We arrived at 8:35, we were seated by 8:40, and of course my third dining companion was already there. I insisted that we be five minutes early for our 8:30 reservation, but my friend's last minute pedicure had to happen at 7:45. (While waiting at Beautiful Nails or Exceptional Health, or whatever, some friendly banter about his burgeoning metrosexual tendencies ensued, perhaps in order to alleviate my growing anxiety about making the rezo.) Like my friend "Brenda," (or Gael Greene, to be more precise) I like to be absolutely on time for dinner reservations, especially when they're on the late side. Inevitably, if we start late, we're the last to leave the restaurant.
As soon as I entered, I looked back to the open kitchen and to the passe. No Chef expediting. Where's Chef, I ask? He's on his honeymoon. Where? In Hawaii. Congratulations, Chef. So we were to be in Kevin Heston's capable hands that night; no problem, it's wasn't the first time.
After a few minutes, we were seated, and we sat down with great expectations. I, to be swept away by, and Brenda, to be dismissive of, Chef Wylie Dufresne's food. By now the world knows all about Wylie, with his New York Times write up, and TV appearances. I am an unabashed fan of the chemistry kids, as Ted Allen might call them.
I believe that Wylie is in part questioning the assumptions that underly what our dining experience consists of, and what constitutes dining out. He and his chefs laboriously experiment with, and reconsitute, a variety of ingredients. The idioms include nouvelle American, tapas, classic French, Asian riffs... but my reference level is not sufficient to comprehend all the flavor combinations. I know, having worked my way through most of the menu, that the flavors and textures work for me. He's playful, he obviously has fun, and he knows his stuff.
One of the most striking elements of a dish from Wylie's kitchen is the way one can approach it from the different portions on the plate. My experience thus far is that the canape format works best. It can be eaten whole, in one bite, as in an amuse bouche. Since he often provides two to three of these bites, I will take the time to unravel the presentation and eat each component individually, savoring first the way the dish stacks up as a whole. Then I take each subsequent bite apart, savoring the cooking techniques, the exactitude of the prep, and the secrets behind the flavor combinations.
On this particular trip, I was not up to my usual vivacious, voracious form and I needed help with the ingredients and preparations. Maybe I just like to see servers spiel food. We had a good one, as usual, self-professedly strong on the food side, who when asked recommended the wine we'd decided on among ourselves (the only sure-fire Pinot Nior under $60, an Au Bon Climat 2006).
After we ordered, our amuses arrived in dashing, curvy rameikens. Though it was meant to be consumed in one bite, I picked it apart, enjoying the elements of the fish wrapping, the pickled and smoked flavor, and the granola on their own. A strange, subtle, perhaps Korean inflected dish; a sedate and colorless, yet intriguing start.
I ordered the grilled octopus as an appetizer. It arrived as two long tubes of seafood. The first bite was a strong reminder of the taste of octopus, an excellent meat full of flavor. The tiny shreds of lychee shoe leather function both as a deep hued color contrast to the starkness of the octopus tube but also yield pleasure as one tastes both the lychee and campari in congress. A subsequent bite of the octopus, once plates had been passed, felt less satisfying, as I was left more with the impression of a chewiness and left wanting for the sensitivity of a lightly sauteed, simple piece of octopus. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the dish as a whole, as the net result of the creative interplay by young chefs.
It's why I go there. Frankly, I am bored with "good food." Cheek in veal demi, St. Jacques preparations, thyme everywhere, with requiste starch and veg... I am desparate to escape from this mode of fine dining. Granted, Wylie's kitchen doesn't provide the same consistent level of comfort that a traditional Italian or French kitchen might provide--but frankly, I'd rather be left with questions such as, "Why sous vide the fish?" or, "why reconsititute an ingredient that is better fresh?" than wonder why the kitchen couldn't be bothered to put a little white pepper in the mashed potatoes. There are more pressing concerns on the avant-garde of gastronomy. I prefer a series of questions in my head to an ache in my belly; in the case of the former, I want to research and investigate the history of the ingredients Wylie uses, what their typical place is in their own terroirs and in season. Thankfully, in the case of the latter, I have never left wd~50 with the slightest hint of indigestion. Presumably this is due to their immaculately clean kitchen and sanitary approaches to food preparation.
I tried the fried quail, which was a meaty piece of the juicy bird, encased in a little cake of what appeared to be carmelized, panko sized bread crumbs. I believe the final prep took place in a sautee pan, as the cakes left a bit of an oily residue on the plate and in my mouth, slightly overwhelming and mildly unpleasant. However, the counterpoint to this dish, a "banana tartar" was exceptional, dressed in a cream sauce and sprinkled with a slighly tart and spicy herb. How raw banana fits both in the appetizer section, and with a game bird, is an event that again leaves me asking a question.
Finally the corned duck, that I've had before, which I like very much. I had a realization perhaps a week before the last time I tried this dish (six weeks ago), where I had so tired of bacon wrapped canapes and menu items that I vowed never to have one again. I stood firm on this: no bacon wrapped shrimp, tenderloin, or scallops. Then I waltz in to wd~50 and order the corned duck--it leapt off the page at the time, inspiring intense curiosity. Eaten as a whole it's a very pleasant experience, like eating duck with a bacon texture, with the crunch of a crostini and the freshness of microgreens on top. This time around, I found the horseradish cream (creme fraiche?) to be a little on the sharp side and the bacon to be a bit soft--it hid the secret ingredient from all but the initiated, the amazing tiny slice of garlic sauteed in honey. The salt-yeast paste lightly smeared on the toast was also obscured, but it's an element that reveals itself to either the hearty of palate or those willing to completely unravel the dish and examine it in its component parts. And when all way said and done, during the ride home, I realized that I'd eaten a bacon wrapped canape! Granted, it was wrapped in on itself... but I'd been duped!
Then the soup course, which I insisted on. I wanted my companion to try the French onion soup, which I contend is a most cool riff on a classic food item. Frozen cheese is surrounded by a pectin; the cheese maintains its shape in the onion consomme and then explodes on contact with the inside of the mouth. A wafer thin crouton rests on top of the miso-style soup cup along with a healthy smear of emulsion of carmelized onion. Another frozen ball of cheese rests on the wafer, meant to be eaten by itself or perhaps dropped into the soup. Either way it completely evokes the taste, if not the texture, of the top layer of bruleed cheese and carmelized onion typically found adhering to the edges of the crock and underneath the cheese brulee. The wafer on the rim of the cup is a little treasure on display to be eaten, rather than one that one must plunge a spoon into and risk burning one's mouth to taste the flavor.
However, I had the popcorn soup, which was really strange. I ate a creamy soup broth that tasted liked popped corn. "Orville Redenbaccher, I believe," our server informed us when I questioned him about it. A reconsituted shrimp disc rested in the soup, along with a half disc of jicama. I believe tamarind was present either as a drizzle on the surface of the soup or as a sugary element on top of the jicama. I finished it, playing with the thick popcorn soup broth on my spoon while we waited for servers to clear our plates on this rather busy night.
On to the main courses. I wanted to order the flatiron steak with coffee gnocchi for the table, as I've enjoyed it so much in the past. But since they ordered the lamb and the pork belly, I felt that so much meat would be overkill. So I ordered the ocean trout.
This, I was informed, was cooked sous vide. I have to wonder what was in the bag as it slow poached--how did they achieve the vivid red? Perhaps the low temperature maintains the look, even feel, of the raw fish without the risk, bacterially speaking, of eating raw. The rootbeer-date, black soybeans, lovage, and forbidden rice all provided interesting counterpoints to the main dish, spread symetrically along the fish's length. Interesting, though isn't really a fair or a truly descriptive word. While the fish had a tenderness and flavor that satisfied me on its own, I felt that pairing it with each of the components, particularly the tiny lovage leaves, brought the protein into new contexts. The crunchiness of the black soybean clusters reminded me a bit of Ripert's homemade rice crispies, the rootbeer gave a welcome sweetness to the fishiness, and the green, shredded, forbidden rice was... well, strange and alien, but good.
The pork belly was satisfying as usual--deep flavor, evenly cooked, though perhaps a bit on the dry or chewy side. But what can one expect, it's stomach muscle, no? I just recall it being a little springier on the palate last time. The caper emulsion satisfyed me with its tang, not so much bringing to mind the pickling or brining that most capers undergo, and along with the exceptional marinated "ancho" pinapple provided a harmonious whole. Of course pineapple and pork work together. That's what's so exciting about these dishes--I have multiple impressions on the palate while I eat, but also I can ruminate on the "why" of the component pairings until potential answers come to mind. In instances such as this, Wylie, his chefs, and Dewey remind me of good vintners or viticulturists, who can fine tune a short run wine vintage and elevate the craft of production to artistic dimensions.
Finally, the lamb loin. A dish to play it safe with. When my companion questioned why she couldn't have her lamb rare, as she always has it, the server warned that the "fat cap" (did he mean "cap fat"? or is this semantic nitpicking?) on the lamb made a medium rare preparation more appropriate. We insisted on rare and it arrived without the fat cap. I must admit that the flavor and the components of this dish were most successful from a traditionalist's standpoint. Lovely, firm potato noodles rested in a consume. A pretzel consume. What? Yes, a clear broth that tasted of pretzel. What can I say, it worked. Along with the mustard crumbs, a series of chunks and cubes that looked like dried dijon mustard cake (though very mild in flavor) to the side of the protein, and the steamed mustard greens, the dish sang with a simplicity and tenderness that would put a few Zagat-hyped Italian joints to shame that I've visited in the past several months.
I stop myself, though, leaving the last piece of lamb for someone else, and plunge back into the difficult ocean trout. Why sous vide fish? What are these strange elements surrounding it? Do I eat them together? I like these questions, I like the confusion, I like the intellectual and emotional search I must make in order to arrive at conclusions. While the crispy soybean cake lacked a little subtlety, I was not turned off. Dufresne makes me wonder what he grew up eating. In turn, I think back to what comforts me and what I expect out of food. Being part of this stage set, being given this experience, is to me a form of success on a level beyond the pursuits of most restaurants thirsting for two NY Times stars. The sense of play, the refusal to remain completely beholden to the past and to old modes of presentation, the desire to redefine what constitutes "au point" or the perfect preparation for an ingredient--it's what keeps me coming back. These are thoughtful men and women. Perhaps, like me, they're tired of traditional dining out. Though I'd bet their home cooking is quite different from what they make in the restaurant (excepting their family meal, which I've heard is "the best in New York City"). I'd imagine that wd~50's chefs enjoy the same home cooked meals we all do. Nonetheless, come service time, they raise the bar, they stock the bar differently, just as Vongerichten did before them once upon a time. Enough pontification, on to dessert.
First we were given a "pre-dessert," a lovely item from the tasting menu described in print as "yogurt, saffron, raisin." Another riff on yogurt and granola, I think, as little specks of oat dotted the dish. Raisin was presented as a puree underneath the dish, a light, mildly sweet, almost airy, dark liquid, and also as currants. The whole raisins were very strong, probably marinated in the saffron.
The coconut ice cream, the wonderful, if a bit sickly sweet cherry chocolate morsels, the startling combination of warm jianduja "tartlet" with ice milk, the strange comfort of a brown butter base for a sweet dish... These three desserts had consistent elements--a kind of advanced ice cream making, shocking ices with savory, smoky garnishes that made for a very satisfying sweet ending to the meal. And two petit fours, a nice faux-marshmellow that I'd had before and a wild chocolate menthol ice cream in a toasted short cake. A riff on tempura ice cream that I can really get behind; the cold of the ice, the pleasure of chocolate cake, and a secondary taste of menthol. The lingering aftertaste, an intermingling of all the flavors, was a testament to the success of this tiny cake.
A four course dinner for three with two coffees and a $58 bottle of wine was $327. Despite my unrealized desire to please my dining companion with this new cusinine, and the slow pace of a very busy Monday night, in hindsight this was an exciting meal.
No comments:
Post a Comment