinkled with a little vinegar powder. The well-fried, greaseless samples were fluffy and soft with a leafy crunch and mild peppery piquancy; the vinegar atop added salty tanginess. Amuse Bouche 3: Mustard granité with carrot. A bright blanket of carrot foam covered granité of mustard interspersed with red leaf mustard flowers and leaves. The sweet carrot was nicely contrasted by the icy condiment whose own warmth of flavour coupled with its confusingly cold temperature toyed with one’s expectations. The tender greens added excellent texture and amplified the pungency already present. Amuse Bouche 4: Seaweed grissini, homemade lardo. Unfortunately, I was unable to try this… Amuse Bouche 5: Strawberry gazpacho, almond oil. A brunoise of onion, garlic, cucumber, capsicum, tarragon and strawberry sat in a bowl with amaranth shoots and Marcona almond halves; at the table, a consommé of the same components, along with almond oil and chive, was poured in. The mind games had recommenced with what seemed on sight a stereotypical gazpacho of tomato, but smelled and tasted of summer berry; Kinch, believing in the innate analogy betwixt the two, abandoned the former (often mistaken as the fundamental ingredient for this Andalucian soup), in favour of fresh strawberry. It was the deft accord between the fruit and alliums that stood out here; the savours were each clear and precise yet in total harmony. The cucumber, pepper and onion offered succulent crispness; tarragon and amaranth, a little sweetness; whilst Marcona almonds added Spanish crunch and the oil, subtle toasted nuttiness. Amuse Bouche 6: Arpège farm egg. Controversially inspired by Alain Passard’s trademark amuse, oeuf à la coque; quatre épices, a carefully decollated egg, from Manresa’s own farm, was warmed in a water bath, but the yolk not allowed the set. On removal, it was sprinkled with chives, filled with crème fraîche and spiked with Tahitian vanilla and sherry vinegar before being topped off with fleur de sel and some maple syrup. The first smoky-sweet taste was of this, but it was quickly countered by the subtly tart cream beneath. Delving deeper down and wounding the yolk, the vivid yellow that bled out was brilliantly rich and tasty. However, although the chives helped a little, a little more vinegar would have helped better to cut through the heavy yolk and compete with the sweeter vanilla. A comparison between this and the original is inevitable: from my experience, the actual egg at Manresa is of far superior quality, but l’Arpège’s oeuf has a finer balance. Le Pain: Pain au levain, Pim’s butter. This single choice of sourdough proved the old adage, ‘quality over quantity’. Thick with faintly tangy crust and fluffy, soft open crumb, the excellent homemade bread was accompanied with excellent homemade butter. Made by Pim with the milk from a Normande cow she co-owns with the owners of Deep Roots Ranch in nearby Watsonville – for the record, Nutmeg is her name – the hand-churned vibrant beurre was smooth, complex and rather French in character. Entrée 1: Shellfish in crab broth, green strawberries. Two claws of Dungeness crab, one laid as the yang to the other’s ying, were layered with overlapping cross-sections of geoduck clam, octopus and green strawberries, all strewn over with coriander flowers, fennel fronds, red leaf mustard and chervil, in a shallow crab broth laced with extra virgin olive oil. Dungeness, a local speciality, was meaty, delicately sweet and salty while its stock, quite concentrated, though clean. The clam was firm yet yielding and octopus, very tender, disappearing on the tongue. Unripe strawberries from Dirty Girl Farm were a mildly bitter, barely acidic counterpoint to the sweetness of the shellfish, with which the fennel and chervil had natural affinity. Mustard and coriander delivered pepper and citrus. Entrée 2: Yuzu and sea salt snow with buckwheat honey, toasted seaweed with mackerel. Twisted slivers of cured Japanese mackerel, their silver sapphire skin framing maroon flesh that depreciated to pink, resting on rosemary oil, were buried beneath yuzu, sea salt and buckwheat honey infused, icy crystals and chervil flowers. Marinated with tart sherry vinegar, the mackerel was intense, but deliciously tempered with the sour, salty-sweet, citrus snow that beautifully balanced the oily richness of the fish. A further hint of lemony-mint was imparted by the aromatic oil. Entrée 3: Asparagus in bonito butter, toasted seeds. Blanched Julienne laces came entwined with skinny, raw ribbons of mandolined Sacramento Delta asparagus, sprinkled with furikake, in a bath of bonito butter. From the plate, an inviting perfume was immediately perceptible. An initial taste showed that the sweet, tender vegetable went very well with the salty, savoury sauce whose umami effect was enhanced by the nori, katsuobushi and toasted sesame seeds that the Japanese condiment atop was composed of; its seedy crunch was an additional benefit. The deep, beefy flavour of the frothy bonito lingered long on the tongue. Entrée 4: Mar y muntanya; vegetables with caviar. A crisp cabbage leaf, upon which were set stems of brocollini, was smeared over with fork-crushed kohlrabi and its sauce, densely dotted with Iranian Oscietra caviar. The aesthetic was arresting. Dark green rug and ridges, shrouded with paler paint punctuated with gleaming feldgrau beads mimicked, at once, both a mountain landscape (note the undulating aspect assumed by all the elements) and ocean scene (see the dynamic rhythm of the sauce and seaweed-esque vegetables). It also simultaneously had the semblance of something refined – luxurious caviar coupled with an exotic hybrid of broccoli and kai lan from faraway China – and something rustic – roots and puy lentil-like pearls. The savour was just as successful; the briny, silky subtle caviar, prepared malossol (slightly salted) married with the gentle sweetness and firmness of the greens; there was also a nutty note running through the long stems and roe. A small detail, easily missed, was that this was a clever play on crucifers, what with cabbage, brocollini and kohlrabi all belonging to the same family. Entrée 5: Into the vegetable garden…Scattered, deep periwinkle blue borage blossoms, pink-fringed radish flowers and colourful orange Crystanthemum ones caught the eye from a cluster of variegated vegetable roots, stems, shoots, seeds, buds and leaves that satisfied every shade of green across the spectrum; a trail of heaped crushed chicory and hazelnut suggested an appropriate starting point on the plate. Hand-picked just that morning, having made the short journey to the kitchen never even seeing the inside of a refrigerator, the produce was as fresh as possible. Indeed though no longer living, the last vestiges of life lingered in each legume and leaf – a romantic image maybe – but they had been assembled to inspire an idea of what first light at the farm that very morn must have been like: the greens, of course, represented the plants and the chicory-hazelnut signified the soil, but there was also a delightful and appreciated attention to detail with the intermingling, melting emulsion, made from the vegetables’ cooking juices and designed to act as that dawn’s dew. Eating was exploring. As one gathers food onto their fork, one must prod, separate, push away and uncover with their cutlery. The frothy mist fizzes and hisses as one digs into the dish, imitating the crackling of leaves one would hear as they walked around the garden. Each forkful is a new discovery: the first bite brings peppery baby rocket, succulent New Zealand spinach and sweet pea shoots together; the second, piquant glory frisee mustard, cooling spearmint and tart pansy flowers; a third… Then, beneath the foliage, there are larger elements hidden, like green onion and fingerling potato, as well as the bitter dirt and assorted purées of turnip and carrot that form the cohesive chords that bind every bite. Entrée 6: Abalone in its own bouillon, seaweed persillade. Placed in the centre of a bright orange pool of its own broth, a whole Monterey Bay abalone, sautéed in beurre noisette, was glazed in wakame and sea lettuce persillade dressed with champagne vinegar. The rusty-coloured mollusc was, like the octopus before, juicy and yielding; Turks have a term for cooking such as this, ‘lokum gibi’. It had also absorbed the flavours of the salty-peppery topping that teamed nicely with the inherent honeyedness left behind by the brown butter, whilst the touch of subtly acidic champagne had an uplifting effect. A small surprise came from the inclusion of a little xanthum gum in the rich bouillon, which gave it a viscidity that imitated the texture of the abalone in a very intriguing and eye-catching way. Entrée 7: Atlantic cod with fava beans, cod tripe. An Atlantic cod kokotxa was coupled with the cod’s tripe in an olive oil emulsion with fava beans, peas, their shoots and their flowers. A Basque speciality, kokotxas are actually the jowl of cod or hake and highly prized. And rightly so – they are delicate, gelatinous and utterly delicious. The equally unctuous tripa made this an even more decadent treat. The sweetness of the greens was a pleasing complement, whilst their crisp crunch, a very nice contrast. The intense sauce, thickened with the fat from the fish, had a lovely olive oil finish. Entrée 8: Vegetable risotto and spring peas, without rice… Peas and finely diced parsnip, Swede, turnip and kohlrabi, suffused with Arborio rice water, were accompanied by trumpet royale and trompette de la mort mushrooms, sautéed, fried and dried, in addition to fennel fronds and a mizzle of turnip milk foam. The root vegetables replicated the texture of rice rather well whilst some parmesan and the Arborio water supplied pleasing creaminess and a savoury relish that served as a counterpoint to their natural sweetness. The foam was a splash of sourness and the mushrooms varied the consistency, with the royales, meaty, plump and also nutty, standing out; this nuttiness also helped bring out similar savours in the vegetables and cheese. Plat Principal 1: Suckling kid goat, curds and whey. Mantled with an emulsion of bubbly alabaster goats’ whey, speckled with its curds, a braised cut of thigh from a baby goat lay buried. Along with their appetite, one’s humour and intellect are also fed here: the whey-curd coverlet concealed the contents beneath, thus building suspense and presenting the promise of something secret; its second purpose was to play its parts in the amusing faux-reformation of the kid – the white whey froth acting as its fluffy fur whilst the curds, the fat. The whey also worked to keep the meat moist while the slight salty-sourness of the soured milk mellowed the mild gaminess of the goat as it, through juxtaposition, also brought out its inherent, youthful sweetness. The young kid, raised locally by an English lady no less, at Harley Farms Goat Dairy in Pescadero, was so tender that each fleshy fibre separated strand by strand. Incorporating the goat’s flesh with its own milk was simple yet intuitive and clever. Whilst awaiting the next course, we were showed the slow-roasted saddle of lamb that would soon follow. Rich mahogany and glimmering, it was presented with a fresh, green patina of parsley, thyme and garlic that bore testament to the season. This premium cut, always apt on special occasions, was evidence of the kitchen’s butchery expertise. Plat Principal 2: Spring lamb, assorted spiced alliums, green garlic panisse. From platter to plate, Don Watson’s Napa valley spring lamb had been carved and served with a vibrant quenelle of assorted alliums, an intact ramp, pair of green garlic panisses and a confit slice of lamb tongue; ras el hanout garnished the ingredients. It was from this bespoke blend of unbeknown herbs and spices from the ‘top of the [chef’s] shop’ that an exotic, enticing aroma emanated. The milk-fed lamb’s cerise coloured flesh, thinly coated in almost amber adipose, was tender – no steak knife was needed – subtle and an excellent stage for the rich savours of the Moroccan mixture. The melange of ramp, leek and garlic was pleasantly creamy whilst the coarse and chubby chickpea-garlic fritters, having absorbed the meaty jus, were just scrumptious. This dish was superficially a fusion of Mediterranean cuisines, namely those of southern France and northern Africa. Provençal flavours – garlic, thyme, chickpeas, rosemary, lavender, leeks, lamb – abounded on the same plate as panisse, the predominant street food of Marseilles, the most prominent city of Provence. Ras el hanout, a Maghrebi concoction, was almost an aberration, but on second consideration, it may have been an inspired representation of the cosmopolitan melting pot that this same city is. Marseilles was the main port that linked France to her Muslim colonies and so now harbours a large number of immigrants from these lands, who have undoubtedly brought with them their own cooking cultures, which over time would have melded with the native one to possibly create recipes very much like this. One cannot help but also wonder whether the inclusion of panisse was some sort of ambiguous allusion to the restaurant of the same name… Dessert 1: Exotic citrus with honey and spices. A covey of various citric supremes, all sauced in fennel frond-infused Meyer lemon rind purée and atop Corsican lemon curd, was covered in granité of oroblanco pomelo beneath spearmint ice cream and a crown of orange tuile. The underlying set of segments, supplied by Gene Lester, from his collection of exotic and unusual citrus in Watsonville, and which included rare breeds like temple tangor (tangerine-orange hybrid) and wikiwatangelo (tangerine-pomelo and grapefruit), were especially juicy with a tart-sweetness that was amplified by the acidic, sticky lemons and sweet pomelo ice. The ice cream was fresh and cooling, whilst the tasty tuile added crunch. Dessert 2: Do you know what it means to miss New Orleans? Bisected banana, its sliced-open crust caramelised, came with espresso reduction, pralines, their ice cream, chicory cream and milk coffee foam; alongside arrived powdered beignets. This dessert, bringing new meaning to the term home sweet home, was a curtsy from the chef to the Big Easy and possibly more precisely Café au Monde, the coffee shop that sits within the city’s French quarter and is celebrated for its café au lait and beignets. In addition to these, the other flavours for which New Orleans is famous were also here: the banana (referencing bananas Foster) was rather firm, too firm, with a hard, brittle top; the pralines, the recipe for which was brought to the area by Acadian settlers ousted from Canada, whom replaced traditional almond for local pecan, were nutty-sweet and crunchy; and the mildly bitter and sharpish chicory, which, blended with coffee, is a Cajun custom. The beignets (the official doughnut of said state) were hot, sugary and airy, dissolving on the lips into a paste; we begged demanded politely asked for more. Petit Fours: “Strawberry-chocolate”. Manresa’s signature petit fours – chocolate madeleine and strawberry paté de fruit – were served on a thick, rustic rough slate slab. A reminiscence of the meal’s commencement, these little treats of thick, warm madeleine with excellent crispy edge and nicely-flavoured, smooth jelly, informs the diner that dinner is about to end in the sweetest way possible. Migniardises 1: Armagnac and tobacco truffle. Before one leaves, they are offered homemade chocolate truffles of Armagnac and tobacco. Thin, crisp coats encased a thick liquid core. From within, the imbued brandy makes itself known straightaway, coming through strongly, but it fades and leaves behind a tingly spiciness from the tobacco. Migniardises 2: Salted butter caramels. As a final souvenir, salty caramels were doled out at the door from a large glass urn. Slowly melting in the mouth, thick yet not heavy or sticky, they were perfectly balanced in savour and perhaps the best caramels I have ever eaten. Service was superb. Throughout dinner – and we were the first to arrive and last to leave – all the staff were welcoming, hospitable and attentive. Led by Michael Kean, general manager, and Esteban Garibay, maître d'hôtel, everyone was diligent, efficient and well-choreographed – maybe not surprisingly so given the years of experience they each have and Michael’s previous life as a professional dancer. Both were friendly and endearing, engaging us with conversation, but also taking the time to visit our table and ask our thoughts. Our serveur, Bryan, was particularly impressive, showing great patience, good humour and meticulous knowledge of the dishes. There was also tremendous generosity in both spirit and practise, which sincerely made dinner more of a celebration than simply a meal. The restaurant had an excellent atmosphere. Everyone wore a smile with people clearly in a good mood and very relaxed – guests at an adjacent table even started a dialogue with us. On a warm night, with good cooking and good company, in a pretty villa on the other side of the world, it was all rather convincing and very charming. The meal began with a series of small dainties designed to whet the appetite. Kinch prescribes to same thinking that I do: amuses are a chance to have fun, experiment, to agitate and tease or, in his concise words, ‘throw you a curve ball’. There is no necessary pattern to what ensues, but that is precisely his point, ‘it's to make you think, 'what's coming next?’ Thus, today we toured the Continent, from Italy (grissini) to Spain (gazpacho) to France (l’Arpège egg) with our taste buds enticed with things sweet, savoury, sour and spicy and our minds amused and confused. With the yuzu and…mackerel dish, dinner moved into another gear. The flavours here, crystal clear, big and bold, startled and thrilled. And this was only the first in a string of plates that provoked, pleased and impressed. The asparagus in bonito butter possessed layers of fascinating savour and supplied a strong umami slap. The mar y muntanya was graceful, refined and full-flavoured whilst testing the intellect, inducing and seducing one’s imagination. Straight after that stimulating course came another maybe even more so – ‘into the vegetable garden…’ This dish is definitive of David Kinch’s cuisine and the most obvious manifestation of his farm-to-fork philosophy. The chef has one rule: if it arrived from the garden, then it had to be on the plate. Therefore, each ingredient is both symbolic of Love Apple Farm and a tribute to it; and thus, it is also always changing, always evolving – so although the raw materials may not be, the recipe certainly is alive. The allure of this dish is that it develops day to day, diner to diner. Initially inspired by Bras’ gargouillou (except for the dirt, which came courtesy of Redzepi), it was first a ‘reflection of the garden’, but has since grown into more, a ‘concept of a sense of place’; no longer a mirror, it is an edible translation of Manresa’s terroir. Kinch, like Daniel Patterson, has often spoken out in opposition to the proclivity of Bay Area chefs to depend solely on their produce, without being creative – earning the area a reputation (amongst East Coasters especially) for producing good shoppers, rather than good chefs. With this dish, it almost appears as though he is practising exactly what he preaches against. But not so. Without doubt built upon a foundation of superior materias primas, it is the subtle details and nuances that make this much more than a sum of its parts – much more than a salad. It is tasty – but Bryan did tell us, ‘what grows together, goes together’ – yet also interesting, interactive and so emphatic. Over the years, Kinch has simplified the formula and enriched the ‘experience’. Initial incarnations included gnocchi and burrata, but as the garden has grown, these have been stripped away, leaving only the fruit of the farm’s labour – it is as if the cooks, having run their fingers through the bushes, through the soil, have emptied their hands out onto empty plates… After these mental manipulations came arguably the tastiest course of all – Atlantic cod with fava beans. A mingling of Catalan and Basque staples, this fatty, unctuous and rare delicacy was simple and simply beautiful – bright green against bright white. It was also utterly indulgent. The cooking, precise and skilled, was informed by the chef’s comprehensive culinary experiences and preferences. It was a gastronomic journey that revealed where Kinch has been and what he has liked. Tonight, the ambience, scene and the service, all came together with the food, to deliver an excellent and exciting evening that was instantly and sincerely memorable. And there remains more to be said.

Well, I wouldn't know about that, but they use the same crockery as Stella Maris.

What she said

Cheers! No, unfortunately I have not. Indeed, Hiro did work under him before Masa moved to NYC. From what I hear, although the food is at the very least comparable, the 'experience' is not always as pleasurable.

Of course it is. And that's why I picked it. If I had gone with l'Ambroisie, well... P.S. Cheers, food1. Been here the whole time, just indulgently reading without responding

Just regarding this point...I was always under the impression that costs are higher in Paris - for ingredients, for staff - then in London. Taking l'Astrance say, it is E190 for dinner (~£175), that is only £65 more than GR. And it does not turn tables. And it has only 25ish covers.

I may be wrong/out-of-date, but the last time I was at l'Astrance, in January, for lunch, it was EUR70/120/190 for 3/5/7 courses... Definitely one of the best value 3* lunches in Paris. l'Arpege has an 8-course menu for EUR135.

Cheers, Carolyn. That is a true shame! I have been enjoying reading about your latest eating too and look forward to the Bazaar write up.

Hi, I ate at Urasawa in April. Please click here for full commentary and photography: HERE Irashaimase! This is the traditional welcome with which Hiro-san greets the guests that enter his eponymous Los Angeles restaurant. It is a restaurant with a short story that starts with a notorious Japanese chef who, born in Tochigi, moved to Tokyo to work at the legendary Ginza Sushi-ko. In 1980 he left for LA and, after a few years there, he opened, with his former mentor’s permission, his own Ginza Sushi-ko. He became the most famous sushi chef in America with a reputation for superior sourcing – much of his ingredients were flown in straight from Tokyo’s Tsukiji Market – and for superior prices. He soon gained a name, fame and widespread following. One fan was Thomas Keller, who happened to be opening a second venture in New York City’s new Time Warner Centre and, through an agreement with the site’s developer, was able to hand pick which chefs would be permitted to share the building with him. He was Keller’s first choice and, in early 2004, was convinced to trade in Beverley Hills for Manhattan and a spot conveniently doors down from Keller’s Per Se. His name was Masayoshi Takayama (affectionately known as Masa). However, Masa was unable to manage two residences, so sold his former sushi-ko to his former ‘sous chef’. His name was Hiroyuki Urasawa. Originally from Tokyo, where he grew up in the kitchen of his father’s Chinese restaurant before going onto Kyoto to learn the art of Kaiseki, Hiro-san immigrated to America in the early nineties. His first job was as Masa’s second and lasted until his mentor moved on and he bought the place, which to this day remains his sole professional address in the States – and where he claims he is ‘staying forever’. As chef-patron, he changed the name and expanded the menu from straight sushi to kaiseki-sushi, but continues to hold immense respect for his former teacher, proudly telling diners ‘Masa is most expensive restaurant in the country’ and regularly revealing, ‘this is where Masa worked’, as he points to where he presently stands himself, adding, ‘…and that is where I was’, as he points to his left, where his silent number two now toils. This happens to be his brother-in-law, Ken; it is actually a family affair as his sister handles the service with even their mother getting involved, bringing over ingredients unavailable in America when she visits. It is his mother, in fact, whom he describes as his favourite chef. Hiro-san has earned a reputation as an exceedingly passionate and skilled itamae, as well as a great host – humble and welcoming, gracious and generous, guests only ever have good things to say about him. In 2007, Urasawa was recognised by Michelin, who awarded him two stars. Interestingly enough, of all the congratulations that came his way afterwards, he kept just one, a letter from Keller, who has not yet eaten at Urasawa, but did go to Ginza Sushi-ko whilst Hiro-san was assistant (although they never spoke) – his esteem for this chef is circuitous proof of the regard that student still retains for teacher. He admits that ‘food is my life’ and is clearly dedicated to his discipline, which has even led him to run-ins with the law. He is one of only two cooks licensed to handle fugu in the States (it is easy to guess the other…), but the fish has been banned in California; Hiro-san served it nonetheless and, when fined, continued to offer it under an assumed name until he was fined again and threatened with the closure of his business. The restaurant resides at two Rodeo Drive. There is no discernable proof of its presence until one enters the elevator that is required to reach its spot sitting atop an underground parking complex and high-end shopping centre; Jimmy Choo, Gucci, Smythson, Tiffany et al. have to share the first floor, whilst Urasawa holds the whole of the second by itself. A winding corridor wends its way to a dimly lit reception where, in the far corner, pearly noren curtains punctuated only by black kanji calligraphy, just about betray a sliding wooden door. Inside, the entire interior is immediately visible. Seating is limited to ten and available by reservation only – Hiro-san wants to ensure he does not over-stretch himself – with a small private room to the left that caters for four more. Glossy, brushed, aquamarine green walls; light elm wood ceiling; irregular pastel navy quadrilaterals tiling the floor; and a large window along the right wall, frame a space dominated by the actual sushi bar. This honey-hued, L-shaped counter of cypress is surrounded by dark blue satin cloth-covered chairs in front and a colourful, traditional takenomo behind. Within it, Hiro-san, dressed in charcoal grey haori and wooden clogs, works on the left, where a considerable chopping board can be found as can the itamae’s custom-made Japanese blade; seafood sits on ice on the right or in a tank under the counter; and the beef, tamago and small notepad in which the chef records guests’ names, rests on the table that runs along the back of the bar. Beyond the far wall, a surprisingly spacious kitchen is partitioned off. At each place setting, there is but a white linen napkin laid with chopsticks and little porcelain rest plus a lacquered black box of carved toothpicks and dark bamboo coaster. The crockery that comes later has been specially selected by Hiro-san during return trips to Japan with some pieces hundreds of years old. Although clothed on this visit, when undressed, names may be seen attached to the back of the chairs – these belong to special members who invested in the business when it was just beginning. The décor has not changed much since Masa’s day. Neutral, natural and minimalist, it forms a tranquil and functional environment that allows diners to focus on eating and on the experience. Light floods in from the large window, but as it lies behind guests, one still feels detached and apart from the city outside. There is no menu. This is omakase dining – the chef will decide, depending on what was best at the market that day, what will be served that evening. There are several amusing anecdotes around including one of Ricky Martin’s manager begging on the phone for a spicy tuna roll to be added to the menu and another of Janet Jackson leaving when refused a spider roll. Hiro-san does not make such concessions. He simply asks whether there is anything one cannot or will not eat. And it begins. Kaiseki 1: Toro-senmaizuke maki. Two bundles, each assembled with a slice of seared toro, wrapped around a sliver of ankimo, scallion and shiso leaf and enwrapped with strips of senmai-zuki, were both crowned with Oscietra caviar and sitting in a pool of shallow ponzu sauce in a suspended bowl of gold. Crisp, pickled shoguin kabu or Kyoto turnip complimented the fatty tuna belly, whose flavour had been enhanced by the gentle application of a little heat. These contrasting textures were mimicked within by the crunchy scallions and creamy monkish liver, which was reminiscent of foie gras. The caviar added a brininess that was balanced by the citric sharp sauce which, with the maki consumed, was finished straight from the plate. Kaiseki 2: Goma dofu; Kyoto style. A large dumpling, plaited at its crest and topped with hand-grated wasabi from Shizuoka and twenty-two carat gold leaf, was stuffed with sea urchin from Hokkaido and set in its traditional sauce. Goma dofu, meaning sesame tofu, is a Buddhist temple, or shojin-ryori, recipe that actually involves no soy, but is instead made from water, ground sesame paste and thickened with kudzu root powder. The result is a surprisingly light, yet thick consistency and subtle, delicate taste. The rich uni within offered sweetness, whilst without, the fresh wasabi’s enlivening effect worked well. The urchin was also highlighted by the salty, sweet and faintly fishy flavours of the soy, mirin and bonito dashi, which was again cool and delicious. Kaiseki 3: Sashimi; kanpachi, toro, uni. Amidst a tray of mixed stones rested a circular ice sculpture with diagonally winding serrated edges, hewn that very morning by Hiro-san himself, holding an orchid leaf layered with a pair of kanpachi fillets from Toyama, a couple of tranches of toro and sea urchin tongues from Santa Barbara. The itamae had arranged the sashimi, whist his assistant, Ken, assembled the condiments and adornments – more fresh wasabi from Shizuoka (its legendary origin), red cabbage, Kyoto carrot, nori, daikon leaves and an ivory orchid flower, its leaves tinged with crimson. Starting with the lightest fish first, the pristine coils of amberjack, in ascending hues of pink, from alabaster to cerise, were tender and light; the Wakayama (where it was first created) soy sauce supplied separately and sweet and spicy wasabi came in handy here. Then, firm, coral pink tuna belly resembled well-marbled steak and was very tasty. Finally, very intense and very creamy, the uni was incredible. It was during the last course that Hiro-san expressed his dissatisfaction with my chopstick technique. Although my own style had suited me effectively for some years already, the master proceeded to show me the correct method; not at all shy, he manoeuvred my fingers into their rightful positions with his. I was just glad we were alone at the sushi bar… Kaiseki 4: Yuba chawanmushi. Hiro-san’s rendition of this classic Japanese savoury egg custard was a treasure trove – an unusually translucent skin revealed the custom-made cup to be crammed full of hairy crab, sea urchin, red snapper, shrimp, shitake, mitsuba, yuba, squash and gingko nuts, all in a half-egg, half-dashi blend flavoured with ginger, soy sauce and mirin. After allowing a few photographs to be taken, Hiro-san stirred the cup through himself, breaking the jellied surface and mixing it with the liquid dashi and underlying contents. The resulting soup was hot, syrupy and gelatinous with the eclectic elements making each spoonful a different and dynamic one. The shellfish was meaty and distinct with the hairy crab, a Shanghai delicacy and considered the finest and purest flavoured of its species, standing out especially. Drawing further on Chinese culture, the chef, in order to counter the cooling effect (yin) on the body that this crab is considered to have, used ginger, a yang ingredient (with warming properties), whose gentle spice settled nicely with the subtle smokiness of the bonito broth, sweet mirin and refreshing, bitter mitsuba. The gingko nuts and yuba made the dish as texturally interesting. Kaiseki 5: Tempura; spring vegetables. Three flaky, golden yellow nuggets of assorted tempura arrived upon a burnished dish lined emphatically with white paper and accompanied with a mini mound of grated daikon, tipped with ginger, besides a decorative bowl of tentsuyu sauce. The seasonal selection consisted of taranome (Japanese Angelica) in uni paste; fukinoto (butterbur) with Kyoto miso; and take (bamboo) root in a blanket of shrimp purée. Hiro-san showed the way once again, reaching over the counter, lifting the daikon-ginger stack with his chopsticks and depositing it in the soy, mirin and dashi dipping sauce before stirring it through. Every piece was flawlessly fried – although this fact was already evinced by the still-stainless paper padding the plate. The thick cut of taranome had a slightly bitter flavour that found its precise counterpoint in the sweetness of the sea urchin and batter. The same balancing act was repeated just as skilfully with the couplings of fibrous fukinoto-white miso and crunchy bamboo-shrimp. The vegetables were all exceedingly fresh and each symbolic of spring’s onset; this applied especially to the butterbur, which in Japan, is considered an essential omen of the coming season, whilst angelica is also thought to be the best exemplar of tempura. The single most memorable detail of this dish was the consummate structure of each morsel; the tender vegetable at the centre was coated in crisp, brittle batter whilst in betwixt these two there remained a succulent, pasty layer that though cooked through, was left untouched by the oil. The fantastic effect of this redefined my understanding of what tempura ought to be and it would not be hyperbole to assert that I now accept that I have never eaten serious tempura before eating it at Urasawa. Kaiseki 6: Hoba Yaki; wagyu, takenoko, Santa Barbara spot prawn. A portable hibachi was set up on the counter for this meibutsu from Takayama; upon it, over warm coals, lay a large, umber hoba leaf laden with a cube of Kagoshima black beef, block of bamboo shoot tip and candy-striped Santa Barbara spot prawn, all immersed in amber tama miso. Immediately, the magnolia, often described as the aristocrat of the plant world, emitted a welcoming scent whilst its bounty was already ready to eat. The beef, from cattle stock raised on a diet of sweet potato and spirits, rich in fat with creamy almost sweet taste, was an excellent specimen. It was followed by bamboo shoot that had almost melted into grainy thickness and whose sweetness was testament to the quality of Hiro-san’s supply lines – takenoko starts to turn hard and somewhat bitter as soon as it is dug up – and finished with the semi-cooked shrimp that remained sapid, firm and juicy. As good as these were though, the real brilliance here subsisted in the almost hollandaise-like (but much better) sauce of Kyoto miso, egg yolk, soy, sake, spring onions and mirin. Intense, spicy-sweet, salty-rich and with a nice sake hit, this velvet syrup was simply delicious. Kaiseki 7: Shabu shabu; hotate, wagyu, goose foie gras. The hibachi stayed for the succeeding course, but the hoba leaf was substituted for a small steel basin bearing kombu dashi; a bowl of scallion-infused tosazu sauce as well as raw scallop, Kagoshima black beef, goose foie gras and kombu also appeared alongside. This was the shabu shabu course. Story has it that this dish was first conceived of over seven hundred years ago by none other than Genghis Khan so that he might feed his Mongol Horde; Hiro-san, as an homage to his mentor, still serves Masa-san’s shabu shabu and, in fact, it remains the only ever-present on his menu. Incidentally, if the reputation that precedes Masayoshi Takayama is to be trusted, this may well not be the first time his and Genghis’ names have found themselves in the same sentence. Daniel-san did the decent thing and accepted responsibility for the actual cooking. First into the hot broth, the amount of which the chef adjusts according to the size of the diner, he lowered the foie gras; this is always the initial ingredient in as it requires the longest time to cook whilst also enriching the stock and thus, the subsequent scallop and beef with its own flavour. Some kelp and the shellfish were added next, with the latter removed merely moments later and placed in the tepid soy-vinegar-bonito-mirin sauce; evenly cooked, it was smooth and supple. The thin slice of A5 grade beef followed; this was swirled through the dashi – so inducing the onomatopoeic sounds that the shabu shabu takes its title from – quickly warming the well-marbled wagyu to melt-in-the-mouth malleability. It was a nice contrast to the firm, clean hotate. Finally, the foie was lifted out. Soft and buttery, but still intact, the flavour was startlingly subtle. Its livery intensity had been exchanged for the soup’s savoury richness, but not lost – beads of foie oil essence floated visibly in the broth. So that nought ought to go to waste, a spoon was called for and, with the tosazu poured in, it made for a hot, salty, sharp and satisfying drink of umami. The end of the kaiseki and start of the sushi was signalled by the setting of a lacquered wooden board between the itamae and myself and the appearance of gari. These tasty thin strips of young ginger that had been marinated in sugar and vinegar by Hiro-san, in house, were spicy, citrusy and refreshing; they were provided as a palate cleanser to be enjoyed between nigiri. For his sushi, Hiro-san likes koshihikari rice, a Japanese super premium short-grain strain noted for its unique consistency, aroma and natural sweetness. He also likes less of it, claming to use only one-hundred-and-eighty grains with each nigiri – which though seemingly too specific a figure to be sincere, such is the chef’s skill and meticulous technique that one is obliged to think twice before questioning it – and thereby increasing the tane-shari ratio in favour of the former. In his preparation of every sushi piece, Hiro-san does all the work for the diner. Taking the topping, applying crucial cuts with his custom knives, he fuses it with the warmth of his hands to the rice he takes a portion at a time from the continually refilled hangiri sitting close by and adds a smear of wasabi, splash of soy or shred of yuzu skin – each tane needs its own unique blend of these condiments to bring out what is inherently best about it. The primed morsel is presented before the guest with the minimum of effort left for them to exert before they can enjoy it. Nigiri 1: Otoro. If one imagines tuna belly to be divided into three parts, this is from the lowest and fattiest segment and so considered the tastiest. A pretty shade of rose, this was as fresh as it could be and, served cool instead of cold, simply melted away on the tongue. Nigiri 2: Kama toro. Cut from the tuna’s collar, this seared specimen was doubly special; the collar makes up less than a single percentage of the fish’s entire body, making this rather rare; and as it is from an area that regularly receives a lot of blood flow, it is naturally rich in meaty flavour. The cooking left the meat creamy with a faint crust, whilst citric yuzu and salty soy worked well with its light chariness. Nigiri 3: Kanpachi. Shimmering, semi-see-through section of Amberjack, bright rouge diffused through and embellished with a skinny border of silver, was refined and delicate with unexpected bite. Nigiri 4: Seki Aji. Fruity and spicy horse mackerel had some oily richness, but was well balanced by a bit of wasabi heat. Its texture was pleasingly firm. Nigiri 5: Tai. Shingled ripples of milky muscle were rimmed with florescent pink and peppered with bright yellow yuzu rind, which enlivened the mild savour of this so-called ‘king of fishes’ whilst its dense and sleek yet sinewy, cartilage-like consistency was very interesting. This breed is at its best in spring. Nigiri 6: Maguro. Bluefin tuna is a favourite and sushi staple across the world. The radiant crimson was creamy and had robust, beefy flavour refreshed with a trace of soy sauce and the buzz of wasabi. Nigiri 7: Shima aji. Two ethereal, translucent layers of lustrous pearly-blond skin, reinforced with reddish meat, were slightly sweet and slightly oily. Nigiri 8: Shitake. The mushroom sushi was something of a surprise, but welcome indeed. A shitake mushroom, smoked over open charcoal until its ivory flesh coloured goldenrod, was then sprinkled with yuzu and sliced into two; each half crowned a triangle of pearly rice. Meaty, smoky, earthy and aromatic, these moist morsels were very tasty. Nigiri 9: Kohada. Silver, glossy gizzard shad, its surface slit repeatedly to reveal pastel pink as well as to allow the tane to sit comfortably atop the rice, was tender in texture and strong in taste, though tempered with citrus. A cousin to herring and mackerel, it is a fishy-flavoured variety that requires curing with salt and washing with rice vinegar, however this preparation was applied with pleasing subtlety. Nigiri 10: Shiro ebi. These tiny white shrimp, totalling about twenty per tane, are a speciality from Toyama Prefecture. Once on the tongue, the cluster disentangles and dissolves into a sweet, shellfish paste. Nigiri 11: Mategai. To prove its freshness, Hiro-san stretched the razor clam flat out upon the wooden worktop then tapped it. It stood to attention and then attempted to curl itself up again. Supple with bite, the flavour was sweet and citrusy. Nigiri 12: Sayori. With sterling skin and lucent meat sandwiching a ribbon of rosy red dermis, the slender, narrow needlefish was wrought into an intricate coil inside a small bow. This lovely example had great texture and a subtle savour that was sharpened with a little soy sauce. Sayori is very seasonal and another sign that spring is coming. Nigiri 13: Toro. Tuna belly is widely considered the king of sushi ingredients and often serves as a benchmark with which to compare one sushi-ko to another. Hiro-san’s pretty pink piece was thin yet fatty and carried considerable flavour. Nigiri 14: Saba. A Kyoto special, metallic mackerel has serious fishy flavour, accentuated with only with a touch of wasabi. This specimen showed off the itamae’s skill as its oily flesh breaks apart easily as it is cut. Nigiri 15: Uni. Two tangerine tinted tongues of Santa Barbara sea urchin superimposed this sushi. Meltingly soft, surprisingly sweet and superbly rich, the uni was utterly yummy. Nigiri 16: Mirugai. The geoduck clam, seasoned with soy, yuzu and wasabi, carried skinny straight cuts that had been made to tenderise the stiffer meat. The result was a fibrous crunchiness that bore subtle, briny sweetness. Nigiri 17: Awabi. Hiro-san, taking the whole mollusc, meticulously whittled it down until a single sliver remained; after carefully shaping the piece and criss-crossing its surface with his sharp blade, he applied some soy sauce and yuzu to it. Although tenderised by the scoring, the abalone had some crunch, though less than the mirugai before it. The flavour came mainly from the zesty citrus. Nigiri 18: Hotate. Lightly etched scallop, creamy and soft, was drizzled with a little anago no tsume and yuzu. This sauce, a nitsume, is a sweet glaze made from the broth used to poach sea eel, soy sauce, sugar and mirin. Rich and thick, this delicious syrup was a pleasing contrast to the clean scallop and tart yuzu. Maki: Hotate-negitoro maki. First, Hiro-san demonstrated his deft knife work once again by carving a perfect line off from the circumference of the scallop in a single, seamless motion as he wheeled the shellfish, upright on its side, along his cutting board. He then carefully prepared the hosomaki, adding rice, the hotate, toro and finally scallions to the nori wrapping before rolling the makisu and dividing the entire cylinder into six even sections. Each light, dainty roll tendered an assortment of textures – pasty, creamy, soft, grainy, leafy, crunchy – with satisfyingly firm scallop and fatty tuna. Nigiri 19: Aji no tataki. Spanish mackerel was not readily available in old Edo, thus it had to be enjoyed as tataki or sashimi and aided by extra condiments to freshen its flavour; here Hiro-san continues this custom, dicing his aji and binding it with Kyoto miso to scallion, shiso and ginger. The oily richness of the fish was cut with the anise-tang of the shiso as the ginger’s spice worked well with the mackerel’s strong savour whilst miso added complexity and a little sweetness. Nigiri 20: Gyu tataki. Kagoshima black beef was sliced thinly and laid over a brazier for literally moments before being given a lick of yuzu. The amaranth ration of adipose mingled with a little muscle was meltingly good like beef butter with an underlying wasabi warmth and citrus zing. Nigiri 21: Toro suji. A flaky, meaty seared serving of tuna belly sinew was scrumptious; the heat had softened the fat and tendons and left behind a toothsome smokiness that complemented the innately concentrated beefy flavour of the belly. Nigiri 22: Anago. Another ingredient that is at its best in spring, sea eel is an excellent indication of the itamae’s ability, but also taste as each sushi-ko prepares, cooks and serves it slightly differently. At Urasawa, parboiled then grilled, it arrives already ready from the kitchen; Hiro-san subsequently un-skewers the meat and applies the same tsume that was tasted on the scallop and a little grated yuzu. The result was rich, sticky, sweet and hot. Cooked and heavy, this moreish morsel was bittersweet as it signalled that the end was nigh. Nigiri 23: Atsuyaki Tamago. And indeed it was. Tamago is the last of Hiro-san’s sushi treats. Composed primarily of egg with the addition of sugar, mirin, shrimp paste and possibly yam or bonito broth or both and cooked for several hours, the outcome was excellent. From the makiyakinabe it was baked in, with surgical precision Hiro-san removed a small, square sponge; thanks to its dense, compact bright crumb and curving, tanned top coat, one may mistake it for kasutera or Madeira cake. It is smooth, silky and misleadingly light yet strongly sapid with subtle, complex sweetness. Tamago is a traditional test of the itamae’s talent. Suddenly, a gasp from Hiro-san. He had realised that he had forgotten one nigiri. Nigiri 24: Amaebi. Presenting the candy-striped Santa Barbara spot prawn still alive, Hiro-san swiftly separated its head from its body. This specimen, considered the finest shrimp on the West Coast, was laced with a little soy as well as a special sauce made from the shrimp’s cerebral matter. The many filaments that made up the spot prawn gave the tane a teasing initial crunch that soon turned into a tender, milky sweet paste. Having been swimming in an icy bath, the cold meat contrasted nicely with the milder shari. Out of sight, out of mind. The chef stores those shellfish underneath his counter, so the fact that he had failed to remember it was understandable and also forgivable as it afforded me a second sample of the tamago. Nigiri 25: Atsuyaki Tamago. Still tasty. A bright blue plate bearing the first dessert was brought out. It was an awkward moment. I was having too much fun and was not ready for dessert. Unsure of what to do or whether I would indeed be offending in some way, I decided to sound out Daniel-san before saying anything to Hiro-san. After telling the latter that ‘I want more’, his advice was straightforward – ‘tell Hiro’. So I did. ‘What would you like’, he asked. ‘Take it from the top’… Nigiri 26: Toro. Nigiri 27: Kama toro. Nigiri 28: Kanpachi. Nigiri 29: Aji. Nigiri 30: Tai. Wondering what nigiri to serve me next, Hiro-san stopped, smiled and asked, ‘you like uni, yes?’ I nodded involuntarily. Nigiri 31: Uni. Nigiri 32: Mategai. Nigiri 33: Maguro. Nigiri 34: Shima-aji. Nigiri 35: Kohada. Nigiri 36: Shiro ebi. Nigiri 37: Awabi. Nigiri 38: Toro suji. Nigiri 39: Gyu tataki. Nigiri 40: Amaebi. Nigiri 41: Atsuyaki Tamago. A third taste of tamago and desserts were allowed to start. Dessert 1: papaya with jelly grapefruit; yamamomo. Pink jellied grapefruit, forming immaculately set ersatz crowns atop semi-sliced segments of a wedge of yellow papaya, lay upon dark green, tear-drop orchid leaf alongside a maroon Japanese mountain peach cooked in citrus and honey, on an undulating azure blanket-like rhombus. The smooth grapefruit and ripe papaya pairing was sweet and sour, reflecting the inherent contrast in savour within the juicy yamamomo. This cleansed the palate whilst aiding digestion – papaya contains the enzyme papain that helps the body process proteins. Dessert 2: Goma Pudding; organic matcha tea. A small bowl, its contents composed of a maroon canvas speckled with chestnut crumbs and topped with sesame seeds and twenty-two carat foil, was accompanied by a chawan several times bigger that bore frothy matcha tea of bright, pastel shades. The goma grains beneath the gold leaf gave away what had been buried under the azuki bean paste – the agreeably grainy an, sweet and nutty, struck a common note with the crunchy chestnut, and silky, toasty sesame pudding below. The tea, prepared with ritual and routine by Hiro-san – after adding warm water to dried, ground tencha leaves, he deliberately blends the brew with a bamboo chasen until a uniform and desired consistency is reached – balanced the sweetness of the pudding with bitter vegetal earthiness. Cha: Hojicha. A second, light tea ended dinner. Roasting the green tea leaves, which Hiro-san does himself, leaves the hojicha with less astringency than the matcha before it with toasted and nutty notes that stirred up the lingering savours of the sesame dessert. The process also lowers its caffeine content, making this a customary after-meal tea. Arriving at two Rodeo Drive, the suspense and excitement at what awaits is immediately felt. The ensuing enlistment of an elevator, hardly everyday, elevates one’s emotions, as well as of course one’s self and already hints that what follows will be anything but average. Reaching the right floor and forced to find one’s way to the actual entrance only lifts the level of anticipation even further. In a far corner, beyond hanging noren curtains, one is beckoned by the opening of an opaque glass door. To enter the restaurant physically is to enter another realm ethereally. Busy and brassy, pressured, superficial, complicated and unclean, all that is urban LA is left behind and without. Once within, one is in Hiroyuki Urasawa’s world. Serene and clean and fresh, elemental and organic, honest and real. The contrast is simple and complete yet so innate and intuitive that it can be unappreciated. Hiro-san waits behind his sushi bar. He smiles and genuinely greets you. Introducing himself, he asks your name, which he notes down so that he shan’t forget it later. A touching gesture. It is the start of the relationship that enriches the omakase shimasu – ‘I leave it to you’ – experience that will come. From then till dinner’s end, one is in Hiro-san’s hands. Trained in traditional kaiseki back in Japan, before joining Masa’s sushi-ko, the itamae is equally well-versed in either style and therefore is able to offer a hybrid of both by incorporating nigiri into a contemporary and cosmopolitan kaiseki framework. The latter was developed over five-hundred years ago by Buddhist priests in Kyoto so that they would not take their tea on an empty stomach. Initially following the ichiju sansai formula of one (miso) soup and three additional plates, it evolved, effectively, into Japanese haute cuisine; formal dining featuring several choreographed courses, composed of seriously local and seasonal produce prepared precisely and presented beautifully, served in succession by reverent servers to guests in intimate, private rooms. The cuisine is all-consuming; it is about more than just taste, it is about aesthetics and emotions also. The food ought to move the diner, changing their state of mind and improving their well-being. Thus the same attention applied to the ingredients upon the plate is also paid to the plate itself – crockery is carefully selected and commonly consists of antiques that have passed down from generation to generation. The cooking asserts the season and the ceramics, as well as the garnishes that embellish them, adhere to it. As an entertaining aside, during the seventies, when the most influential French chefs of the day, including Bocuse, Senderens, Guérard and les frères Troisgros, visited Japan and discovered kaiseki, it became their inspiration for the menu dégustation. Hiro-san still depends on the fundamentals of kaiseki ryori, but has also introduced the sushi bar interaction between itamae and eater into the dining equation. Although he has fused these two schools together, each is delivered with reverence to ritual and in classical custom, with the best of both defining his own style. It is staunch seasonality that shapes and freshness that shepherds one’s Urasawa experience. Ingredients change constantly depending on the market and time of year – as it was April, this dinner boasted such symbols of spring as sayori, tai, hairy crab, fukinoto and even taranome, whose shun lasts just a fortnight or so. Hiro-san gets almost daily shipments of supplies from across the world, but Japan in particular; one can find the finest soy from Wakayama, best wasabi from Shizuoka and authentic Kobe beef here. However, he does not overlook localness and its importance within kaiseki. Hand-picked fish specially set aside for him, he picks up from International Marine Products and favours, for instance, spot prawns and uni from Santa Barbara. The chef claims that the sea urchins from here are of fairly similar standard to those from Hokkaido, but once the transport time from Japan is accounted for, the local variety delivers better. In fact, whether it be fish, meat, herb or leaf, the itamae is able to inform you confidently and proudly of its provenance. Presentation is principal: each dish and detail is deliberate and material; excess is non-existent; there is eloquence in the empty spaces. The very first plate – toro-senmaizuke maki – sent a message. Sakisuke – the first impression – and hassun – the overture – in one, this spoke, suggested, enchanted and satisfied. The advent of April coincides with the blooming of the cherry blossom (sakura), immensely iconic in Japan, and this dish served as an immediate reminder of the flower and that fact. It was the pale pink colour of the seared toro strips that struck me as a remarkably subtle yet mightily evocative reflection of the flowering cherry. The aesthetic impressed further. In Japan, pink is often paired with yellow to signify spring and so the carnation colour of the meat was matched with the blond bowl and brightness of the ankimo within both maki. The green leaf was yet another patent prompt that it was April. Aside from the time of year, this was also an intimation of what the meal would entail. Actually, more than even that, it was an education in kaiseki. It taught of ceremony, courtesy, grace, beauty, skill, finesse and delicacy, of elegant luxury. And deliciousness. Incidentally, although absolutely intentionally, the seasonality on one’s plate also persists physically throughout the restaurant. This was manifest, for example, by the half-a-dozen cherry blossoms sitting in a small vase in one corner and the display adorning the takenomo that mirrored the months – today golds, yellows and greens naturally dominated whilst a bushel of deutzia or utsigi took centre-stage (April’s equivalent in old Japanese was Uzuki, a short form for u-no-hana-zuki, meaning ‘when utsugi blossom’). The subsequent goma dofu was sweet deception. Unassuming and modest in appearance, seemingly dependent on gold foil to excite the eater, it was in fact an indication of the itamae’s effort and dedication, having taken long hours of labour to grind the sesame into such light paste. Indeed it was found doubly-devious as the humble dofu had, inside itself, a hidden treasure trove of indulgent uni. Each course revealed something more: the first offered an introduction, a signal of the season and bait to whet my appetite; the second, quite in contrast to the former, showed the chef was as capable working with a sow’s ear as he was initially with silk; but the third – the mokozuke – bodied forth freshness. The previous plate already succeeded in proving Hiro-san’s readiness for hard work, therefore, for this dish, that success served as the base upon which to build further. Literally. Every morning the chef carves a block of ice into an artistic pedestal for pristine pieces of sashimi. His produce was the most evident testament to ‘freshness’, but the total effect was exaggerated by an entire aspect that was remindful of nature with the incorporation of ice – practical, picturesque and denotative – plants and pebbles all poetically reinforcing this thought and adding illusive life. Already articulated seasonal colours were also repeated with the almost progressive manner in which the kanpachi, toro, red cabbage and orchid flower fulfilled the range of shades lying between red and white, especially attractive. Over the remaining courses, the continuation of the earlier-established themes – such as pink, yellow and green being seen either in the crockery or what it carried; and the recurrence of flora as functional – is easily obvious. Additionally, having already revealed Hiro-san’s tempura as redefining, described the utter tastiness of the Kyoto miso and mentioned the creative and interesting inclusion of foie gras in the shabu shabu, my own thoughts on what followed have been disclosed and need no further note. When the sushi starts, the sushi bar becomes a stage and dinner develops into drama. This is when one has the best opportunity to observe Hiro-san; already artist, sculptor and chef, he is now also actor and showman – roles he seems to relish or, at least, effortlessly adopt. Nothing is pre-prepared. Seafood is chilled on large blocks of ice, whilst some shellfish are kept alive until seconds before being served. Every nigiri is made immediately and Hiro-san allows you ten seconds to eat it. His creations are consistently delectable, but there is nearly equal delight to be experienced watching their assembly. He is a perfectionist and a master and, if only for a few hours, the patron’s eating pleasure is his sole purpose. The care, attention and respect the chef shows his produce and, by extension, his guest is gripping. At Urasawa’s level, sushi is about sensitivity and subtlety with merely marginal, nominal nuances separating one itamae from another. It is a cuisine of intricate equilibrium with stasis constantly sought; a balancing of the vinegar and sugar in the shari; its stickiness and solidity; between the warmth of the rice and cool of the topping. Once one factors in the speed needed, adaption to diners’ preferences and own paces and, of course, those sharp, sharp knives, it is no surprise that many sushi chefs are serious and sombre. Not Hiro-san. He is a smiler. And a comedian. Over time, many of his jokes have become catchphrases and today it was over nigiri that he had excuse to exercise a favourite, calling out across the counter, many times, ‘ten dollars each photo!’ I read somewhere that he used to ask for only five. One of the most interesting and emotive aspects of a meal such as this is the interaction between itamae and diner; there is a direct relationship, a real connection. After warming the rice in his palm, adding the tane and dressing the morsel, he offers it, almost straight from his fingers into yours – a powerful, intimate gesture, rich in meaning. As he feeds you, there is a brief, unconscious bond. Whether one realises it or not, dining here is very personal: Hiro-san crafts every dish; selects every ingredient; every cut made is made by him. He freshly grates the wasabi; has his own soy sauce formula; chisels the sashimi’s icy platters; makes the salt and picks the flowers that dress the restaurant himself. Even the countertop, formerly maple but recently replaced with cypress, he sands smooth and shiny daily. There is a tender focus and consideration to each detail and everything is executed with the same exacting level of care, diligence and devotion. His touch, his character and his personality are everywhere. Urasawa is Hiro-san. Deep down I must admit that I feel kaiseki and sushi purists may less than appreciate the mingled model served here; they may also object to the itamae’s sourcing of ingredients from all around the world rather than from immediately nearby or his inclusion of ‘Western’ Oscietra caviar, truffles and foie gras. However, what they would deride as incorrect and tergiversant, I would argue well done and done to the benefit of the diner. I, for one, thought my meal tremendously exciting and enjoyable with the kaiseki-sushi fusion and inclusion of classic/exotic (depending on which world is yours) items, creative, challenging and delicious. At the end of the meal, with cheque in one hand and my final cup of hojicha in the other, my gaze settled on the cherry blossoms in the corner. My mood at that minute was, rather fittingly if melodramatically, one better expressed and understood in Japanese than English. Mono no aware is a concept that illustrates the ephemeral nature of things and a bittersweet appreciation of the transience of life and all within it. Those flowers are the very incarnation of this emotion in Japanese culture. It was a poignant moment – the evening, which having commenced with those maki so suggestive of the sakura, now concluded with their very image. It was a most beautiful roundabout to a most memorable evening. Thus indeed did dinner end bittersweet. There was sadness in the fact that it had finished and also because of the certain difficulty I would face coming across anything of similar standard at home – but then again, I already knew that Urasawa had ruined me for many other Japanese restaurants. Nonetheless, I was grateful for the opportunity to appreciate and contemplate what I had just enjoyed. And there was hope too: tonight, I had been given a glimpse of what I would discover, of what awaited me, farther west… However, until then, I have found my sushi Hiro. ごちそうさまでした

Hi, this is the write up of my meal last April. Please click here for the full post and photography: HERE Events unforeseen and the United States government conspired to delay my arrival in the city by four hours. I had set aside sufficient time to unpack, undress, put on my suit and make it to Coi for an early dinner, but instead, I had to make my way straight from San Francisco International to the restaurant. The comedy of my consequent enforced, cinematic-style change of clothes in the back of a cab admittedly assuaged some of my annoyance, but I also took comfort that Coi – an archaic French term for tranquil, but today commonly used to mean speechless/quiet – implied that it could be the perfect antidote to the day’s aggravating events. Chef-patron Daniel Patterson opened the restaurant almost three years ago to the day (14 April 2006) and it is fair to say, it has gone from strength to strength since, winning two Michelin stars along the way. The chef, whose interest in cuisine was fostered by childhood summers spent in France, began his career in the kitchen at fourteen back in his native Boston. After a couple of years at Duke studying literature, he moved to California in the eighties, working at Zola’s then in Yountsville at Mustards Grill and Domaine Chandon, before setting out on his own with Babette’s in Sonoma in 1994. Five years later, Patterson moved back to the city with Elisabeth Daniel, where he made a name for himself with an experimental if not fashionable style. The restaurant eventually closed in 2003 with Patterson taking a two-year break before returning as the debut chef at Frisson – a sort of contemporary supper club. It was during this time that the chef started using essential oils in his cooking and co-authored a cookbook on the topic with perfumer Mandy Aftel, ‘Aroma: The Magic of Essential Oils in Food and Fragrance’. However, only a year after starting at Frisson, he left to open his third restaurant, Coi. His subsequent success here has encouraged and allowed him to extend his interests, for instance, he is now consultant chef at Bracina, a new restaurant in nearby Oakland. In his spare time, he is still very interested in literature, writing for various publications, including the New York Times, wherein he wrote maybe his most popular piece, ‘To the Moon, Alice’, in November 2005 (shortly before Coi was unveiled). This article caused a lot of controversy. Although generally assumed to be an affront to Alice Waters of Chez Panisse popularity, Patterson was in fact chastising the Bay Area chefs who chose to merely mimic her food steps and rely on the region’s prime produce for results, in stead of showing any creativity or technique. When the chef is not writing, he plays keyboard in a band – Syd’s Last Trip; in his own words, ‘think Sonic Youth meets Pink Floyd’. Although Coi is found in San Francisco’s financial district, the strip clubs and adult video shops that litter the neighbourhood are enough to inform even those unfamiliar with the city that Broadway must be a forgotten fringe. The restaurant, which inhabits a nearly hundred-year-old historical building, resides adjacent Centrefolds – one of said strip clubs and the hottest entertainment in San Francisco (so says Google). The interior, designed by Scott Kester, who previously also collaborated with Patterson at Frisson, is split into three: there is the informal lounge with room for twenty; a smarter space seating twenty-nine; and private area for up to eight guests. To reach the main room, one enters into a small reception bay before passing through a corridor past the lounge, which is filled with burled walnut tables, furred Flokati pillows (made by the chef’s girlfriend) and photography from acclaimed local Catherine Wagner. The dining room, drawing on a Japanese aesthetic (where the designer has worked and chef eaten) is less adorned. The narrow room is bordered by two banks of banquettes of bouclé-like earthy beige yarn, white linen-layered tables and mossy-brown chairs. The carpet is a light woody brown, whilst the ceiling is covered in wagami, laden with leaves. The main lighting in the windowless space comes through this paper panelling and from recessed spotlights behind the tall banquettes. Most of the earthenware crockery is made by Edith Heath; the cutlery is Italian; and stemware, Spiegelau. Some colour is provided by two large bouquets that sit in black vases on a wooden stand opposite the entrance. The room reflects an organic, earthy and hermetic sentiment with little to distract the diner. The dining room has a semi-set menu made up of eleven courses with some calling for a choice between two dishes; there is also some flexibility as regards the final number of plates taken. Amuse Bouche: Milk and honey. To start, a serpentine silver spoon was served within which a spherificated milk and honey bubble sat, topped with alyssum flower. The little ladle presented an introduction to Patterson’s multi-sensory methods; the small, sweet-smelling flower suggestive and prescient of the orb’s own honeyed creaminess. Entrée 1: Pink grapefruit; ginger, tarragon, black pepper. A foamy white cloud of pink grapefruit encased icy sorbet of the same fruit and its supremes, steeped in cognac-tarragon gel and infused with essential oils of black pepper and ginger; upon the same plate, a speck of Coi perfume – formed from the same edible elements as adjacent – was supplied. Instructions included sniffing the scent – redolent with spicy and floral notes – prior to starting with the starter. Under the thick froth, the sorbet was sour and sharp, whilst the succulent citrus segments were sweet and tart. Some latent spiciness slowly came through from the warm ginger, aniseed-like tarragon and pepper. They left behind an interesting linger of contrasting savours, but I have to confess that I found the foregoing olfactory exercise ineffective. Bread: Brown and white rolls. Two varieties of roll were brought – brown and white. Baked onsite, both were decent. However, although warm and soft, they lacked any real crust, with just a wafer-thin, spongy surface instead. The unsalted, milky light butter was perked up with Welsh sea salt. Entrée 2: Shiny beets; citrus scented gel, vadouvan. A vibrant pair of smooth, but bumpy beetroot slices, bringing to mind pebbles gently eroded by the sea, were placed in the plate’s centre atop a smear of glossy vadouvan. Both beets, one regular red, the other golden, were olive oil-marinated, oven-roasted and coated with jelly composed from the beets’ own juices together with essential oils of Kaffir lime and wild orange. The vadouvan was subtle and warm at first, but with slowly increasing spiciness. Each beet – the red distinctively earthy and yellow, sweet – was cool, firm and almost crunchy, in contrast to the creamy, citric sharp gels that covered them. Entrée 3: Inverted Andante Dairy goat cheese and black olive tart; chicories, green apple, mint. Large beads of goat cheese, enveloped by a ring of black olive and vadouvan vinaigrette, were hidden underneath a thin, crisp tuile of black olive, caraway and rye; cubes of jellied green apple, chicory and mint were scattered over the upside-down tart. The ersatz crust, crunchy and crumbly, had great flavour with slight sweetness and wholesome, mealy aftertaste. Unctuous and pasty, the cheese was gently tart and not at all overpowering, whilst the apple squares added sourness and leaves, a little tanginess. Entrée 4: Winter into spring; early season asparagus, buttermilk snow, herbs. In an Oriental, earthenware bowl, a base of creamy purée lay beneath poached small spears and crisp shavings of fresh asparagus, all under buttermilk powder and herby fennel. This unexpectedly cold ‘snow’, which gave the whole dish a fresher, almost more natural impression, was rather sour, in contrast to the faint sweet flavour of the grassy vegetable, itself accentuated by the fennel’s aniseed. The buttermilk’s cold temperature and green savour of the asparagus personified the feel of winter and spring successfully and surprisingly well. Entrée 5: Abalone/oyster; fennel in different forms. A mixed mass of diced abalone and oyster was accompanied by brittle flatbread that came smeared with bright green fennel purée, carrying lacy cuts of fennel and its fronds whilst peppered with its pollen too. The elemental aroma of the ocean was noticed first and at once. The shellfish had nice, subtle flavour with the chewier abalone complementing the more muculent oyster. Fennel’s delicate sweetness was a nice counterpoint for the rich, marine taste, just as the crunchy cracker was texturally. On a practical point, the bowl, whilst interestingly mimicking an abalone shell, made consuming the contents a little awkward. Entrée 6: Fried chicken consomme; artichokes, fava beans and leaves, radish, green garlic. Four fried cubes of chicken consommé, crowned with mustard greens, came resting in green garlic mayonnaise and matched with skinny slices of radish, artichoke and broad beans. Chicken and gelatine soup, that having set had been rolled into bouncy cubes, then delicately deep fried, had crunchy coats and creamy centres, like melt-in-the-mouth croquettes. Buttery beans, crisp greens and peppery radish were all exceedingly fresh, but it was the sweet, mild garlic mayo that stood out. The connection between the chicken and vegetables, however, seemed almost tenuous, whilst some more sauce would have also been welcome and perhaps even solved the former issue. Entrée 7: Sweet, sour, salty, bitter; glazed young carrots, burnt breadcrumbs, almonds, wood sorrel. A trio of glazed baby carrots, gently cooked in their own juices, were served sparingly with only a sprinkled line of wood sorrel on one side and a broad steak of burnt breadcrumbs, chicory and toasted almonds on the other. The straightforward and somewhat austere assembly of this vegan dish’s elements was evocative of the central vegetable as it would exist in nature – the crumbs, chicory and nuts symbolising the soil; the carrots, the taproot; and the sorrel, their leafy green tops. Firm in the middle, edges melting, the carrots were tasty and sweet; the crumbly ‘soil’ supplied the salty and bitter, as well as smoky, with the inclusion of chicory and sea salt especially effective touches. What surprised most though was the crisp, sour-lemon herb, which was strikingly strong and fresh. Entrée 8: Earth and sea; steamed tofu mousseline, yuba, fresh seaweeds, mushroom dashi. Short, wide strands of yuba from the Hodo Soy Beanery floated in a mushroom dashi with thinner ribbons of seaweed, radish sticks and pickled Tokyo turnip. Portobello, shitake and button mushroom broth, possibly thickened with xanthum gum, was clear, mildly nutty and toothsome. The springy nori and crunchy, intense turnips were agreeable. Pleasingly scented and subtly sweet, pasta-like yuba – dried soy milk skin – were light, milky yet tender and picked up on the nuttiness of the dashi. Entrée 9: Nettle-ricotta cannelloni; wild mushrooms, oxalis flowers. A cannellono of nettle, crammed full of ricotta cheese, littered with yellow oxalis flowers, lay alongside sautéed chanterelle, hedgehog and trumpet mushrooms in blended green and brown swirls of nettle and mushroom jus. The nettle jelly wrap had a hint of pepper and hardier savour to spinach that balanced well with the soft, warm, savoury-sweet ricotta. The meaty mushrooms, plump, juicy and earthy, were very good, whilst the crispy flowers, pleasantly lemony. Plat Principal 1: Sturgeon poached in smoked oil; caviar vinaigrette, nasturtium scented potatoes. A fillet of white sturgeon, poached in smoked olive oil and dripping with Californian oscietra caviar, was propped upon a bed of nasturtium-crushed potato. The contrast of the fish’s alabaster flesh, freckled with black beads in bubbly vinaigrette, brightened by the verdant tuber base and colourful floral garnish, was pleasing on the eye. The salty smell of the roe was initially noted and then reinforced by its briny flavour and smooth consistency. It proved an effective condiment to the tasty sturgeon that was buttery and almost sweet. Creamy, rough potato, imbued with peppery cress, was an excellent vegetal foil for the rich, verging-on acidic dressing. Plat Principal 2: Slow cooked farm egg; slow roasted farro, erbette chard, brown butter parmesan sauce. An egg, sous vide, surrounded by slow-cooked green farro, interspersed with erbette, arrived almost submerged in a parmesan beurre noisette whose colour corresponded precisely to that of the plate and aroma was delightful. The farro – an heirloom grain from which all others were derived – preparated similarly to risotto, were plump and nicely salted by the parmesan. Subtly bitter spinach beets soothed the richness of the creamy egg as the rosemary foam added a sweet accent to this satisfying dish. Plat Principal 3: Bellweather Farm baby lamb; English peas, spring onions, little gems, flowering thyme. Slow-roasted with mirepoix and thyme, the tenderloin and neck from a baby lamb, were served, each upon a slip of pea purée, drizzled with lamb jus vinaigrette and teamed with little gem lettuce, spring onions and more peas. The loin, layered with a little juicy fat atop, was succulent and toothsome, but the leaner cut of neck was unfortunately a tad dry and chewy. The vegetables were all well-cooked: the moist lettuce, crispy; sweet peas, crunchy; and the spring onion shells, firm to bite. Thyme-flavoured jus had a nice spicy twang to it. Cheeses: Trio (Soyoung Scanlan); toast, spring lettuces. A single wedge of trio – a triple blend of cow, goat and crème fraîche – from the Andante dairy, set on a thin wafer, was accompanied by baby local lettuce dressed with champagne vinaigrette. Trio is a creation of Soyong Scanlan, a musician/dairy scientist who has been growing her own cheeses since July 1999 and giving each a musical moniker; she uses Jersey cows’ milk from Spring Hill Dairy and goats’ from the Volpi Ranch. This example was dense with a pleasingly thick pate and fairly strong, though only hinting of goats’ milk. The fresh, barely bitter greens and slightly tart vinaigrette balanced well with it. Pre-dessert: Pomelo ice; coriander gel. Segments of pomelo, superimposed by its grantité, were immersed in a gel of coriander. The meat of the fruit was juicy and sweet, whilst its ice was sugary and refreshingly cool; the spiced jelly struck a common citrus note with the pomelo. Dessert 1: Blood orange curd; Douglas fir ice cream, black walnut crumble. A deep burgundy bar of blood orange, burrowed amidst black walnut crumble showered with powdered sugar and possibly confit orange supremes, was presented with a pastel pear-green coloured quenelle of Douglas fir ice cream and splashes of orange purée. The crunchy streusel, nutty with a hint of sweet-smokiness, was delicious whilst the smooth, fruity curd was just as good. Douglas fir ice cream, which had a welcome scent like wintergreen, was sugary, woody and slightly lemony-citrus, linking well with the orange, whose segments were like explosions of mellow juice. Dessert 2: Carmelized jasmine custard; hazelnut and cocoa textures. A firm custard log of jasmine, carpeted by crushed hazelnut and cocoa nibs and topped with sugar tuile was flanked by frothy splash of jasmine tea emulsion, decorated with jasmine leaf, and drop of gastrique. This syrupy caramel-sherry vinegar reduction was sour-sweet and had real kick. The custard itself was subtle and smoky, its velvet creaminess complemented by the brittle blend of nutty-cocoa nibs – essentially cocoa beans without their shells – that was milky and rich. The foam offered little except some lightly floral scent. Petit Fours: Chocolate ganache truffle and McEvoy olive oil & vanilla milkshake. Brown sugar coated, brown butter truffle was thick, dark and had a touch of butterscotch. The vanilla milkshake, mizzled with mcEvoy olive oil was a treat; the shake’s cool, woody-sweet vanilla enlivened with a whiff of fruity-pepper from the Californian oil. The staff were very professional, efficient and attentive. What I had at first considered as collectively aloof conduct, by the evening’s end, I appreciated as calm, quiet and actually peaceful comportments. Each server was friendly, considerate and engaging, making me feel at ease in an indeed serene setting. The chef, with whom I was able to exchange a few words with, surprised me. Having read some of the articles he has written, I admit I expected someone more assertive and, well, louder; instead Daniel Patterson was softly-spoken and quiescent – in fact, he was the personification of the mood his dining room had moved me to. Then again, he has mentioned before that he ‘normally hate, hate, hate visiting the dining room…standing awkwardly in front of the table muttering inanities…’ The meal commenced with an interactive if, in my opinion, somewhat vain first few courses. The amuse and initial entrée, both intended to involve and interest multiple senses in a more explicit manner than the plates that proceeded, both had a rather limited effect on me. It was not that I found them gimmicky – after all, the association between savour and smell is well-documented – it is just that the methods by which this connection was made use of did not add to my eating pleasure. That being said, as the dishes continued, my enjoyment of them increased. The inverted Andante Dairy goat cheese and black olive tart was the earliest to excite, followed by the abalone/oyster and sweet, sour, salty, bitter – which I liked especially for its simple yet clever playfulness. The nettle-ricotta cannelloni was tasty, as was the sturgeon poached in smoked oil. The pairing of the fish and its roe, although almost intuitive, is used surprisingly sparingly, but Patterson applied it provocatively here. Blood orange curd; Douglas fir ice cream, black walnut crumble was the best of the desserts and possibly the most delicious dish of all. Dinner was not faultless though with the overcooking of the Bellweather Farm baby lamb the most serious disappointment, whilst the fried chicken consommé, though showing creativity, did relatively little for my palate. When I consider the meal, I would say Patterson’s cuisine was, for the most part, very effective. The food was able to engage me – physically and mentally – through taste, texture and the natural aromas from the ingredients and their cooking. There also seemed to be a subtle pattern in the progression of plates, with the sensory focus shifting from initially olfactory, then textural to finally simple taste. The most capable course was actually one I felt rather indifferent towards. With the winter into spring, I found the flavours decent if not delicious, but I genuinely felt myself able to perceive the essence of winter and spring from the elements within the dish; here, I thought the chef’s use of contrasting temperatures and consistency, as well as his component selection, both intelligent and skilful. The abalone/oyster too, with its compelling oceanic theme, was not far behind in terms of efficacy. Attention deserves to be devoted to the chef’s excellent produce – I was actually stunned by the pure lemony sting of the wood sorrel that came with the sweet, sour, salty, bitter. I appreciate that California is blessed indeed when it comes to ingredients, but credit ought to go where credit is due. Actually, I can state with some confidence where each piece of produce today came from – I know, for example, that the black walnuts from my first dessert came from Full Belly in Guinda and that my English peas came Iacopi in Half Moon Bay. I know these because Patterson lists every supplier opposite his menu. This makes for interesting reading, but also impresses as it shows that all the chef’s ingredients are from local farms and growers, from Coi’s own garden or even foraged (like the seaweeds and alyssum flowers). Judging on what I have read before and since this dinner, it appears that the cooking has become more consistent than it has previously been. Patterson’s skill as a chef or his sourcing has not been questioned, but meals have been criticised as lacking direction or a steady pattern. That was not evident today. Though I cannot nicely label Patterson’s style, neither can I say that dishes followed an incoherent or inconstant path. Instead, what was revealed from the start and remained the same going forwards was the use of prime products, ranging from common to educational, and their careful, but deceptively simple, preparation to produce a balanced and pleasing experience. For one thing, it must be said Patterson is no hypocrite – he is not interested in idly relying on his raw materials to do all the work, he is applying his own talent to making them better, making them more. What struck me most about this meal was my mood throughout and following it. It was one of extreme calm. The dining room, staff and the food all contributed to this emotion. The restaurant became almost my cocoon for that evening, sheltering my thoughts and myself from all but the plate in front of me.

UE, afford me some poetic licence! If you had read on, you would have noticed that I did, in fact, mean viscous, as in sticky and thus - with a little imagination - hard to get rid (or with respect to a rumour, put to bed)… And I blame spell-check P.S. looking forward to it.

Hi, maybe a little late, but this is my write up from lunch in January. Please click here for my full post with photography: HERE I heard a viscous rumour. At dinner recently, an American couple seated at an adjacent table, having engaged a friend and me in conversation, revealed that they used to eat at l’Arpège, but that was before the chef became a vegetarian. It was a shocking comment. We were aghast. In hindsight, however, such statements should not have surprised us; Alain Passard and l’Arpège are two of the least widely known and most misunderstood names in Paris. Furthermore, when either’s mention does elicit a glimmer of recognition it is either for the fact that l’Arpège is the city’s (and so a contender for the world’s) most expensive restaurant or verily for Passard’s vegetarianism. Both of which are incorrect. It is important to address and redress the most misleading and most influential of these two assertions in more detail – the second. Passard is definitely not a vegetarian and, ironically enough, does not even like the term; he feels that the ‘real malady and unhappiness of vegetables has always been the vegetarian restaurant’. Instead, the chef is a patron and, indeed, prophet of la cuisine légumière. In January 2001, Alain Passard made the headlines, having declared that ‘my menu will be entirely and exclusively dedicated to vegetables’. His decision was motivated mainly by personal choice, but in part by health concerns too (mad cow disease had reached France the previous year). The chef, having spent thirty years establishing himself as a maître rôtisseur, admitted that he ‘didn’t take any pleasure any more in eating meat’ and that ‘blood and animal flesh’ had stopped being a source of inspiration. The situation became so serious that Passard spent an entire year away from his kitchen, only setting foot in the restaurant to eat. ‘I no longer wanted to be in a daily relationship with the corpse of an animal. I had a moment when I took a roast out into the dining room and the reality struck me that every day I was struggling to have a creative relationship with a corpse, a dead animal. And I could feel inside me the weight and the sadness of the cuisine animale.’ Vegetables were his salvation. He needed new motivation and found it by replacing the raw materials with which he moiled, ‘like an artist who works in watercolours and turns his hand to oils or a sculptor in wood who changes to bronze’. The colours, flavours and perfumes of greens, herbs and flowers appealed to and stimulated him; more to the point, they changed his life. ‘All the terrible nervousness and bad temper that are so much part of the burden of being a chef were gone with the old cooking. I entered into a new relation to my art, but also to my life. And the lightness of what I was doing began to enter my body and my entire existence and it entered into the existence of the kitchen. It was like a light that I saw and a door that I walked through’. Passard recognised this new vegetable-focused cooking as his ‘renaissance as a chef’ and, to return the favour, he wanted to dedicate himself and his skills to their elevation. However, his consequent, aforesaid abandonment of red meat and its replacement with green veg, was met with scepticism and cynicism: ‘you are offending your colleagues who are still cooking meat', claimed a caller during a radio interview; 'is this not an act of blatant opportunism at a time when French farmers and butchers are suffering?', demanded reporters; contemporaries feared for him; Paul Bocuse professed he was uncertain how Passard would fare, but conceded that ‘perhaps he [could] succeed – that boy certainly has a lot of talent’. Michelin suggested that it was a courageous strategy while he himself realised, ‘I am putting all the cards on the table. Putting myself and my entire career in question. My three stars, the public, my clients’. Not one for half-measures or hollow gestures, having staked his livelihood on légumes, he dedicated his leisure to them too. In 2002, he bought the Château du Gros Chesnay, in Fillé-sur-Sarthe, about two-hundred kilometres from Paris, near Le Mans, sharing the property with the previous owner, Madame Baccarach, who minds the house whilst the chef visits the two hectare garden each weekend, employing three gardeners to tend to it fulltime. Using only natural fertilisers, non-mechanical tools (like horse-drawn ploughs), a rotating small-plot system and pesticides made exclusively of vegetable extracts, this organic potager is a ‘showpiece of permaculture’; there is even a purpose-built lake on the grounds and four bee-hives to help maintain a balanced ecosystem (and provide l’Arpège with its very own honey). In his pursuit of grand cru greens, Passard is in constant contact with horticulturists, farmers and gardeners whilst also reviving heirloom varieties of various vegetables (including thirteen sorts of asparagus). The garden contains one-hundred-and-fifty different breeds of plant and supplies eight to ten tons of produce per year – nearly all that the restaurant requires. The crops can be picked at seven in the morning, in time for the ten o’clock TGV to Paris; no refrigeration is necessary and transport times are short – therefore the légumes lose very little of their freshness and flavour – and thus, that morning’s bounty is able to become that afternoon’s lunch. What l’Arpège does not consume is sold on a small counter at la Grande Épicerie du Bon Marché and any kitchen waste is returned to the garden for use as compost. The project’s success has led to the addition of two new farms at Buis sur Darnville and at Baie du Mont-Saint-Michel; the chef can now call on a team of twelve farmers to cultivate a sum of six hectares. His mission, he says, is to encourage people ‘to talk about the carrot the way a sommelier talks about Chardonnay’. As alluded to earlier, Passard’s repute was primarily built upon a talent for roasting meat and poultry. This he learnt from Louise Passard, his grandmother and also his teacher. It was through her that he developed not only an understanding of how to cook – and form a relationship with the flame – but also how to host and prepare a meal: ‘they’re all her recipes. She gave me everything, taught me what to look for when I made my first purchases, taught me the right cooking times and temperatures.’ Around the hearth, they spoke of the fire and its ability to sculpt the product; the importance of watching and listening to it; and the sensitivity of a cook. His parents, a musician and dressmaker, lived in La Guerche, Brittany, and their neighbour, the village’s pastry chef, was Passard’s second inspiration. At the tender age of ten, he began to train with him, discovering the ‘rhythm and activity of the laboratory and the evocative qualities of aromas’. At fourteen, he became an apprentice cook at Hotel du Lion d'Or, Liffré under Breton star, Michel Kéréver, learning la cuisine classique and the appreciation of good products. Four years later, he moved to la Chaumière, Reims to work with Gaston Boyer, furthering his classical education whilst studying the art of seasoning and cooking. In 1977, he joined Alain Senderens’ l'Archestrate and enjoyed the most instrumental period of his career. Under Senderens, ‘a perfectionist in constant search of originality’, he discovered his creativity and the power of imagination; it was a ‘baptism of fire’ cooking in a small kitchen, but with a tight team and exceptional atmosphere. Here, he expanded his repertoire of and improved his touch with spices (and possibly picked up his cigar habit too). After three years, he took the reins at le Duc d’Enghien in the northern Parisian suburb of Enghien-les-Bains. Within two years, he had earned two Michelin stars and, not yet twenty-six, became the youngest chef to have ever achieved such a feat. It was during the four years spent at this restaurant that he conceived some of his classics including carpaccio de langoustines and le chaud-froid d'œuf à la ciboulette (the possible precursor to the infamous l’Arpège egg). The next two years saw the chef at le Carlton, Brussels, were he was once more awarded a first and second star successively in that short time. It was not until October 1986, however, that Passard was able to proclaim, ‘je suis chez moi’. Senderens had moved to Lucas Carton and Passard had moved into his mentor’s old home, l’Archestrate. By March of 1998, history repeated itself, a second time, and the newly-named l’Arpège had been visited twice by Michelin within two years; although the chef had to wait eight more, until 1996, to finally win his elusive third star. For the last twenty years, Passard has devoted his time and efforts to l’Arpège and its success, limiting himself to just a select number of outside business interests that include co-producing moutarde d’Orléans with Jean-François Martin, collaborating with Chrisofle on a line of vegetable-orientated crockery, selling the restaurant’s bread recipe to bakers and writing, with Antoon Krings, a children’s cookbook, « Les Recettes des Drôles de Petites Bêtes ». He also participated in Japan’s Iron Chef competition between 1997 and 1999, where he won considerable acclaim. Alain Passard’s unique combination of controversy and accomplishment even prompted French business school, INSEAD, to conduct a case study with him as its subject. ‘[He] is a fascinating example of someone who has succeeded by being both highly creative and very efficient in management terms. Much of what [he] has done breaks the rules,’ revealed one professor. The analysis showed that although small in size, located in the ‘culinary desert’ of the 7e, refusing to offer valet parking, eschewing celebrity status and playing down branding, he has not only disproved detractors that expected him to lose his third star, but prospered, created his own supply chain and set himself up as a paradigm for peers. The l’Arpège appellation immediately lets slip plenty about Passard. The chef chose it above all as a tribute to his musician father (arpège being French for arpeggio), but whilst also bearing in mind that selecting a name beginning with A would cunningly allow him to keep the former resident’s monogrammed crockery. The restaurant itself resides near the prime minister’s offices and government ministries, on a quiet street, opposite the Musée Rodin. Without, it is non-descript and unadorned save some flowery script that spells out l’Arpège, but within, the dining room is warm and comfortable. Rich browns and earthy oranges dominate; pear wood panels line the interior; and a dog-eared, burgundy carpet covers the floor. Music is Passard’s second love and the melodious insinuation suggested in the restaurant’s title is maintained by the motif inside: handmade Lalique pâtes de verre, inspired by the carriages of the Orient Express and inset along the far wall, depict Pan playing the flute whilst frolicking with two naked nymphs (images mimicked on menu covers); an abstract split cello sculpture by Arman sits in one corner; a coarsely-carved wooden guitar grows out the serving station; and, upon Bernard Pictet windows, etched waves ripple. This undulating design is also incorporated into Jean-Christophe Plantrou’s peau de poirier panelling and Massacar ebony furniture pieces. Rich, red leather upholstered chrome seats and chariots as well as the various bucolic bibelots such as large desiccated gourds or little twig bundles that rest upon tables, play on art déco principles. The only presence on the room’s walls is the nineteen-thirties/forties portrait of Louise Passard, which watches over the ‘chef’s chair’. White linen tabletops are dressed with bright red cover plates, Bernaudaud crockery, Christofle cutlery and customised glassware inscribed ‘Fabrique pour Alain Passard’. This was my third visit to the restaurant and, as I had not ordered from, let alone held, the l’Arpège menu on the previous two, I decided not to break what was fast becoming a rewarding habit. My second time here had only been two weeks ago, when Aaron, his brother and I had enjoyed an excellent meal (highlights included damier de radis pastèque et coquilles Saint-Jacques d’Erquy; huile de noisette and couteau avec poireau, échalote et ail), so Hélène Cousin, maîtresse d'hôtel, was already aware of my preferences and offered that the chef arrange something. For the record, none of the dishes from the previous occasion, besides the signature egg and one other, were repeated. Amuse Bouche 1: les Tartelettes – Mousseline de betterave et vinaigre balsamique; et mousseline de poire avec carotte jaune et praliné de noisette. To tease the taste buds, a quartet of tartlets in two varieties arrived. Two pastry cup couples, symmetrically similar but constructed with contrasting components, carried the classic pairing of beetroot and balsamic vinegar and the less common one of pear, carrot and hazelnut. The former, formed with a mound of beet mousseline mounted by a smaller disc of albina vereduna (white beetroot) topped with a drop of balsamic, was sugary and earthy with a touch of sharpness. The latter, with pear mousse, yellow carrot chip and hazelnut nugget, was sweet, herby and nutty. Le Pain et Beurre: Pain de campagne; le Beurre Bordier. Excellent, thick slices of slightly warm, slightly sour, homemade country bread, with an open crumb, had rustic crunch, soft, fluffy centre and nice seasoning. As toothsome as this was though, the beurre de baratte – from Jean-Yves Bordier of St. Malo – was simply terrific, actually it is the best butter I have ever had. Sculpted into a semi-circle and standing on one side (Bordier has a customised shape for each restaurant he supplies), it was creamy, spreadable and saturated with sel de Guérande, the hand-harvested sea salt considered the finest in the world. This butter is addictive. Amuse Bouche 2: Oeuf à la coque; quatre épices. An egg from the ferme de Bigottière in the eponymous little village of the Loire, diligently decapitated and its white drained off to leave only the unbroken yolk within its shell, was simmered in a water bath until just before the yellow could set; it was then sprinkled with chives and quatre épices prior to the addition of a little crème fraîche with aged Jerez vinegar, smidgen of Canadian maple syrup and fleur de sel to finish. There was a deft drama here; the first, ginger, shallow spoonful was sour and pungent owing to the fresh cream and spices, but once one had summed up the courage to plunge down into the egg fully, bursting the yellow and allowing it to blend with and bind all the elements altogether, the taste was transformed. The warm, runny yolk itself was intense, but balanced by the whipped cream, light and barely bitter, with aid of the sherry vinegar’s acidity, whilst together, the two soothed the syrup’s deep, smoky sweetness as the four spices – clove, nutmeg, white pepper and ginger – added aroma and exaggerated the flavours already there with their own sharp, bittersweet woodiness. This signature, humbly presented in an elegant, but basic, silver egg-holder sat upon two plain, porcelain plates, a smaller superimposed upon a larger and each unadorned except for a thin, red rim, is an archetypal amuse: it has harmonious yet exciting savour; simplicity and complexity; contrasts and variation in texture and taste; the demonstration of technique, humour and creativity; an arresting dynamism; as well as of course quality ingredients. More to the point, it awoke and provoked the palate. Entrée 1: Bouquet de turbot de Bretagne au miel du jardin « récolte été 2008 »; vinaigre de Xérès. Bréton turbot, grilled then cooled and swimming in a sticky sauce of honey infused with peanut oil and lime, had been blanketed with four wafer-thin, cross-sections of black radish, then freshly peppered at the table with more of the sauce making a bucolic boundary around the bouquet. The initial taste of the honey, harvested the previous summer in Passard’s own organic garden, was delicious – strong, sweet, zingy, tart and nearly nutty, this was a heady and complex combination. The firm slices of radish, still crisp, offered a hint of heat and textural distinction. Moist yet firm turbot had great flavour, its delicate marine sweetness complimented and countered simultaneously by the aigre-doux sauce, whose nicely viscous nature meant it coated each meaty morsel pleasingly. Pepper provided another individual accent. Entrée 2: Parmentier des légumes du jardinier. Presented in matching manner to the Arpège egg – starkly but assuredly in an alabaster ramekin atop two concentric plates – a potted pie came with an enticingly crumbly, rusty gamboge crust of semolina and crushed black pepper. The cuillère, penetrating its cover, uncovered a thick, pale gold vegetable purée composed of parsnip, beetroot and radish; further excavation exposed a narrower, darker foundation of confit chestnut and oignon doux de cévennes. Airy, light and earthy-sweet, the upper layer was like whipped cream. Beneath this, the melted down chestnut and sweet cévennes onions, were much sweeter and had a stringy yet more unctuous consistency. This was clearly a witty makeover of traditional hachis parmentier or shephard’s pie – basically, mashed potato over minced meat and onions – but missing the meat. Entrée 3: Gnocchis multicolores; quaternaire au beurre noisette. A quaternary of colourful, chubby gnocci of beetroot, smoked parsnip and parsnip pair, were presented resting in Bordier beurre noisette and garnished with Parmigiano-Reggiano and sage. A lovely, herby odour emanated from the dish. The beetroot pasta was like a thick pâté of well-balanced sugary-earthiness. The parsnip trio was lighter and grainer, each dissolving on the tongue. The smoked example was just that while the plain parsnip twosome had delicate vegetal-sugariness. The butter sauce was obviously delicious; parmesan had a touch of sharpness and depth; and musky sage, a faint spiciness. Entrée 4: Huître poché; truffe noire de Périgord et cerfeuil. A single shelled oyster Marenne d'Oléron, in almost alternating shades of grey and copper, came casually bound with bow-tied string and sitting on a dune of coarse sel de Guérande. Visual senses surfeit, the loop was loosened and lid lifted to disclose an oyster that had been shucked, replaced and then poached in olive oil, before being dressed with a slice of black truffle and sprigs of lacy chervil. A fresh whiff of the sea immediately impressed. The sizeable and succulent shellfish’s savour was sweet and salty with clean, short linger; it also had a faint nutty note that was in quiet concord with the fainter truffle whilst the chervil added herby freshness. Entrée 5: Sushi légumiers à la moutarde d’Orléans oncteuse; turbot de Bretagne et d’écrevisses. Resting amidst marjoram leaves, its long stems and dainty drizzles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, two rice-paper-wrapped packages of cauliflower, black radish and regular radish julienne, seasoned with a midge of Orléans mustard, were crowned with turbot and crayfish respectively. Each bundle boasted crunchy, peppery, earthy vegetables gently spiced. Both specimens had distinct, fine flavour; the msutard coming through especially with the turbot piece. Vinegar livened up the plate with its sugary acidity as did the marjoram’s subtle citrus. The savours were pure and delicious, light and refreshing. Entrée 6: Fines ravioles potagères; consommé végétal. Next it was a quintet of ravioles, each with a wrinkled skin wrapping various finely-diced vegetable fillings, floating in a translucent, saffron-shaded consommé of celery root. The soup within which these wonton-like parcels were submerged was refreshing, precise and pure. Ravioles, common to the Drôme and Isère, were created when Italian loggers from Piémont, adapting their traditional meat-filled ravioli to their new, more limited means, crafted smaller pastas from turnip sheets that they stuffed with vegetables or fresh cheese. Now customarily eaten at Easter, when meat is forbidden, Passard applies an Eastern twist to the dish, serving them in a clear vegetal broth. All had thin, almost see-through casings that melted in the mouth. The rendering of black radish with horseradish had mustardy, sweet heat; chestnut, crumby, sweet earthiness; the celery was light and crunchy; endive, perky; and cabbage, crisp and mild. Entrée 7: Tagliatelles de céleri-rave et risotto à la truffe noire; herbes fines. Filigree-like, thick threads of counterfeit tagliatelle, actually composed of celeriac, were surrounded by a shallow emulsion of moutarde d’Orléans and stippled with parmesan and fines herbes. For the first time today, I was served something I had already tried the previous week, so I decided to tease Hélène about it, pointing out to her this was a repeated dish and, not only that, but before it had come with black truffle. She took it in good humour, but returned moments later. Not empty handed. A bowl of parmesan risotto replete with truffle was set besides my plate of pretend pasta. Al dente root ribbons yielded subtly to bite, but still had satisfying crunch; their gentle nuttiness hit a note with the strong parmesan. The Orléans mustard sauce was frothy yet forthright with agreeable spiciness. This condiment is manufactured from a medieval recipe, which Passard and Jean-François Martin, an Orléans vinegar-maker, have saved from disappearance. It consists of mustard seed, sel de Guérande, Martin-Pouret vinegar, honey and Chadonnay and is made by traditional, machine-less methods. The risotto was reminiscent of savoury rice pudding; it was extremely creamy with a very slight sweetness. The truffle, with its full fungal fragrance and effect, was in harmony with the rich hazelnut and olive oil dressing whilst the ivory Arborio grains melted away immediately upon ingestion. Entrée 8: Betterave en croûte de sel gris de Guérande; vinaigre balsamique. From a whole golden beetroot – albina verduna – that had been baked in a crust of sel de Guérande, broken out then carved, a solitary quarter was dished upon a dribble of twelve-year old balsamic vinegar. This was so simple and superbly subtle yet so confident and utterly emphatic. The supple centre of the succulent, sweet beet had been coarsely, though consummately, cut from its saltier, earthier skin, within which it was now cradled. The conflicting intrinsic character of the ingredient itself, the silky lustre of its soft flesh in stark comparison to its rough, harsh rind, was masterfully manipulated. Such internecine distinction was sharpened and cultivated with the addition of the acidic, fruity sweet, aged vinegar that loitered on the tongue. I cursed my luck in between this course and the next as the day’s ‘special’ was wheeled out and showed off to the crowded room. There was seated, on a shiny silver chariot and atop a considerable silver serving platter, côte de porc in sea salt crust with its coral-like crackling glistening. An entire rack of pork, none of which I could have…. Shortly after the pig’s pageant, Passard sneaked out the kitchen. Dressed in customary colourful neckerchief and denim jeans under his chef’s whites, he greeted his guests. Entrée 9: Brioche de légumes à la moutarde d’Orléans onctueuse; ouef de caille. Toasted, buttered brioche bearing a plump, terra cotta coloured patty of chopped legumes – beetroot, radish and turnip – was topped with parmesan and finished with fried quail egg; alongside lay a careful squirt of beetroot mousse. The warmth of the vegetables had begun melting the cheese whilst the egg, as if its yolk were pricked on purpose just before presentation, started to dribble over this cheeky, bogus burger to which the beet purée played the ketchup. The melange of veg had a pasty, thick texture and peppery, savoury relish. The unctuous, toothsome quail egg, creamier than that of hen, was cut through by the light but tartly-sweet beetroot. Plat Principal: Coquilles Saint-Jacques d’Erquy à l’unilatérale; chou et thé vert « Ashikubo Sencha ». Prepared à la plancha, a pair of scallops from Brittany, still attached to their shells, were interlaid with draping leaves of cabbage, steeped in Ashikubo Sencha, and thin cross-sections of shinrimei; the chou’s matcha sauce was also mizzled over the shellfish. This was a feast for the eyes and I allowed mine to enjoy it: shellfish and cabbage in matching shades of creamy white, and radishes, with starburst magenta middles and dark emerald edges, all smeared with a gentle green that collected in pastel puddles around each Saint-Jacques, in the shallow impression of their particular shuck, which themselves, both alabaster at large, were adumbrated mahogany before burnt umber towards their tips. Erquy scallops, arguably the finest France has to offer, were fat and well-flavoured, but I admit I would have preferred them a touch less done, although they were evenly cooked and still dissembled willingly in the mouth. Excellent cabbage that had bite to it was coated in thick tea that nicely and fully infused the leaves; the attractive radish, an heirloom variety of daikon, was mildly sweet with a pinch of pepperiness. The sauce of premium sencha, dried in the traditional way with wood fire, was complex and interesting. It was distinct and definite, but muted with a very mellow, woody astringency, faint vegetal-grassiness and subtle bittersweetness. Its consistency – fluid yet with a dense, almost starchy aftertaste – also intrigued. Le Fromage: Comté de Garde Exceptionnelle september 2004; Bernard Antony. Alsatian maître affineur, Bernard Anthony’s famous four-year old comté, freshly shaved from the huge muele that is wheeled about the room on its own petrified wood tray and chariot, was a must. This is, in my opinion, the world’s greatest cheese. Anthony, first discovered by Alain Ducasse, started aging cheeses in 1982, after meeting Paris’ most eminent affineur of the day, Pierre Androuët who encouraged him to set up his own cave in Vieux-Ferrette. Today he has four and simply refuses to purvey his wares to anyone but the best; this comté is his masterpiece. Intensely yellow, aromatic wafers come riddled with crystals that effervesce with concentrated cheese essence. Creamy yet dry, they evaporate on the tongue, exploding with strong flavour that lingers long on the palate. I have never found anything quite like it. Delicious. Dessert 1: Millefeuille « caprice d’enfant ». A capricious construct, composed of thick, thin, then thick again, rusty tiers of pâte feuilletée caramélisée, each punctuated by bold, brimming billows of crème pâtissière noisette, came crowned with a final few sheets of pastry powdered with icing sugar. Served without any accompaniment, naked in the centre of an empty plate, this dessert exuded confidence; impressing with both its munificent measure and its complete physical dominance of the dish. Incredibly crispy, light and flaky, each bite broke the pastry into a thousand tasty fragments. The subtle, creamy mousse, like praline chantilly, was rich without being heavy. Each mouthful of millefeuille overwhelmed with a wealth of textures and sweet, nutty savours. At this point, Hélène wandered over once more, ‘so, how is it going? Have you enjoyed your meal?’ Stretched out and slouching in my chair, my Cheshire cat grin was sufficient affirmation for her. ‘If there is any room,’ she began, but I had already sat up and started nodding, ‘mais bien sûr!’ ‘In that case, I think there is something in the kitchen…’ She was out of sight for but briefly, before returning with the following. Dessert 2: Île flottante moka-mélisse; caramel au lait. A stout yet shapely couple of coffee sorbet quenelles, buoyant on bright yellow lemon balm crème anglaise, were laced with lashings of caramel syrup. The sorbet, which were substituted for customary meringue in this île flottante, had the most interesting texture; ice cold, astonishingly airy, ready to dissolve in the warmth of the mouth and with an almost fizzy vibrancy. The roasted smokiness of the coffee was distinct, but the strength, well-judged; lemon balm custard bath had an exotic sweet spiciness that teased the palate; whilst the caramel au lait had a light, honeyed richness. Petit Fours: Sucerie; 3 macarons du jardin. Presented upon a small linen-layered sterling tray, petit fours comprised palmiers à la badiane, nougats aux betteraves, petite tartes aux pommes and macarons of beetroot, coffee-parsnip and apple. Heart-shaped, baked puff pastry were crunchy, grainy and tasted of dark, sugary liquorice. Surprisingly nice beet nougat had very strong, even earthy, nuttiness. The assortment of macarons were good; apple had big, saccharine acidity; beetroot was clear, complex and full-flavoured; and coffee-parsnip had vegetal sweetness and mild, maybe too much so, mocha essence. In my experience, which has been solely under Hélène Cousin’s stewardship, the service here has always been superb. As maîtresse d'hôtel, she is charming and welcoming, engaging and obliging. In addition, it is evident that she is an effective and efficient task-master, running a proficient, professional and tight team that seem always on the move, but always there when needed. Nadia, her able lieutenant, is persistently more helpful and knowledgable than expected whilst showing a touching recollection for one’s likes/dislikes. Friendly, well-informed and genuinely considerate, Sylvestre and Dav, who also looked after me, were also excellent. It might be argued that the fact that the front-of-house is directed by a feminine hand means that there is a grace and consideration to service that escapes some more macho establishments. Another attribute of l’Arpège’s staff that I find especially endearing is their generosity; the diner’s pleasure is of paramount concern with meals more often that not customised to suit palate and pocket. One can also sense a mutual pride amongst them for their chef’s creations, patent by the wish that the guest shares this fondness and embodied by efforts to that end. Today’s meal was creative, satisfying and delicious. Each course pleased and teased, from the customary tarts, egg and brilliant bread and butter through to desserts. Bouquet de turbot tantalised the taste buds; the parmentier was as indulgent a vegetable dish as I could imagine; whilst the gnocchis were very good. The poached oyster and the sushi were a sight to behold and received with tremendous excitement, but the fact that the coquilles Saint-Jacques were cooked a little more than I prefer is the only detail that prevents me declaring this experience as technically faultless. l’Arpège’s comté is quite simply the greatest cheese I have ever had while the millefeuille was a very tasty treat and very messy fun to eat. I must confess Passard’s cooking leaves an immensely moving impression on me; I struggle to name another chef – except possibly Bernaud Pacaud, albeit in an utterly different, almost opposite manner – whose food I find even as emotive as his. It is, as it is with all things sentimental, difficult to qualify and even more to articulate how or why. But I will naively try. The food appeals to all and every sense. First, there is the visual and at l’Arpège there is a raw aesthetic I have never seen matched. The chef’s artistic esprit is expressed acutely through impeccable elements, minimalist in number maybe, but full in colour and vitality. Passard believe in the single perfect gesture and this faith has great effect. Presented upon red-rimmed, bright white plates, golden yellows, pastel greens, vivid oranges and rich burgundies dot, splash or pepper a blank canvas, always leaving exposed some immaculate ivory, with which, the contents’ chromatic contrast creates a stark and bold reaction. There is almost an austerity and gravitas in this distinction and juxtaposition between dish and food – white against colour, empty against filled, crockery against contents – that has the potential to shock as much as it does intrigue and excite the diner and their fantasy. There have been several moments when I have been left at a loss for words by the very serving and sight of a course. From my first meal, it was the epinards palco fanés au beurre noisette; carotte à l’orange. To some this dish of just a few strands of spinach, quenelle of carrot mousseline and smidge of lemon confit would have been enough to warrant complaint and criticism for its superficial simplicity, but it arrested my attention from first bite to last and left me speechless, or at least refusing to speak. Today, it was the huître poché; truffe noire de Périgord et cerfeuil, followed in swift succession by the sushi légumiers à la moutarde d’Orléans oncteuse. Both were unpredicted – never having received nor even seen or read of oysters in any form and anything so essentially exotic being served here before – and both were stunning. The former, a single unadulterated shell, stringed together, sitting on a small stack of sea salt in imitation of its native ecology, almost brutally beautiful in its pure and primitive, streaked shades of white, grey, blue and brown; whilst the latter, like a plate of little creatures, alive and crawling through sylvan-esque leaves, stirred me with avidity and interest. Secondly, it is one’s imagination and intellect that are satiated. This aim is achieved with the use of humour, boldness, wit, suspense and surprise. To start with the last of these tools first, on a fundamental level and a personal one, remembering that I have always favoured letting the house serve me what it wishes, my overall enjoyment has been heightened by not knowing what dish or in fact how many dishes will come. Then there is Passard’s panache and flair, his creative and culinary genius to contend with. This is most keenly felt via his valuable vegetables. The meat main course as the culinary climax to a meal is a custom few chefs refuse to follow. Here, however, regular viande rouge is not an option, but though this may be the case, no red meat is no loss and its presence is never missed. Instead, the chef capitalises on diners’ acculturation to or expectations of a meaty acme with the at times subtle, sometimes startling, but always effective substitution of vegetables for flesh. Examples of this abound from today alone. The brioche de légumes was its most blatant display, but there was the parmentier as well, which although traditionally made with beef, was improved here with mixed roots. Consider the infamous betterave en croûte too; arriving buried and baked within a firm saline skin, like a rack of lamb has for centuries been, as the salty crust is broken open, a single, basic beet manifests itself in mild mockery of its muscly predecessor. Then, as the meal nears its end, a sharp Laguiole– the generic haute gastronomic gesture that the meat is coming – is set down, but instead, the diner’s brainwashing becomes the butt of toothsome tomfoolery and the finest cheese or a surprisingly classic dessert appears. The fun does not stop there. Merely eliminating meat from the menu or showing flesh to be frivolous is not sufficient; Passard seeks to prove that vegetables can be great and, to do this, he strives to show that they can also be enough. Thus, after remaking such meaty recipes, he turns to carbohydrates, revealing rice and pasta as passé: celeriac is cut into thick strands of tagliatelle; risottos are replicated with grains of graven radish; and potato (technically still a starch, but in the ground at least) is reproduced as thin, loose strings of spaghetti. Thirdly – and bear in mind, one has not even had a taste yet – it is one’s sense of smell that is seduced. With produce of such superior standard and piping hot plates, served by serveurs/serveuses holding napkins to protect their hands – in a manner that invokes the home – the aroma of each course is clear, distinct and mouth-watering. The heat encourages these natural, warming odours whilst the frequent feature of flowers, herbs and spices simply strengthen the effect. Fourthly and finally, one samples the savours. Fashioned from the freshest and finest gifts that the season offers, flavours are clean, precise and honest, but above all, appetising. Passard is a master of texture and contrast, championing and challenging his ingredients each to accomplish what some chefs might select several to do. Where others require four, five or more different products to vary taste, consistency or add a dynamic aspect, Passard needs just a single or maybe couple of components. Alliums, for example, he uses expertly, exploiting their intrinsic layers to change each mouthful, renewing the eater’s curiosity with each new bite. He serves the first asparagus of the season with citronelle, taking advantage of the inherent sweet and bitter variance within the very vegetable, magnifying both sides of the flavour spectrum with the complimentary and conflicting tastes of caramelised garlic and lemongrass, thus amplifying what nature already provides and making a plate laden with only a couple of spears of asparagus worthy of a three-star dining room. Additional favoured arms in the l’Arpège arsenal include vin jaune, oak-smoking, moutarde d’Orléans and aigre-doux – using elements such as honey, lime, lemon, pine nut oil, soy and balsamic vinegar separately or often together – to liven sauces, introduce some spice and stimulate the palate with their complex savours. For the last twenty years, the chef has followed those first examples set forth by his grandmother, using his eyes and his ears, listening to the flame and slowly, gently cooking – ‘il faut aussi apprendre à maîtriser le feu afin qu'il n'agresse jamais mais plutôt qu'il caresse’. Steaming, frying in a wok and even using ovens are outlawed in his kitchen for ‘being far too aggressive…ruining colour and perfume…and drying everything out’ respectively. Here, the temperature of the pan is capped at 100ºC; poultry is cooked on the stove over the lowest possible heat in almost no liquid (except for some salted Bordier butter), turned by hand, the skin never broken, for a couple of hours; and chefs grill in salamanders set at eye level, where the heat is easier to control. These meticulous methods really do yield special results – it was during my initial time at chez Passard that I tasted the turbot and lobster that are both now the benchmarks by which all other renditions of those two ingredients are judged. Passard promotes the relationship between chef and ingredient, which he feels has been lost through the modern use of gas and electric cookers, and urges his staff to use all their senses whilst at the stove – ‘it becomes a meditation and the kitchen, a place of listening’. As he regards cooking to be the work of the ear, he so considers it, by extension, a cousin to music. Thus, taking into account that he himself is a saxophonist and lover of jazz (in particular John Coltrane), any sort of discussion about l’Arpège is impossible without any mention of music as well as art, which together are inseparable from and underpin the restaurant’s philosophy and both of which are personified by the man, the cuisine and even by the dining room. Passard’s own style clearly shares characteristics in common with his favourite musical form; both are creative, expressive and innovative. Whilst traditional chefs were still singing the blues, he was making it up as he went along, improvising on the off-beat – others focused on the flesh, whereas he played with forgotten vegetables. As his cooking can be symbolised by syncopation, so can his restaurant by a polyrhythm. The front-of-house and kitchen, each almost independent, marching to the beat of two bands, come together to form a harmonious whole. And the musical analogy is easily extendable with Passard playing the ‘composer’; his ingredients the ‘instruments’; flavours, textures and scents his ‘quavers, crotchets, minims and semibreves’; and so on. From the décor further inferences may be made by the open-minded and interested eater, explicitly that the essence of l’Arpège and the very animus of the chef are encapsulated and expounded within the length and breadth of the building. Melody and the garden, Passard’s other passions, again come to the fore: a guitar grows out the pear wood; Greek figures dance and make music on the walls; the menu is laced with musical iconography; and the very name that sits above the door sings volumes. More subtly or subliminally, the space is constructed from curves, circles and rounded edges in subconscious reflection of an artist’s open and free spirit, famously opposed to strict rules and parameters, and thus, straight lines and definite edges. Then there is Passard’s affection for his crops and the countryside, which has brought the garden quietly into his home: the walls, wrapped in wavy wooden boards, imitate the trees or maybe fence that invariably borders the jardin; a mural, like those more commonly found outdoors, is painted between the two windows that look out upon the street and shows the chef carrying his produce in his hands; atop tables, replicas from the vegetable patch are set; and this green theme extends to the earthy brown hues of the room and even the chariots that have been fashioned from wood. Then again, these may just be the musings of an overactive imagination. l’Arpège appeals and agrees with me on every level, but it is of course not perfect, or at least, not to everyone’s taste. There does appear to be a pattern that suggests those arriving later might receive meats/poultry that have been cooked longer than their liking – and this may have something to do with Passard’s own preference for the well-cooked. There is also undeniably at times a seeming chaos to the place – dishes arriving almost at random; staff entering/exiting the kitchen through a set of black doors that require a swift kick to open; such swift kicks that often lead to those same doors swinging into colleagues; a din from within suggesting anything other than concord and a careful listening to the flame and hob… The first difficulty can be solved by simply arriving earlier, but the second is a matter of preference. Some are just naturally more at ease with a Ducassian discipline or would rather dine in a more refined, formal setting, such as one would find at l’Ambroisie. However, although disconcerting to a few, this absence of strict structure renders the experience only more interesting to others and, actually, makes the simple, careful, harmonious marriage of flavours that finally arrives all the more remarkable. It is indeed a compliment to Hélène, who conducts service sublimely and gives the impression that, without her, l’Arpège could not be l’Arpège. She is the rational, cautious force that allows Passard to express his artistic liberty and license without worry. Whatever the individual’s exception (and it usually does revolve around a disbelief that a meal of mainly vegetables can be worth the cost on the carte) it seems that l’Arpège gets only one chance to enchant a diner. If it disappoints them on that one encounter, then the restaurant will probably never see them again. If, on the other hand, it impresses, it has gained a lifelong fan. Each of my own experiences at l’Arpège has offered wonder, excitement and festivity. There is an atmosphere here that is hard to equal and impossible to replicate: the restaurant itself is warm and comforting; the staff welcoming; and Passard, at its centre, adds easiness, affection and whimsy to it all. Peaking through the kitchen door, greeting guests, smiling at some, giving others a tender squeeze of the shoulder as he walks past – his very presence disarms and charms those in his dining room. Passard’s cooking is the cuisine de couleur. Light, bright and vibrant, it is born from a love of food, art, music and of life. This same spirit is embodied in all that is l’Arpège, which itself seems simply an extension of the chef’s own home and indeed of his own self. Each meal, each dish and every bite is a celebration; it is comforting, fulfilling…and it is nourishing.

Hmm. I know lunch and dinner are very different in terms of popularity and menu, but since my dinner, four/five (what I would consider reliable) people have told me they have enjoyed very good/great lunches there...

Thanks for reading it, TarteTatin. I really cannot say what he has become, not knowing what he was...but reading the latest commentary here and elsewhere, it seems that, at the very least, lunch is better than dinner. Overall, however, it was disappointing.

Hi, A little late now, but here is my write up of my meal here last January... Please click HERE for full commentary with photography: HERE There is some contention as to when and by whom the renaissance of France’s bistros was begun. It can be argued that Michel Rostang was that who and the late eighties was that when; in 1987, this chef opened Bistrot d’à Côté Flaubert next door to his main restaurant. He was very quickly followed by Guy Savoy and then a little slower by Jacques Cagna, Gérard Boyer, Marc Meneau and others. Rostang went on to start two more bouchons Lyonnais in addition to other less formal eateries, as did Savoy. There is, bien sûr, another side to this centime. In the early nineties, Gault Millau bestowed the ‘Bistro Moderne’ title on the movement that saw classically trained chefs from the country’s grandes tables abandoning their roots and launching their own traditional bistros. This transition was the result of the serious recession of the early nineties. Haute cuisine’s halcyonic heydays of the eighties had restaurants running over with willing young chefs ready to set off on their own; the economic downtown meant they had nowhere to go. Banks were unenthusiastic/unable to lend them the finance for expensive, fine dining restaurants, therefore those too impatient or too ambitious to wait for the fiscal tide to turn decided to scale back their schemes and settle for less costly bistros. These chefs differed from those like Rostang and Savoy in that they focused solely on these businesses rather than operating them in conjunction with more formal ventures. Camdeborde was one of the impatient/ambitious ones. Although from a food-orientated family – his père, Jean, had a charcuterie in Pau whilst his grandmère, Marthe, owned a restaurant in nearby Navarrenx – this native of le Béarn was more interested in becoming a professional rugby player rather than a professional cook. It was his father that urged him to go to Paris and get some work experience there before deciding his future – ‘stay a year and then you can come home’, he told his young son. At seventeen, he thus found himself working at the Hôtel Ritz under Guy Legay (2*) and his sous, Christian Constant, in the French capital. Of the former he says, ‘[he] gave me my professional education; I discovered my profession through him. I wasn’t born into it, I didn’t choose this…but it was my encounter with [him] that made me passionate about it. He was my master.’ Having found his calling at the Ritz, he then found Claudine, his future wife, who was at another restaurant, Capucine, close by. Like their peers, they dreamed of their own place, so whilst Yves worked his way through Maxim’s, la Marée and la Tour d’Argent before reuniting with Constant at the Hôtel de Crillon, Claudine studied business. In 1992, at twenty-eight and having just been awarded the Delice d'Or from Maîtres Cuisiniers de France, Camdeborde abandoned the space race for Michelin stars. In line with his limited means, he bought a small café in the 14e and opened it as a bistro, la Régalade. A recipe of classic training, simple cooking, casual service and gracious spirit made this an instant success. It also became an inspiration to today’s generation of chefs bistronomiques including Stéphane Jégo (Chez l’Ami Jean), Benoît Bordier, Thierry Breton, Thierry Faucher and even his mentor, Christian Constant. By 2004, after twelve years at la Régalade, the man Constant describes as ‘like a battery’, had become exhausted and surprised everyone by selling his restaurant; ‘I wanted to move on before I got lazy. I needed to discover new things.’ It turned out that by ‘new things’, he meant the small, seventeenth-century Hôtel du Relais Saint-Germain, just off the touristy Carrefour de l'Odéon, which he took over the following year. This twenty-two room, four-star hotel became the focus of his and his wife’s efforts. Once they were happy with it, Camdeborde was allowed to return to the kitchen, launching the adjacent ‘le Comptoir du Relais’. The couple’s mission here was to ‘appeal to all sorts of people; it’s magic when, in the same evening, in the same room, you’ve got Belmondo, Zidane, France Telecom employees, my rugby mates, upper-class americans, parisians – this creates true atmosphere. The client creates the atmosphere and the client needs to be relaxed. At the end of the day, it’s that simple. We wanted to perpetuate a French tradition of conviviality, but with a new, younger generation.’ The chef’s reputation has helped ensure that the dining room has been notoriously full since. A bright red, sleek façade is almost entirely shaded by a vast, black, canvas canopy, upon which le comptoir is inscribed in white. Before the tall windows, outlined with ebony and looking into the brighter, yellow interior, sits a line of little linen-covered cane tables for two, each with a wrapped scarlet/coral/peach blanket; an ardoise hangs on one side showing off the daily prix fixe menu. Inside, tables are tight together with a granite-countered bar on the right afore a large mirror, in front of which shelves, well stocked with colourful bottles and glasses, stand. On the opposite wall, amongst old adverts, a similar mirror is scrolled with the lunch carte. The art nouveau room has a yellow-blue mosaic-tiled floor. Dinner here tonight was an impromptu decision, so I had no booking. Turning up at half-past-eight, the dining room was full, but the terrace almost empty. It was a cold evening, but the blankets and huge heaters outside made it more than bearable and the view was a decent one too. During the day, the restaurant is an informal brasserie, but in the evenings, it is a gastro-bistro offering the same five-course menu to everyone. Each table has its own printed postcard detailing the dishes as well as the day’s patron saint – today it is that of Saint Tatiana, a Christian martyr from third century Rome, blind, beaten and then beheaded (sorry, could not think of a witty way of relating this back to me…). Le Pain: Pain de campagne. An entire, large loaf of crusty sourdough was brought out on a wooden board; the bread had been pre-sliced, but arranged to appear intact. Provided by Poujauran, it had a soft, fairly open crumb and slightly sour finish. Butter was not forthcoming. When asked for, two slivers of unsalted, fridge-cold beurre d’Isigny were delivered. Entrée 1: Oeuf plat truffes noires du Gard. A sizzling hot, double-handed, cast iron roasting pan was served filled with several fried eggs, liberally overlaid with large slices of black truffle, coarsely-cut croutons and visible sprinkling of salty crystals. The familiar odour of the oeufs was at once noticed, unlike that of the truffles, which was noticeable only by its nonexistence. With creamy yolks and crisply-edged, wobbly whites, the eggs were well-cooked as well as well-seasoned, but the croutons on top lacked essential crunch. This was simple and pleasing as it was, but essentially it was a plate of fried eggs (that happened to carry a €15 supplement). Entrée 2: Moelleux de homard Canadien et pomme de terre ratte. Next to arrive was a bowl bearing an oven-baked, gold tinged surface, which when ruptured, revealed Ratte potato mousse, intermingled with morsels of Canadian lobster and interspersed with chives. Another agreeable aroma arose from this creamy mixture. The quality pomme, which also happens to be the suspected pomme of choice for Robuchon’s renowned purée, had nice flavour and surprisingly light consistency. This superior tatter was teamed however with inferior Canadian lobster that was sparse in supply and somewhat chewy. Plat Principal: Tourte de gibier a poil, cerises aigre doux. A pleasingly-sized game pie, densely packed with venison and hare and encased within thin pastry, was partnered with verjus-soaked cherries and quenelle of celery purée. The tourte was excellent – gamey, tasty, deep filling with crisp, light crust – whilst the delicate and clean celery on the side was an agreeable addition. The spicy cherries, unpitted and gritty, were just unpleasant; their verjus essence (acidic liquor from unripe grapes) was much too strong for the dish. Another letdown was the jus that came gently drizzled over all the elements. Although this was pleasingly strong, it was indistinct and had clearly started to form a skin. Les Fromages: Fromages affinés par la maison Boursault. A big, shiny metallic cheeseboard, designed by Camdeborde’s friend Renaud Vassas, came burnished with ten sorts of fromage – St Marcellin, Echourgnac, Tomme de Savoie, double Crottin, Boulette d’Avesnes, Manchego, Chabichou, Camembert, Selles-sur-Cher and la caillé de brebis – in addition to jars of honey, gelée de piments, black cherry jam and a separate plate of pâte de coings. This generous, bottomless, help-yourself-to selection, supplied by Paris affineur Jacques Boursault, offered specimens from all over France and of both goats’ and sheeps’ milk. Interesting choices were a spicy, smoky paprika-wrapped Boulette from the Belgian border; a subtle Chabichou, the goat’s cheese that put Poitou on the map; earthy, grassy Tomme; and woody, nutty Echourgnac. The caillé, clotted cream from ewe’s milk, was watery, whilst my favourite was actually, the non-French Manchego from central Spain. This was slightly sweet, slightly tangy and formed a classic yet terrific couple with the delicious, grainy quince jelly (membrillo). The Basque pepper gelée was also a curious and pleasant discovery. Dessert 1: Ananas Victoria en: Carpaccio, sorbet, rôti et cappucino. Pineapple four-ways was presented in two thin tranches of ananas cross-section sandwiching its sorbet and roasted almonds; a roasted fruit slice; and a small cup of pineapple juice, shot through with rum, topped with milky foam and dusted with chocolate powder. The Victoria breed – intensely sapid, sweet, but hardly acidic – is arguably the best. Cold carpaccio was simple and toothsome, although the sorbet within it had, on arrival, already almost completely melted away. The ananas rôti, moist, hot and crunchy, was good while the cappuccino, reminiscent of pina colada, was decent though unmemorable. Petit Fours: Caramel au fruit de la passion. A passion fruit caramel, with plenty of fruity-tartness, was gratefully neither too sticky nor chewy. Service was adequate. There was just one serveur to be shared between all those on the terrace with only another two within, making getting anyone’s attention at times trying. Stephen who looked after me was friendly, interested and helpful when I was able to gain his notice; he also spoke excellent English having lived in London himself a little while. However, I did not appreciate that I was made to feel a little rushed with the all-you-can-eat cheeseboard. Yves Camdeborde, having greeted guests and wished them bon appetit before dinner, came out into the dining room and onto the terrace towards the evening’s end. He spoke with most of the diners and indeed seemed well-acquainted with many. I must say that I was not impressed with the food. I do like my bread, so a whole loaf to myself was a fine start to the meal. However it was ruined by a first course that verged on absurd with utterly useless truffles making it, effectively, the most expensive plate of eggs I have ever had; consummately cooked eggs they were though. The moelleux de homard was, to a degree, a decent straightforward dish, but slapdash plating (notice the smears left along the edge) and mediocre products made this forgettable. The game pie was far and away the best item of the night and was actually very good in its own right, but again, as a dish, it was spoilt by disagreeable (and out-of-season) cherries and stale sauce. As a complete course, the cheeseboard was the most satisfactory and, as none of it was the fruit of the kitchen, this says much in itself. The dessert too was unremarkable. The general theme was one of simple yet luxury ‘comfort food’. Fried eggs smothered with truffle, moelleux made with lobster and a pie stuffed with noble venison and hare certainly live up to this billing. A good idea though was foiled by execution and raw materials that were found wanting. The play on different textures of pineapple and the tourte hinted at an haute education, but there was none of the innovation or creativity that Camdeborde has been credited with. There was instead a basic sloppiness that was rather off-putting. As mentioned, the poor truffles; dirty presentation; dishes probably waiting at the pass (the jus’ film) and sorbet served on a hot plate, were all evidence of this. Any good ingredients, such as the game, Ratte potato and Victoria pineapple, also appeared to be cancelled out by second-rate ones like the Canadian lobster, again impotent tubers and those cherries. I have read and heard from others that Camdeborde’s cooking is not what it used to be. Actually, the consensus seems to be that he has never been able to reach the heights he did whilst at la Régalade. I, never having tried his cuisine there or before at all, cannot comment on such. What I can state though is that the sense I got was one of a chef who has stopped trying. There was none of the attention to detail or finesse that I would expect from someone trying to impress. Cynically, what with Camdeborde’s other business ventures and a name that ensures that his restaurant is full regardless of what he serves, maybe he has deemed his efforts surplus. As an aside, when he stepped out to check on customers after service, I did notice how impeccably clean his whites still were as he spoke to the elder couple besides me. Something else absent was the legendary generosity that the chef helped establish himself with. At la Régalade, patrons were plied with complimentary pâtés, terrines, sausages and hams made by his brother, Philippe (a custom that continues there today). At le Comptoir, such munificence was missing; even with the ‘limitless’ cheeses, I felt my time limited and though I did see vegetable crisps waiting on tables inside and observe other guests outside given nibbles and wine prior to their starters, I personally received nothing. In their defence, these canapés consisted of jambon and pâté en croûte, obviously both containing pork which I did tell the house I did not eat. Whether I did not receive these because of my ham abstinence, I do not know, but no replacement was forthcoming. Possibly the biggest and worst indication of the lack of liberality was the fact that I was charged a supplement for the butter – yes, a supplement for butter, in France. I have repeatedly singled out the cherries I was served, this is because they sum up what I felt about the restaurant quite well. In an interview whilst he was still at la Régalade, Camdeborde confessed, ‘we must say no to cherries from Peru at Christmas. By serving foods only in season we make people appreciate them. That’s why our menu changes every day; the customer is always happy and appreciates a dish even more when it reappears.’ After opening his new restaurant, in another interview, when asked about the importance of seasonality, he said, ‘it’s primordial. For us chefs it’s pure joy, if you prepare carrots every day, after two months you’ve had enough. It’s a joy to stop one product and start another, even more so for the client. That you can find cherrries at Christmas is fine, why not? But I think it’s important that restaurants reflect the seasons.’ For the record, the date of my dinner at le Comptoir was 12th January.

Hi, I was at Stella Maris last January. Please click here for the full write up of my meal with photography: HERE This blessed, little restaurant rests on the rue Arsène Houssaye, a small side street off the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe itself. For readers who are not Catholic and for those whose Latin is a little rusty, Stella Maris means star of the sea and is a title of the Virgin Mary’s. This though is irrelevant; the name actually refers to the chef, Tateru Yoshino’s, first venture in Odawara near Tokyo and at the foot of Mount Fuji. One might assume from the chef’s nationality that this is a Japanese restaurant. Normally such reasoning would be right. Here however, it is very wrong – Chef Tateru follows French classical cuisine religiously. Born into a poor farming family in the Kagoshima prefecture, one of Japan’s most southerly points, he was introduced to Western gastronomy by his aunt whilst studying in Tokyo. In 1979, he left his homeland to further this culinary education and to dedicate himself and his life to French cooking. After stages in Paris at Chez Benoît, Bistrot d’Hubert and under Alain Senderens at l’Archestrate (3*), he moved to Troisgros (3*), in whose kitchen he worked alongside Pierre Gagnaire. A return to Paris and Robuchon’s Jamin (3*) came next. After such impressive training, he felt ready to open his own French restaurant, the aforementioned Stella Maris in Odawara. Even though chef-patron there, he was still eager to learn and therefore went and spent eighteen months at Taillevent (3*). Subsequently, in 1997, he launched his second Stella Maris, this time in Paris. Although long a favourite of the critics – including le notoire François Simon, who after a recent visit confessed, ‘after a meal like that, there’s nothing left to do but sleep like a baby’ – Chef Tateru had to wait until 2006 to attain his first Michelin star. When he first heard of it, he showed no emotion instead he waited for one week to pass before sending twenty-five copies of the Guide Michelin to Japan. There it made front page news. The chef currently divides his time between the French capital and the Japanese one where he runs three Restaurant tateru yoshinos in Shiba (1*), Shiodomé (1*) and Ginza. The Parisian branch is deep in the financial heart of the city and it is a very discreet establishment. Its entrance, a small black door, barely marked by small, capitalised, yellow letters that spell Stella Maris, and buried amidst several other restaurants, is both hard to find and easy to miss. The reception room is a little cramped, but then the building is a small one with a bottom floor seating twenty-eight and smaller mezzanine level for groups of up to fifteen (as well as a little office). There is brightness and deceptive spaciousness throughout the room from cream coloured walls and snug, Italian, leather armchairs; white tablecloths; and large, frosted and Art Deco painted window that allows a lot of natural light to flood in whilst spotlights and bulbs attached to strings that dangle from the ceiling add more illumination. Some contrast is supplied by a dark burgundy curtain that partitions off the foyer from the dining area; a shiny, wooden, black floor; ebony stencilling that traces the staircase tucked up against the back wall; and small prints painted in vibrant hues that line the sides of the space. Tables are topped with monogrammed Bernaudaud crockery, Pierre Meurgey cutlery and cubed glass vases of sedum leaves. The décor is minimalist, modern and elegant, which suits the substantially business-orientated clientele well. It was Monday lunch and, whilst Jultort and I dined, the restaurant was full. Normally, I would not dawdle with the carte and order the menu dégustation or le Grand Menu Stella Maris here – a special selection of dishes chosen by the chef – but as Chef Tateru was not in the kitchen until dinner, we decided to take full advantage of the menu Déjeuner. Amuse Bouche 1: Parmesan gougères. The first amuse was one tanné-tanned gougère of parmesan cheese each. They did not look lighter-than-air, nor were they; strong parmesan flavour was foiled by a crust of pâte à choux that was much too hard and suggested that these had been reheated. Les Pains: Pain blanc et pain de campagne. Two choices of bread were served by the slice – white and country brown. These were provided by Poujaurran, arguably Paris’ best, and were very good. The light white had open crumb and pleasant crust whilst the moreish campagne was even crustier, soft and fluffy. The butter that came with it was Échiré from Deux-Sèvres in Poitou-Charentes and carries the AOC appellation. Amuse Bouche 2: Velouté de topinambour, mousse au lait, piment. A porcelain cup, complete with saucer, was half-filled with warm, blond Jerusalem artichoke broth and chicken stock topped off with ivory milk foam, a touch of olive oil and a chilli and chive garnish. The velouté, its flavour and consistency thickened with the stock, was quite toothsome and light. The milky emulsion added a little creaminess whilst chilli and chives (whose green colour was considerately complemented by the butterflies on the saucer) perked the soup up. Entrée 1: Risotto d’huîtres, crème de cresson, toast de foie gras de canard. A troika of oysters overlaid on Arborio rice risotto and covered in watercress cream foam and its leaves were accompanied by a sliver of duck foie gras on toast. Primary approval went to presentation: once more, there was a subtle, but deliberate effort made in the arrangement and the accordance of the different elements. The pearliness of the shellfish and almost-glowing green of the watercress were mirrored in the plate – half-white, half-pale moss green – whilst the gold tint of the foie-toast was reflected in the gilded rim that semi-circled the bowl’s opposing half. Secondary satisfaction came from the inviting aroma then finally, but most decidingly, the taste did not disappoint. Gently poached oysters, still fairly firm, were partnered with al dente Arborio that proved an able vehicle for their mild, lingering mineral savour. The sapid emulsion offered a fresh, peppery finish. The ultra-crunchy toast and its strong foie were decent enough, but did not really bring anything essential to the dish. Entrée 2: Tranché de jambon ibérique Pata Negra. My dining companion enjoyed slices of Ibérico ham. Plat Principal 1: Saumon Stella Maris, mi cuit sans peau, à l’huile d’olive, marmalade de tomate à la marjolaine. A cross-section of wild, olive oil marinated salmon, bereft of skin, barely cooked and with its roe spilling over chive crème monte atop it, was matched by marjoram-spiked tomato marmalade, girolles, pomme purée implanted with potato gaufrette and a wedge of lemon; it was sparingly surrounded by more watercress emulsion. The rich and meaty fish was of clearly good quality with a clean flavour and very slight sweetness. This was contrasted against the spicy, sour and moist tomato, whose golden juices mingled with the faintly sharp watercress, both of which the nutty, dill-lined girolles had absorbed to become plump. The salmon’s oiliness and complexity of the roe were further countered by the densely whipped cream clustered with chives and cool potato with crunchy lattice. Yet again, the play on primary red and green and their secondary yellow, was simple, harmonious and very pleasing. Plat Principal 2: Tête de veau en cocotte, crête de coq, oeuf frit, jus en ‘tortue’. Jultort had one of Chef Taturo Yoshimo’s most celebrated classics, calf’s head. This entailed a soufflé of tête de veau, the brain and tongue together with a fried quail egg, olives, chicory and cockscomb, all spiced and sauced with a turtle jus. Dessert 1: Mont-Blanc ‘Maison’, glace à la vanilla de Madagascar. A rum-soaked Genoa sponge, its centre crammed with blackberry jam, sat on pâte sucrée and in whipped cream wrapped with strands of chestnut vermicelli; it was crowned with confit chestnut, sprinkled with icing sugar, set with an upright trio of long meringue twigs and teamed with vanilla ice cream, blackberry jam as well as candied chucks of apricot and fig. The glace was creamy and milky, but wanting for vanilla; confit fruit pieces were ordinary. The Mont-Blanc itself was very nice – not overly sweet but tasty. It had crunchy, thin biscuit base; rummy cake that was strong enough to tickle the taste buds without knocking them out; sweet, rich confiture; and lovely wholesome chestnut. The glazed nut on top had good sweet-starchiness and pasty crumble. Petit Fours: Macaron caramel au beurre salé; chocolat praliné; et tarte framboise. A threesome of petit fours comprised salty caramel macaroon, icosagonical praline chocolate and raspberry tartlet. The macaroon was crisp with sticky rim and gluey liquid caramel centre. Chocolate composed with pistachio was tasty with excellent crunch and nuttiness. The last treat was just as capable; its soft, fresh raspberry tartness offset by sweet crème and the crackle of its tuile basket. Service was respectable. The staff seemed to consist of simply the maître d’hôtel, sommelier (formerly of Jamin) and a hostess, but managed the filled-out restaurant ably enough even if they were at times somewhat stretched; the small dining space also did not help, making their movements a little clumsy. Each individual was friendly and informative, always willing to find out information that they did not already know. However, a small but niggling observation we made was that our bottles of water appeared to be used to serve other tables with. The food was very capable. Poor gougères provided a dispiriting start though the second amuse was adequate. Adept cooking of the risotto d’huîtres showcased excellent, distinct savours and helped mend my opinion. The saumon Stella Maris was admirable with many elements balanced simultaneously to good effect. Dessert proved a tasty finish too and petit fours were good. Chef Tateru describes his style as ‘pure cuisine française’. Using French raw materials, employing traditional techniques and drawing on classic recipes, he applies his own approach to these. ‘C'est ma formation. Je travaille avec des bases de cuisine classique, c'est mon métier’. Although he would not tolerate any reference to fusion – and justifiably so too – Japanese culinary principles are inherent in his interpretations (also, his kitchen is stocked exclusively with Japanese chefs) and are manifest mainly through the minimalist treatment and presentation of produce; its quality; a subservience to the seasons; and the cleanness and precision of flavours. The products on show today were excellent and testament to the importance chef Tateru pays them. He is a noted fan of organic foodstuffs, sourcing his vegetables and herbs from two bio farms, Jancar in l’Aube and Yamashita in the Yvelines; fish and shellfish from Brittany and Normandy (urchins from the Île d'Oléron, scallops from Erquy and lobsters from Brittany); and meat and poultry from Paris’ best butchers. The aesthetic adhered to – clean, focused and subtle – is one I also associate with the Orient. The thorough thought devoted to each dish and its display (spreading to the crockery and even décor of the restaurant) was delightful and appreciated, however it was also derivative to the taste of the cooking, never appearing to be at the cost of this. These principles were repeated in the flavours of the food. Even given the naturally strongly savoured materials, such as salmon and oysters, there was a definite delicacy, lightness and finesse in their finish. In addition, it was also healthier, or at least appeared so. That being said, my overall, enduring impression of the meal is a muddled one. On the one hand, dishes were well-considered and well-crafted with quality ingredients. Ignoring the initial amuse, execution was also flawless, but given that the head chef splits his time between Paris and Tokyo, the kitchen should be able to manage well in his absence. The chefs showed talent with the risotto that had been cooked just right for that recipe; whilst the salmon was an exercise in how to let good produce speak for itself. On the other hand however, there was one nagging sentiment I could not ignore. The food was well-cooked, attractive and it was hard to fault – maybe the best description would be ‘nice’ – but in retrospect, I feel almost bothered that this nice food was not more stirring. There is a fine line between subtle and dull, but after just a single, short visit, I cannot certify upon which side, I think, Stella Maris stands. As it was, I consider it a decent meal, but I would have liked a little more vibrancy or life from the food. Dishes did not demand my attention. Cynically (and whilst stereotyping – I know), one may suggest that this had some correlation with the fact the restaurant is full of businessmen, for whom lunch is mainly an excuse to excuse themselves from the office rather than an event in itself. For them the plate need be pretty and pleasant, but not distracting to their discourse. This may be why I found the cuisine especially ‘inoffensive’. Stella Maris deserves a second visit. If admittedly not mind-blowing, it appealed on some levels. I also think that other dishes I did not try on this occasion could be special: modern versions of such French classics as lièvre à la royale and tourte de gibier, for example, despatched with Japanese discipline and dexterity, could be delicious.

Thanks Pirate. There seems to be a lot of conflicting information about which opened first. I will try to get to the bottom of it though... Look forward to reading about your London adventures! Cheers. Ajgnet.

Hello, please click here to read the complete write-up with photography of my meal last January: HERE Joël Robuchon was never meant to be a chef. In fact, he intended to become a priest. Born into a modest, Catholic family of five children in Poitiers, to a stonemason father and housewife mother, he entered the seminary at twelve. However, when his parents were unable to keep up with their youngest son’s tuition fees, Robuchon turned in his bnlack clergyman’s robes and invested in a set of chef’s whites, deciding to dedicate his life to cooking and, at fifteen, took on an apprenticeship at Relais de Poitiers. At twenty-one (1966), he joined les Compagnons du Tour de France; a role that entailed travelling around France working with different master chefs and introduced him to different regional cuisines, produce and techniques. It was during this period that he worked with Jean Delaveyne at le Berkeley, whom Robuchon would later name his greatest teacher. After seven years, he was hired as head chef at Hôtel Harmony La Fayette in Paris where he had to turn out three hundreds meals a day. Robuchon discovered Japanese cooking in the seventies and, after winning the MOF in 1976, Bocuse invited him to teach pver there. The simplicity and technique he witnessed impressed and stayed with him ever since, as did an affection for the Far East. After his return to France, he was head chef at Les Celebrités in Hôtel Nikko, before opening his own restaurant, Jamin, in 1981. His success here was immediate and immense. As it smashed Michelin records, winning its first star after three months then all three in three years, Jamin became a legend and set Robuchon up as a first among equals, a position Gault Millau corroborated by naming him ‘Cuisinier du Siecle’ in 1990. Eventually, in 1993, he moved from the original Jamin site to a larger space at the Hôtel Le Parc on avenue Raymond Poincaré. In 1996 (5 July, for those taking notes), the fifty-one year old Joël Robuchon retired, closing his restaurant and handing it over to Alain Ducasse. He cited the daily strain he felt under as well as the wish to leave whilst he still had a choice, rather than when he would be forced to. Since the early nineties, he had told friends and reporters too of his intended retirement, but the world was still shocked when it really happened. That being said, no longer behind the stove, the chef had not abandoned the industry completely, maintaining consulting roles at several restaurants, including Taillevent Robuchon in Tokyo; advising some French food companies, like Fleury Michon; appearing on TV shows; and leading the team that revised the Larousse Gastronomique. Robuchon was unable to resist playing the restaurateur forever however and in 2001 he launched Robuchon à Galera in Macau. He followed this up with a much-anticipated return to Paris two years later with l’Atelier de Joël Robuchon in May 2003, claiming 'I'm coming back through a very small door'. ‘What I have in mind is a place with a very relaxed convivial atmosphere. That's what I think people want. There will be lots of interaction between the chef and the customers’. What he really had in mind was a new concept of essentially a sushi bar serving French tapas. Taking the title of his 1997 cookbook, co-authored with Patricia Wells, and an idea that hit him when in Japan, he joined the, by then, established tradition of gourmet chefs opening bistro/more casual restaurants. The formula worked. Queues formed around the block. The model was rolled out (along with slightly more formal les Tables, les Cuisines, Cafés, Salons de thé and even Restaurants de Joël Robuchon) in Tokyo, Monaco, Las Vegas, New York, London and Hong Kong. Le Figaro screamed, 'c'est une revolution!’ while Michelin has since bestowed upon him a total of twenty-five stars. At the original l’Atelier, the kitchen is run by the trio of Erick LeCerf, Philippe Braun and Eric Bouchenoire. Whilst in ‘retirement’, Robuchon had placed LeCerf at Astor and Braun at Laurent, were both won two étoiles each; Bouchenoire, MOF, had remained at his side. Together, in 2006, they earned this l’Atelier its own first macaroon, then a second two years later. Robuchon was always known as one of the shier, more modest chefs, never leaving his kitchen to tour the dining room – when asked to describe himself as a dish, he said he would be a potato (or he may have said ‘un pomme de terre’). It was thus a surprise to many when he launched a restaurant where the chefs are so utterly exposed. If truth be told though, it seems behind the scenes he was not so timid. Gordon Ramsay, whom along with the likes of Eric Ripert, Benoît Guichard, Eric Briffard, Frédéric Anton and Michael Caines he at some point mentored, moans that he ‘was like a tortured child’ at Jamin and there is a story involving Robuchon, a plate of hot ravioli and Ramsay’s head. It also seems that after years spent in front of the television screens, Robuchon may have grown fond of entertaining an audience: 'in the past, I never came out of the kitchen, but television liberated me and made me more relaxed'. The Paris l’Atelier is found in Saint-Germain-des-Prés in the 7th. It is adjacent/semi-attached to the Hôtel Pont Royal, although each is independent of the other (for the record, the venture’s actual financial backer is Ted Margellos, a loyal former customer of Robuchon’s). This hotel was once the haunt of the city’s literati; its bar being a favourite for writers such as Arthur Miller, T.S. Elliot, Truman Capote, Gabriel Garcia Marques as well as that existentialist twosome of Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus. Windows wrapped in black wood form the restaurant’s façade which protrudes out onto the pavement. The entrance, which sits betwixt two little olive trees, opens onto a small ante-room wherein one waits until whisked either to the right or to the ‘tourist’ left. The interior, designed by Pierre Yves Rochon (credits include Essex House, NY and Château les Crayères, Reims), is basically black, red and stainless steel; there is ebony marble from Zimbabwe and dark cherry Ballesandre wood from the eighteenth century. On either half, a u-shaped bar borders an open kitchen that doubles as the ‘theatre’. The spectators takes their places around it on high, metal-framed stools upholstered in lipstick red leather and set snugly side-by-side. On a shelf above the counters, conical flasks of colourful, pickled vegetables are highlighted by recessed halogen spotlights, whilst on the counters themselves one can find such adorning articles as vases of faux apples on faux ice; mandarins sitting on pots of black pepper; and bowls of pasta. On the far right, the restaurant’s open cave rests behind a sheet of glass. Modern paintings that resemble those of Robuchon’s favourite artists, Pollack and Rauschenberg, hang throughout. Each guest has an individual woven vinyl black placement; Bernaudaud crockery; Ercuis cutlery; frosted red glass and ashtray-ish side dish; and a thick, starched linen napkin nestled in a paper choker. Chefs, neither in traditional white nor wearing toques, are dressed in black Zhongshan suits with red piping; the same goes for the serving staff who occupy a small moat between the customers and kitchen. The dim dining room and dark attire allows the designer to focus diners’ attention where he wants. To do this, highly focused lighting is used to illuminate decorative details; the hanging charcuterie; bottles of vibrant veg; workstations in the cooking area; and, most importantly, the plates of food themselves. The restaurant (like Jamin) has forty seats, which are intimately close to each other.The atmosphere is a fairly lively one with the sights, sounds and steams of the cuisine a backdrop to the constant chit and chatter of those eating. Once the staff have allowed you through the doors that remain locked at all times – yes, including whilst the restaurant is open – and shown you to your seat, the menus are already ready at the table for perusal. There are many dishes on offer, on many menus; le menu « découverte »; l’ALC; la carte des plate en petites portions dégustation; as well as off-menu daily specials repeated by servers/euses on arrival. Les Pains: Baguette et pain de campagne. Baguette and country bread were bestowed from a communal metal basket. Bar the baguette being slightly more chewy than crunchy, both were unworthy of note and seemed shop bought. Its supply from a shared source was a little inconvenient – with the fact that it was at times out of reach more off putting than the worry of where others’ fingers could possibly have previously been. More shocking (and heartbreaking) was the absence of any butter. Entrée 1: le Foie Gras de canard chaud avec un confit de coings au gingembre. A lobe of glistening pan-fried foie gras, lying over gingered cubes of confit quince and inset with a series of green apple semi-slices, resembled a stegosaurus; rocket leaves and skinny streaks of hibiscus sauce criss-crossed the plate beneath. The foie was soft, though not as molten in its middle as I like, with a supple, though not crisp, skin; though it at least had decent taste. For the record, it had not be deveined. The fruit marmalade was a disappointment: warm, soft squares were neither sweet nor tart as was expected, but actually rather bland whilst any ginger spice that was there went wholly unnoticed. The apple wedges, which had started to surrender their positions immediately on presentation, were sweet, sour, almost sticky and the surprise highlight here. Entrée 2: la Langoustine en ravioli truffe à l’étuvée de chou vert. Two plump ravioli, crammed with langoustine and soused in truffle and foie gras sauce, were separated by a bundle of steamed cabbage leaves and surrounded by wavy splashes of more of the same sauce. Each round ravioli pasta – soft and delicate – was well-made, however had a strange, possibly too eggy taste, which did not complement the creamy, rich flavoured filling. Its smooth crème was another mixed blessing. The foie was distinct and gave the sauce some force, but the truffles were utterly ineffective. The springy, light and bright salad was, on the other hand, quite agreeable. Entrée 3: l’Os à Moelle relevé d’une pointe de moutarde à notre façon. A grilled slice of rustic bread, slavered with bone marrow mixed with Orléans mustard ‘our way’, was planked upon a barren beef bone pedestal, the whole plate sprinkled haphazardly with parsley, rocket and baby beet. The moelle was indeed unctuous and satisfactorily fatty in nice contrast to the crunchy toast. The leaves left a pleasant leafy pepperiness. Moutarde d’Orléans meanwhile, a medieval condiment made with Orléans vinegar and Guérande fleur de sel, although it made for a slightly spicy addition, more was anticipated from it. An old, but rare, mustard, noted for its creamy relish, was first discovered when wines being transported to Orléans from Tours and Anjou, having turned to vinegar in transit, were taken to local vinegar producers eventually to be used by neighbouring mustard makers. This was, however, still an able dish, but certainly under-seasoned and could have been hotter. Plat Principal 1: le Ris de Veau clouté de laurier frais à la feuille de romaine farcie. Bay laurel leaf-studded veal sweetbread, prepared à la plancha, was presented in the likeness of a pineapple and partnered with Swiss chard leaf stuffed with onion compote and framed with an emulsion of its cooking juices. Soft, smooth ris was pleasant but would have been better with some caramelisation coating it, without which, it simply seemed incomplete. Another negative was that the bay had imbued the offal only where it had stabbed it, leaving its extremities tasting rather plain. Some jus de veau concealed under the gland was toothsome as was the emulsion that embroidered the crisp chard. The sweet, rich onion within this was another good point. Plat Principal 2: le Merlan frit Colbert, beurre aux herbes. A whole whiting – its back splayed open, spine removed then interior breaded lightly, deep-fried and with the exposed cavity filled with beurre Colbert whilst its tail and head remained intact – sat adjacent a simple lemon half and pile of fried parsley on an aquamarine plate that mimicked the fish’s natural habitat. The merlan’s soft, white flesh had delicate and fresh flavour, which was complimented well by the sweet, peppery herb butter. The technique in cooking the whiting was excellent – crisp, crumbly and with not a spot of excess oil present. The same could not be said of the parsley, which was sapid, but a tad greasy. For those curious, ‘Colbert’ is a reference to Jean-Baptiste Colbert (1619-1683), Louis XIV's Intendant des Finances. In addition to being publicly a capable minister, he privately divided his time between his three loves – women, wine and gastronomy: ‘I enjoy nothing more’, he wrote a friend ‘than making love, dining well and drinking the rich red wines of Bordeaux. And I am never more pleased when I can carry out these activities all at the same time’. Many recipes have since been named after this renowned gourmet (or were devised by his chef inconnu – evidence is still uncertain). This dish, on Robuchon’s menu in some incarnation since Jamin days, is one of his classics. It is therefore fitting that his most famous creation came teamed with it – le purée de pommes de terre. The recipe, much argued over, involves a variety of Ratte potato, an equal amount of cold butter and a quantity of warm milk. This breed of tater, unusual when Robuchon first started using it, albeit a chef’s favourite now, has excellent flavour, verging on nutty, and smooth texture. The mash, which came in a cute mini Staub cocotte, was almost syrupy and gooier then expected. It was tasty, though hardly unforgettable, and in reality, despite making for a fine pair, only a little of it was needed to sauce the fish. Dessert 1: les Tartes de tradition assorties. An elongated tray, decorated by drops of berry coulis, was delivered with a quintet of various tarts resting on swirls of more hibiscus sauce: dark chocolate, lemon, ‘Snickers’, apple and cinnamon. Each ‘sensible’ segment was well-constructed and quite pleasing. The dark choc slice, made with Valrhona Araguani 72%, had thick pastry, but quality bitter coco taste with a hint of fruit. Lemon, with biscuit-like base and moussy, tart middle was nice whilst the shimmering ‘Snickers’ (basically milk chocolate, toffee and peanuts), silky and crunchy. Moist, fruity and subtly spicy apple had good textural variation and the cinnamon, with crusty pâte sucrée and a thin layer of sweet condensed milk, was quite decent. Dessert 2: le Chocolat « sensation » avec un sorbet bitter sur un crémeaux Araguani. Within a conical glass cup, which came set atop a small glass bowl bearing black cord and small red boules, dark chocolate crème and chocolate Chantilly came capped with a thin disk of choc punctuated by droplets of fruit coulis. The cocoa, again Valrhona Araguani 72%, was again a good choice. The creamy mousse hid buried bits of crunchy cookie that offered some textural variation and the coulis was notably sharp, but on the whole, this was very dull. Service was very pleasant. Although clearly busy and even stretched at times, staff were friendly, patient and informative. Sometimes dishes were a little slow to be removed and new ones brought before old ones were gone, but this is a minor objection that can be overlooked given the casual setting. There was also the issue of the physical challenge of placing/taking plates from over the counter, though of course, this is not the staff’s fault. Unfortunately, I found the food unimpressive. The bread was basic; foie gras had disappointingly meek flavours; and langoustines were very forgettable. The l’Os à Moelle was an improvement on what went before and, though it lacked sufficient seasoning and spice, was alright. That being said, having tasted bone marrow on toast at St. John, this was a very inferior substitute. The sweetbread was another let down: no caramelisation on its crust, little natural savour and simply an improper infusion of flavour from the herbs. The merlan was much better. This simple fish dish was well-executed and tasty; its accompanying potato purée was nice though not monumental. The collection of tarts was very good, each technically adept and delectable. The second dessert, the chocolate ‘sensation’, on the other hand, was terribly boring and unremarkable. I was also fortunate enough to try a little of the basil sorbet; vanilla and chocolate pots (la Vanille); and le Marron desserts and I feel les Tartes were the best of all these. On that last point, it was thanks to the kindness of strangers that I was able to try a few extra plates. I readily admit that on arrival I was struck at just how intimately tightly I had been seated between others – not that it bothered me, but it was just unusual. Robuchon remarked, ‘I wanted to do something friendly in Paris, I am always surprised to see how the Japanese, usually very reserved, relax and chat in sushi bars’. And this is exactly what he has achieved. I really got on famously with an American lady, her son and daughter that were to my right; and very well with a pair of Japanese ladies on my left, even though they spoke but a few words of English and no French. After helping the Américaine with translating the menu, we then started shared bites of each other’s dishes (for the record they liked the Os à Moelle especially). As they left, they also left me an incredibly kind and unexpected gift. From our conversation I gathered that she was quite the wine lover, thus she first surprised me with what she knew best – a dessert wine. Then, even more generously, in the best way anyone can surprise anyone else – with a dessert. This was le Chocolat, which was matched with a glass of Banyuls Galateo, Coume del Mas that was deeply fruity with a caramel hint. Without this touching incident, the evening would have been a huge letdown. For me, Robuchon’s name has been synonymous with outstanding ingredients, craftsmanship, simplicity and simple deliciousness. I, of course, did not expect the same calibre of cooking that coerced so many to fly across the world to Paris just to eat at Jamin then go straight home (happy), but I guess I just anticipated more than I saw. My main protest was with the produce, which was simply rather standard stuff; the langoustines and sweetbread stood out for their lack of quality. Another issue was the wanting for finesse, manifest in the foie that had not been deveined; poor technique with the bay and ris; and the greasy parsley. Worst of all, however, was the very ‘manufactured’ impression each dish left. A friend described l’Atelier as fancy fast food. Regretfully, he was right and this term was very fitting. An overriding sense of ‘process’ pervaded the cooking. The endless list of dishes were characterised by a central ingredient complemented with one or two additional flavours, all possible to quickly cook, served minimally, but usually in some striking fashion, just all seemed rather superficial to me. The overall effect was that I felt myself at a place of business (which of course it is…), whereby efficiency and economy are kings and the biggest victims, ingredient quality and my dining pleasure. From the locked front doors – no doubt thus kept to keep a queue outside and stir some curiosity and excitement – to the dispassionate black uniforms to the high, barrier-like counter tops to the conveyor-belt of dishes, there was a subtle impression of impersonality too. All this worked to underscore the superficiality, as did the ‘open’ kitchen, which though within easy view was really just for show, with little cooking taking place there and no interactivity between chefs and customers – as would be found in authentic sushi bars and what Robuchon said he had in mind. There were some successes. As mentioned, the interaction between customers was unanticipated, but delightful. Some of the more classic, straightforward dishes (l’Os à moelle, le Merlan, les Tartes), which appear in line with Robuchon’s recent thoughts – ‘there is a move towards less sophisticated cuisine. My mantra is 'Eat the truth'. I hate going to restaurants where you don't know if its duck, chicken or veal on the plate because it is so over-complicated. It's a sort of cerebral masturbation’ – were nice too. These were nonetheless outweighed by what I did not enjoy and what can be summed up by a pursuit of form over function. Inevitably, with Joël Robuchon’s name above the door and two stars in le Guide, I wanted something significant. What I discovered was a shiny diner where the sizzle overshadowed the substance. I cannot hold the restaurant responsible for the expectations evoked by its étoiles, as these were endowed independently by Michelin, but I guess Robuchon might be arguably excused on a technicality too: after all, I was eating at his atelier. Atelier is indeed an interesting appellation. Is it used here to mean a workshop, where one can see the produce produced into plates of food? Does it refer to the artistic aesthetic that is pursued? Or is it an indication of the cuisine’s handmade nature? I imagine that only one man knows for sure, but it has been also been argued that the title may hint of a meaning more in line with the Atelier method in art, wherein master artists run a studio of pupils who collaboratively compete in the creation of works made in the school of that master. This last sense pessimistically suggests that one should not expect ‘Robuchon’, but just an imitation of it.

Had to comment in defence of the sweetbreads from the ALC. I really liked this dish, but I know I am in the minority. I also really liked the eel that U.E. has mentioned. Great flavours. Also agree about the crushed Ratte potatoes under the turbot. Unfortunately I was taught to like my turbot 'fatty', but still, the dish has plus points. Re. the pamplemousse, I thought it not as bad as U.E. and la Peche. I preferred the chocolate log with smoked milk to this though.