5 posts tagged “molecular gastronomy”
Loved the words of A A Gill's restaurant piece on El Bulli - it's the complete and utter lack of ponce...
It's awfully tricky talking about this type of food unless it’s a shared experience. So, I decided to simply pull out the expressive words and phrases from Gill’s article.
For me, the words are enough to take me back to the wonderful lunch at Hessie’s and subsequent amateur attempts of my mr. chef.
Here goes:
Intense
Obtusely original
Manipulates ingredients
Flavours, textures and methods challenging
Never overpowering
Often astonishing
Superlatively brilliant
Heavenly surprise
Laugh out loud
Inspired and complementary match
Plays with bitterness
Beyond epicurean pleasure
Directly feeds the heart
Cultured head & greedy stomach
No faux ponce
No haute civility
Without adjectives and exclamation marks…
Heavenly words.
August is by far the best time to experience the fine restaurant foods of London town. London is emptied out of well-heeled townsfolk, which means you only battle with the tourists. Now that’s an easier conversation with the Maitre’D when negotiating a table in a Michelin star restaurant. Hey, I work around the corner and I’m coming back, ah, he’s a tourist? Umm. During August the restaurants are quiet, the chef and the waiting staff relaxed. There aren’t many of us either, and whilst we are a discerning bunch, we are generally well behaved diners.
Lunch at Jason Atherton’s Maze. Oops, I should really call it Gordon Ramsay’s place. He is the Chef Patron. But hey, I am not convinced the patronage system is alive and well here. Atherton comes from that stable of molecular gastronomers (sic) extraordinaire (Heston Blumenthal, Ferran Adria) and he is pretty good. Let’s give him all the credit; after all its Jason’s dreams, his creations and his dishes – and besides, who would be cheeky enough to serve up a plate of sandwiches in a one-star Michelin restaurant. Great food with a bit of humour. Doesn’t sound like something emanating from the Gordon Empire.
Anyway. Approaching 1pm we had all arrived and were seated. The waiter agreed enthusiastically with our decision to go for the tasting menu. We selected three dishes a piece leaving room for cheeses and desserts.
I was left to choose the wine. I must now have that look; someone with the patience to leaf though wine lists. In this case it was a wine tome. Dangerous. I was left to run wild. Flanked on my right by the sommelier and the waiter on my left, as I feared, the wine selection held up everything, particularly the food. I could spend all day chatting to the sommeliers; you know I actually become inebriated just listening. Whilst we are deliberating over the menus and me the wine list, I set the mood by ordering aperitifs.
A wonderful crisp O Rosal, Bodegas Terras, Rias Baixas (100% albarinho grape). Ah, wasn’t I popular now.
Okay this is a business lunch, one must be reasonable.
I headed directly for the Spanish (Penedes and Rioja) and later a German white wine. Decent wines at respectable prices. The German one was a Riesling Trocken; wonderfully dry.
The food - rummy. The service - rummy. The chef - nowhere to be seen. Pity.
The décor of Maze is minimalist. As you enter the restaurant reception area, the main restaurant is to the left and Maze Grill to the right.
A comfortable seating area and a bar in Maze await you. The room is long and, not Maze-like at all, with ample natural light. The room overlooks Grosvenor Square and we were blessed with sunshine, greenery and little love-bird tourists splayed out on the greens and benches.
Going for a tasting menu when there are two of you makes for good blogging, writing about four multiplied by three dishes is tiresome. Besides there were only twenty dishes on the menu, I’ll pick out the highlights.
Assiette of sandwiches “BLT” and croque monsieur. Before the waiter had the chance to pour on the lettuce juice, one of my companions had already dipped her spoon into the glass. It really tastes like a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich from prêt (only better), she squealed. The French waiter smiled (hey, its summer). Roasted sea scallops, cauliflower puree with Muscatel vinegar dressing were unctuous. The texture and flavours of the scallops made perfect by the roasting.
I opted for the marinated beetroot, Sairass cheese, pine nuts and Cabernet Sauvignon. Thinly sliced raw beetroot wrapped around smooth, sheep’s milk cheese and the dressing brought all the flavours together harmoniously. The Rioja did well here.
The new season lamb was to die for and beef “tongue ‘n’ cheek” caper raisin and ginger carrots I could have eaten with a spoon.
Then cheeses.
The portions were ample which meant we could all share in the delights of each others dishes. Well, up until the desserts.
Possessed-by something (and obviously, not the wine), my colleague was beside herself. Presented with peanut butter and cherry jam sandwich with salted nuts and cherry sorbet, she wore an inane grin on her face up until the last spoonful. We didn’t get a look in at all. We must have sat in silence for many minutes and then she uttered, in a breathless manner, there is a god and it’s the chef.
We decamped to the seating area to take our coffee. Several missed calls and many more emails later. 5pm, I exit. The sun shining, the love-birds hiding in the shadows of the green. Ah, that was fun.
I was just in that kind of mood and called the reservation line at the Fat Duck. It’s Christmas time, was I mad. Apparently not, I got myself onto the cancellation list. Two days later and bingo. We were in for lunch. It’s a bit of a whirlwind from herein, and it went like this:
Up at the usual time. Train from Paddington to Bray. Taxi to the restaurant. And still, we managed to turn up just a tad too early. Now Bray isn’t a large place. It’s a tiny little village made up of the Fat Duck, a few cottages, the Hinds Head (Heston, again), a few dog walkers and a postman. 12 noon on the dot we entered. Ha, and we weren’t the first.
Jackets and winter paraphernalia off. Seated.
It starts.
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A trolley arrives.
A selection of Tattinger champagnes is offered. Having focused on Chardonnay based shampers for a short while now, the choice was obvious. The Taittinger Comtes de Champagne Blanc de Blancs Brut 1996. Wonderful. Small bubbles and a great taste. Encore, I couldn’t resist.
We nibbled on Picholine olives and bread whilst perusing the menu. For sure, we’re opting for the tasting menu. Bring it on.
Before the meal starts, mr. waiter arrives to prepare our palettes. Nitro-green tea and lime mousse. A small bite-size macaroon prepared in liquid nitrogen. Perfect meringue shape. Pop. Fresh. Dry. Umm.
Now rid of all those nasty City pollutants (smoke, perfume, smelly trains, subway sandwiches etc.), our palettes are prepared.
Oyster, passion fruit jelly and lavender. I remain befuddled as to why the oyster was cut 1/3 2/3. We didn’t ask and no-one explained.
Next up. Pommery grain mustard ice cream, red cabbage gazpacho.
Jelly of quail, langoustine cream, and parfait of foie gras. It sat on a bed of pea puree. The quail jelly was a rich consommé, but struggled to compete with the flavours of foie gras and langoustine.
Dish count: 4.
Oak moss and truffle toast. Odd.
Ah, and on the neighboring table I discovered a kindred spirit, the chef from my favorite restaurant. Well hello.
Up next is Heston’s signature dish, snail porridge. Snails, oats, fine Joselito ham and shaved fennel. The point here is you eat porridge for breakfast and associate it with something sweet. But it isn’t sweet. It’s simply a grain, so we eat it like you would rice and accompany it accordingly. It should be utterly delicious. Except, sorry Hessie the kitchen let you down, I thought it was overwhelmingly green, too much parsley.
Moving stealthily along. I sat back to enjoy my Vacqueryras Lopy, Le Sang des Cailloux, 2003. Oops we’re on again.
Prepare for the “Sounds of the Sea”. Two beautiful sea shells were placed in front of us. Those infamous white cables and black ear pieces handed to us. iPods. Indeed. Belting out of mine were the sounds of sea gulls and crashing waves against rocks. Delightful. And the food. Well, served on a glass sheet mounted over a glass fronted box containing sand. Seaweed, tapioca (presumed to represent sand), an oyster; sea water foam.
Separately, I enjoyed the oyster and seaweed. My companion quizzed if only we had a choice of seaside sounds, stating Brighton would have been his choice. I examined the iPod. No luck.
Cheekily, we put the shells to our ears, no luck; oddly, we heard sounds of chattering wafting through the restaurant and no gulls.
Dish count: 8
By the way, the waiting persons were perfect, if not mechanical and impersonal. Pity, as we had so many questions.
Salmon poached in liquorice. The plate was sprinkled with red grapefruit and dots of balsamic. A little too vigorous, and sadly a little too dried out. My companion’s salmon was overcooked, so I generously gave him some of mine. He was pleased. Very, very subtle liquorice disguised as a film around a block of salmon. Quite yummy.
Ballotine of Anjou pigeon. Black pudding “made to order” wow, I still remain puzzled at what this means. Pickling brine and spices juices. On top, a Chinese pigeon cracker. Wow. This was a very good dish. Rich flavours and excellent presentation, though I am still unsure about the black pudding (little texture or flavour).
Hot & iced tea. Soooo entertaining. Really hot tea on one side, cold on the other. I remarked to my companion it reminded me of my recent trip to the dentist. My lips were puffier on one side and not the other. Wonderfully odd, but pleasant sensation was had by all - that is, and of course in the restaurant, not the dentist chair.
Mrs Marshall’s Margaret Cornet. We were given a leaflet about Mrs Marshall. I didn’t retain any of the information which I now recall would help as background stuff on the dish. It seems irrelevant now as at the time. Small sugared cornets with apple ice-cream on top. Pleasant.
And so was the Chateauneuf de Pape, Domaine de Beaurenard 2006.
Dish count: 12
Mr. Waiter arrives again; we clearly need our palettes cleansed again. Oh, what’s up afterwards.
Pine sherbet fountain. Picture lemon sherbet dips with liquorice. Fat Duck’s own, except we were told the liquorice was instead a dried vanilla pod and not to be eaten. Pity.
Up next, a mango Douglas fir puree. Bavarois of lychee & mango, black currant sorbet. He seems to have a penchant for trees!
Parsnip cereal. Now this is where it gets oddly odd. Not because it’s a cereal, I’ve had it before. It’s the behaviour of the waiting staff which is odd. Suddenly, after swiftly clearing the way for this dish, they simply say “now its breakfast time” – how unoriginal and out of context is that. I felt like I was on the redeye back from New York. Extraordinary.
Nitro-scrambled egg and bacon ice cream. Pain perdu and tea jelly. So they continue the breakfast theme, which is fine and reinforces my airline experience. The liquid nitrogen is brought out again. An egg (one assumes egg custard) is cracked into a bucket and becomes ice cream after some vigorous activity with liquid nitrogen. Then placed onto a brioche style slice of toast with a wafer thin slice of pancetta. Wonderful. Great idea and presentation.
Dish count: 15
At this stage I needed some cheeses. I noticed my favorite restaurant chef on the neighboring table had ordered outside of the tasting menu. I followed suit. I chose Chaouorce. Yummy.
Whisk(e)y gums. Presented on a mirrored glass picture frame. I wasn’t so impressed. The gums were filled with a whiskey from an assortment of Scottish and Tennessee types. Whilst I understand the appreciation of whisky, I am not a devotee of it myself.
Petit fours & coffees.
It was after 5pm. Taxi ordered.
Of all the restaurants I have patronized and last to leave, I have seen chairs placed on tables, lights out and total darkness, never have I seen table clothes ironed for the next seating. Memorable.
Taxi. Train from Bray to Paddington. Sleep. Home.
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I met her at the Edinburgh TV festival; we prodded fun at the panellists and felt smug that we’d never ridicule ourselves by participating in such nonsense, game shows and gambling and yet another round of chats about Big B. Anyways, we just got on.
We met again. Exhausted by all this smugness, we had established we were like minded folks. So the conversation quickly moved on to food. She is a Nigel Slater fan and well, me I like everything, especially those unconventional guys out in Barcelona and Berkshire (Bray), yes; I like what they are calling molecular gastronomy. So I told her.
Crap, pretentious, having your leg pulled, waste of good-earned money. You have got to be joking. I have left out the naughtier-bits but you get the drift.
Huh. We’ll show her. So after many failed attempts (with some reasonable excuses!) to get her over to my little abode, last week-end she was here.
We started off gently. Simple. Picholine olives and some bread. Now you can forget about those Greek or Spanish (sorry) olives this French variety are humbling. Mild and nutty.
She had recently returned from filming in the US. She regaled us with stories. She shared her encounter with US’s finest (no, not the cast of CSI at Soho House, the real stuff - the cops). We laughed nervously. More olives anyone.
Apparently (as advised by my legal chums) a home-owner in a backstreet where they were filming was unhappy that his home would appear in the documentary. After a few exchanges of words, evidence they have permission to shoot the scene and the waving of bits of paper, the camera crew thought it best to move on. Disappointed she, as the producer and boss, instructs her crew to find another area. They reload the truck. Many moments later the crew’s truck is surrounded by three cop cars, O.J. Simpson style, but here the driver stops immediately. My friend, as the boss, is arrested.
More picholine olives, she has me hooked - the story and the olives.
Wait. Arrested for what. No, not for trespassing or something like that but for attempting to kill the neighbour. I am impressed. We are dining with an apparently “attempted murderer”, gosh this food better be great! Apparently, the home-owner accused the crew of attempting to kill him. How wonderfully mad. With a few telephone calls, all is sorted.
Shit. This food better be great. Apparently, I think I mustn’t annoy her.
Eager to please, we ramp up the afternoon with a few amuse bouche Heston Blumenthal style. Pommery grain mustard ice cream and red cabbage gazpacho followed-by beetroot and orange jelly. Cold.
No drum rolls. The jelly dish is the trick dish. It shows how the palette can be fooled by colour, the colours were inverted. We set her to task to decipher the flavours. She is caught-out by the beetroot jelly. Its orange coloured! Its orange beetroot and we used blood-orange oranges. She smiles.
We started with kir royale jelly. Nice. I opened a Chilean Chardonnay and Haut-Medoc.
Moving-on to the starters. Snail Porridge. This is Heston’s signature dish. Don’t forget our guest has called this stuff food for the pompous.
It really is porridge (oats). Snails, ham plus lots of yummy garlic added. The point here is you eat porridge for breakfast and associate it with something sweet. But it isn’t sweet. It’s simply a grain, so we eat it like you would rice and accompany it accordingly. It’s utterly delicious.
She thought the base ingredient came from the couscous family. Close. She gave a thumbs-up.
Yes, we were on a roll and she was engaged.
Two more courses before desserts. Quail consommé with langoustine cream & foie gras (where all the flavour is captured in the consommé) followed-by poached lamb with pomme puree, carrots glazed with orange and cumin. The latter dish is more traditional in its combination of ingredients and presentation. The beauty of the dish is in how the lamb is poached. Prepared in a stock, placed in a water bath at 54.5OC, wow it was tender.
We all agreed this dish had a Moroccan feel about it. A few glasses of the Haut-Medoc went well with the lamb. The Chardonnay with the consommé.
Desserts came in the form of orange graniita with pine sherbet presented in a cornet and inside-out profiteroles (chocolate on the inside, ice-cream on the outside).
Simply, these dishes are unusual combinations of food, cooked very well. It’s almost whimsy. The results are beautiful flavours, presented in a way one can have fun with food.
The finale. Breakfast. Parsnip cereal! Milk added. (See picture to the right, parsnip flakes drying).
Next date in the diary. We check our limbs. We survived.
When I manage to find the application form for BBC’s MasterChef, I am sending him there. We love to entertain. I love wine, he loves cooking.
This is a Pierre Gagnaire recipe.
Set aside an entire day, this is the recipe to gloat, and for when one is feeling terribly indulgent.
The only snags are the wine pairing and the order of the dishes.
The first is langoustine tartare with green apple. So refreshingly simple; the apple is crunchy not crisp or tart, the tartare creamy with subtle hints of langoustine flavour.
Second-up is the roasted langoustine, pear coulis, lentils and cabbage. They suggest Shanghai cabbage, but we struggle here in London to keep up with the ‘Frenchies’’, access to range and type of produce is pretty rubbish.
Never underestimate palette cleansers. They are usually simple but effective. This time, we tried Heston Blumenthal’s green tea. It needs working on (at our end).
Next up is langoustine mousseline with sweet butter and spiny artichokes.
And lastly, there’s the langoustine with red currants and salad.
We had a starter of pumpkin ravioli. To say just two things, as an aside: I think it’s near on impossible to do anything with ravioli except stuff it with ingredients like tomato, cheese and spinach. Forget the rest. Second thing, you do not need a starter with these dishes. Simply finish the day off with a pudding.
We did just that. A chocolate mousse as prescribed by the Frenchman Herve This. Uhhh!
