Magnus Nilsson at Fäviken Magasinet, Järpen, Sweden

Hello,
this are my thought on my meal here in May.
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‘Is it right that I force my customers to kill a chicken at their table before I cook it for their dinner?’

This was how Magnus Nilsson, flushed with excitement, accosted me one afternoon during February’s Omnivore food festival in Deauville. ‘A couple of Russian ladies just asked me this during an interview,’ he gushed. ‘This is what people are saying about me’.

Although these two journalists were in fact incorrect – Mr. Nilsson insists on doing any killing himself – their spurious speculations were still testament to two truths: many people were now talking about somewhere where some special things were happening in northern Sweden; and that very few people actually knew what these special things really were.

Lying literally on the navel of the Nordic peninsula, on a line of latitude (big number° N) seemingly shared solely by the likes of little villages in Iceland and Alaska and a few hours from the nearest non-domestic airport, Mr. Nilsson does not reside in the most readily accessible of regions. Without doubt, today it is increasingly acclaimed as a destination with the international press talking up and flocking to faraway Åre just to visit it, but it was only a year or so ago, when Fäviken Magasinet was really merely a whisper on the lips of well-informed Swedish diners who spoke of some distant, new place north of Stockholm – the best restaurant in the country, maybe, they would mumble. Soon enough though, such murmurs became more and more material. A name and address were added to rumours before finally, at Cook it Raw Lapland, Magnus Nilsson met the world’s food media and Scandinavia’s best-kept secret was a secret no more.

Now, this young chef is winning cooking competitions abroad (Qoco 2010 in Italy, for instance) and is a regular on the food festival circuit – he was invited to Paris des Chefs, Identita Golose, Omnivore, Flemish Primitives…all in just the first three months of 2011 – whilst the restaurant, in an area inhabited, on average, by a single person per square kilometre, boasts a two-to-three month waiting list.

Indeed, gastronomy has not always been the first priority at Fäviken. Whilst the actual estate upon which the restaurant sits has some history – dating from the late eighteen-hundreds and once one of Sweden’s very largest privately owned properties before being divided into two and slowly trimmed down to its current 10,000 hectare size – Fäviken Magasinet itself has only been open a fraction of that time. Since 1986, to be exact. Furthermore, whereas recreational outdoor activities have been attracting guests to these grounds since the nineteen-sixties, it was not till the present owners, the Brummer family, took it over in 2003, that it was decided that this eatery ought to be anything more than a canteen. Yet even then, it was not until February 2008, when Magnus Nilsson started here, that things really started to happen.

Born and raised in the nearby provincial capital, Östersund, the teenage Magnus had to pick between two passions – cooking and marine biology. Clearly he choose the former – though he maintains an interest in the latter – and, straight out of school, joined Pontus in the Greenhouse as a pastry chef whilst spending the summers before and after at Kattegatt Gastronomi och Logi. At twenty, he left Sweden for France and an internship at a small, new venture in Paris, run by a pair named Pascal Barbot and Christophe Rohat. The place was l’Astrance. Completing this, that spring he traded one Michelin star for three and a permanent position at l’Arpege. But barely three weeks later, he had been fired. It was a language issue: Passard spoke French; his then head chef, Mauro Colagreco, spoke Portuguese; and Nilsson spoke neither. He went home to Sweden, intending to stay there, however before long Barbot offered him a raison d’être to return to France. By Christmas 2003, he was in Paris again.

The switch was successful and Nilsson went on to spend the next three years there. It was a dramatic and exciting period: soon after, the restaurant had a second star; in two more, it had three. His relationship with Barbot was a rewarding one too and he credits the Frenchman with teaching him the value of impeccable ingredients – a lesson that has ordered his own approach. Ironically though, once he had left l’Astrance and was cooking in Stockholm, the young Swede started to recognise that it was becoming increasing difficult to separate his own style from Barbot’s. It was a realisation that led him to leave the kitchen altogether and, in 2006, he enrolled on a year-long oenology course.

Subsequently, Mr. Nilsson was hired at Fäviken – but as its sommelier, working under the then-incumbent chef, Hans Erik Holmkvist. It was a situation that did not last long. On 1st November 2008, at a tender twenty-six, he took over the kitchen too. By replacing Holmkvist, he was left the restaurant’s lone employee and therefore, for the first year of his charge, had to double up as chef and front of house. To make it work, he served one sitting at dinner for at most eight diners altogether on a communal table. Still, in those early days, on some nights, even eight customers was eight more than he could find. He was not discouraged.

Although Mr. Nilsson had arrived intent on never cooking again, soon the allure of the stoves proved simply irresistible. The lush lands of Järpen and natural richness of the surrounding area gave him a new lease of life and allowed him to exercise again the diversions of his adolescence that had been impracticable in Paris – fishing, farming, the chase. Even constrained as he was there, Barbot was quickly able to appreciate this side of him: ‘he is a born botanist, hunting is in his blood’; whilst Nilsson admits that ‘most of my inspiration in the kitchen comes from nature and the unique circumstances at Fäviken’.

The grounds around the restaurant are indeed the model set for this young chef. Seven-hundred-and-fifty kilometres north of Stockholm, the estate entails thousands of hectares of woods, waterways and undulating meadows resting on the eastern slope of Åreskutan alongside Lake Kalljön. It is an area comprising more game animals than people with streams and lochs loaded with local char and brown trout. It is even covered in a calcareous soil that encourages the growth of rare mosses and other plants.

Nestled amidst these moors and meres, assembled about an old grain barn built in 1745, there is a small collection of cottages that form Fäviken Magasinet Restaurang och Logementet. There are seven lodges in all. Of the newest four – all coloured cream and maybe subtly more rococo in appearance (provoked by the style’s brief popularity in Trondheim during the eighteenth century perhaps) – one is privately owned, another houses a fully-equipped spa and the two remaining are made up of very handsome guestrooms. The oldest buildings, discernible by their traditional Falun red timber facades, are also the largest; one is a renovated warehouse and office whilst the other holds the games room, some accommodation and is where guests dine. The latter is divided into two separate spaces entered through different doors. To the left, there is a large salon boasting leather settees and a beautiful snooker table; this is the eye’s natural focus, but the horde of various animal’s heads, stuffed and mounted on every one of the very tall walls, vie for one’s attention too. An adjacent staircase leads to bedrooms upstairs.

The building’s other half contains the kitchen, lounge and dining room. Betraying its original barn function, inside the walls are made up of wooden beams and bear no windows; instead light comes from gas lamps and a fireplace. The talking piece is suspended near the doorway – the only item left behind by the former owner: a tailor-made, hundred-year-old coat fashioned from the pelts of four wild wolves. The downstairs drawing room, where today guests enjoy aperitifs and snacks, was in fact Fäviken’s first dining room during the initial year that Mr. Nilsson took over. As the restaurant’s reputation improved and he was able to expand to twelve covers, the meal was moved upstairs and a maître d'hôtel taken on. This was Johan Agrell who was once a promising chef himself before becoming a manager at Esperanto in Stockholm. The new salle does have some windows albeit small, spherical ones that are again supplemented by lanterns and a little fire. There are more tables now, but these still number only ever three or four and are arranged along three sides of the room. As decoration, large hocks of ham dangle from the exposed rafters of the roof. Classical Swedish folk music completes the scene.

Dinner is served promptly at seven in the evening and there is one menu, which Mr. Nilsson decides and everyone eats in chorus.

Apéritif: Fermented Rhubarb Juice and Gin. Upon sitting down downstairs, Miss Roth prepared each diner a drink of ten-year old rhubarb juice and Hendrick’s gin. This sherry-like juice from Bengt-Johnny and Jan-Anders in Öster-övsjö was originally intended to be sold as rhubarb wine, but the pair had made it before acquiring the proper licenses needed to trade alcohol. It took the two almost eight years to get these and even then they were not certified to sell the pre-licence juice…

Amuse Bouche: Fermented Arctic Char ‘Rakfisk’ with Sour Crème. A cube of coral coloured, brine-cured Arctic char sitting atop sour crème came in a long wooden spoon atop a stone slab. Salted and stored for months underground, this small piece of fish had punchy odour, but surprisingly mild and subtle savour; its dense yet yielding texture and mouthfeel were most agreeable. The cream underneath, tangy and unctuous, was an excellent and classic counterpoint to the char. A terrific start.

Amuse Bouche 2: Wild Trouts Roe served in a Warm Crust of Dried Ducks Blood. Baby-sized ebony baskets of desiccated duck’s blood bore bright burnt orange bubbles of unsalted trout caviar. The fragile, charred crust, flavourful and savoury, seasoned the superbly fresh roe that burst with a slightly sweet taste that was more of egg than of fish. Some sauce of cheese, cream and more blood, secreted inside, imbued each warm bite.

Amuse Bouche 3: Crispy Lichens with Dried Egg Yolks and Smokedried Fish, Lightly Soured Garlic Cream. A couple of stone tablets were presented with two different types of foraged and lightly fried lichen prepared in two distinct ways. Upon one, reindeer lichen was served with shavings of lightly cold-smoked trout; on the other, Icelandic moss was covered with cured egg yolk. The former, named for reindeer’s fondness for it as well as its similarity to the same animal’s antlers, is the most common and commonly eaten kind of lichen. Each a small, celadon construction of compacted, crispy branches, they were rather mild themselves, but enlivened by the smoky trout on top. The latter have long been used in Iceland and other Arctic regions as medicine and to supplement grain in the local diet; there they are consumed as candy, soup and mixed with dairy. These darker morsels of Icelandic moss – a misnomer – were flatter and resembled seaweed; they were brittle and bitter, but worked well with the salted and dried yolk. The garlic sour crème alongside had great texture.

Amuse Bouche 4: Shavings of Old Sow and Wild Goose. Cerise slivers of home-cured pork, taken from the plumpest sow and hung since Christmas 2009 in a dry room, arrived with glistening segments of wild goose coloured carmine and fringed with a nice skirt of ochre fat. Aged for nine months, the goose pieces were pleasingly meaty, complex and intense – almost beefy – with an agreeably gamey and lingering aftertaste.

Bröd och smör: Tove’s Bread and the Very Good Butter. As the bread was brought out, an old kneading trough was shown off. It was served with a story. This was the same tray that once belonged to Magnus Nilsson’s grandmother and her grandmother before her; it still harbours traces of the same sourdough culture she used – now over two hundred years old. The family connection does not end there: with this ancestral starter, flour from Järna near Stockholm and from an island in lake Storsjön processed together at a mill in Östersund, he uses his wife’s recipe to bake a pain au levain loaf that possessed a thin yet crunchy crust and dense, dark yet moist and fluffy crumb. It was simply excellent. The very good butter (its official name here), from close by Oviken and with a texture like melting cheddar, was superb too.

Förrätt: Scallop ‘I Skalet Ur Elden’ cooked over burning juniper branches. A triangle of sizeable scallop shells sat closed atop straw and leafy stems at the centre of the table; a small lump of coal sat smouldering amidst them. The scent stemming from this burning birch charcoal – woody-sweet and smoky – was a catalyst, at once awaking the senses and agitating one’s appetite.
One of the sea’s most evocative symbols, suggestive of the setting sun, of Venus, pilgrimage, femininity, fertility and more, each shell was an incomparable intermingling of pale pinks, creams and pastel greens. After admiring their gentle geometry, the covering carapaces were removed to reveal bronze splashs of scallop jus surrounding the shellfishes’ muscles whose burnt rose hues matched the hints tinting their alabaster coffers.
An impeccable Norwegian scallop had been cooked alive above branches of fresh juniper and birch coal. As it started crackling, it was taken off the heat and its contents emptied. Nothing was discarded nor additional added. The scallop was replaced immediately whilst the skirt and insides strained then returned too. This whole process took no more than ninety seconds. It is a seemingly simple system, but the results were brilliant. Eaten by hand, the shellfish itself, satisfyingly firm to bite yet barely cooked through, was succulent and sea-sweet. Drunk straight out the shell, the strong, iodic juices were just as delicious.

Förrätt 2: Langoustine, Toasted Grains, Sprouting Barley, Mature Cheese, Vegetables Stored in Whey since last Autumn and Almost Burnt Cream. A single substantial langoustine, inset with a sprig of birch, dominated the dish; a small mound of muesli mounted with vegetables, hard cheese and barley sprouts, along with a spoonful of reduced cream, shared the plate. Lightly pan-fried till lustrous orange, the shellfish separated nicely into its individual, luscious filaments whilst the toasted grains, tasty and savoury, tendered welcome crunch. Almost burnt cream, full of dairy flavour yet clean, was well met by the acidity of the roots, which had been pickled in whey for almost nine months. The inclusion of mature cheese was a nice nod to the native Swedish custom of eating crawfish with Västerbotten.

Förrätt 3: Slices of Cod Lightly Brushed with Honey and then Seared in a dry pan, Rutabega Roasted Slowly in the Good Butter, Alcoholic Vinegar, Green Juniper Berries and a Cream of Duck Eggs and Gammelost. An ivory ingot of cod, caramelised perfect persimmon colour yet its centre still nearly translucent, sat skirted on one side by a long wedge of slow-roasted swede that was straddled with some vivid green juniper-infused vinegar and whose own orange shades mirrored those of the fish, and on the other by an immaculately rounded drop of cream; each piece was placed on the dish at parallel diagonals bearing from bottom to top.
This could be the best cod that I have ever been served. The fillet’s quality was immense and it had been handled and cooked extremely well too. The juniper vinegar was also impressive. Upon touching one’s tongue, this substance turned from an innocuous jade liquid jelly into unadulterated electric currant that disseminated through the mouth and animated every taste bud. Whilst the al dente rutabaga was decent, this sizzling sauce and cod alone could have been enough. The cream, which was actually a mix of Gammelost – old Swedish cheese – and duck eggs, was rather a little rich for me.

Förrätt 4: Raw Mussels, Very Fresh Cheese and Very Light Broth of Beef Filtered Through the Spring Forest Floor. A bowl was brought bearing a bed of fresh cheese, above which a brace of raw blue shell mussels laid level, side by side, sprinkled with almost raw baby blades of nettle; at the table, a delicate beef broth was poured in from a leaf-filled teapot. Not normally seen served so rare, these tender, tubby North Atlantic bivalves, did not remain so for long – the consommé gently warmed the mussels, carefully cooking them. Made to order literally five minutes before being plated, the cheese beneath resembled tofu in terms of taste and texture. The nearly raw nettles – again something rarely seen – offered some easy bitterness and pepper whilst accentuating the grassy notes of the crystal clear and subtle stock. Having been resting with mosses, replete with their roots, and other random forest flora, the contents took on a tea-like quality with an aroma as well as flavour instantly evocative of the forest floor.

Förrätt 5: The First Foraged Vegetables of the Year Wilting on a Plate, Sheep’s Cream Whisked with Vinegar Fermented Beer and Ground Cods Roe. A considerable, curved dish, its surface flat, was set down. Across its centre, a bundle of assorted greens rested delicately arranged – they appeared as if freshly cut and still moist with the same morning’s dew. At symmetrical spots either side of these could be found a porcelain-like spoon of sheep’s milk cream and some dried cod’s roe grated in a small gamboge heap. The minimalism was imposing. The vegetables, which really had been foraged that very morning from a nearby verge just behind the restaurant, were each toothsome and distinct. The coiled, plump fiddlehead ferns were mildly nutty and bitter (akin to asparagus), the fireweed similar if a little sweeter whilst the ground elder, crisp and refreshing like celery. The cream, made with vinegar-fermented beer, immediately reminded one of malt vinegar; a reference to Kalles kaviar maybe, the homemade roe was the smoky seasoning.

Förrätt 6: Dices of Cows Heart and Marrow, Grated Carrots. Mr. Nilsson and his sous chef ascended the staircase and marched into the middle of the dining room. They had not come empty-handed. They carried with them a large, already-grilled thighbone, which was placed upon a pedestal standing in between the three tables. Here, they sawed the bone open. Whilst stacks of toasted sourdough and vibrant clusters of lovage salt were handed out, Nilsson mined the soft, pinkish marrow out of the bone and onto awaiting plates of raw beef heart tartare and rough-chopped carrots.
The instinctively self-made open-faced sandwiches that inevitably ensued tendered rewarding, contrasting chews of cool, tender meat; warm, melting fat; and deliciously sweet, crunchy carrot.

Förrätt 7: Ribeye of a Pensioner Milking Cow Dry Aged since early January, Panfried and then Rested on the Charcoal Grill, Sour Onions and Wild Herbs, Fermented Mushroom Juices from last year. A carving of dry-aged rib-eye, its crust chargrilled and centre burgundy, came fringed with a nice bronze border of fat; colourful wild herbs covered a mass of caramelised onions whilst dark dots of mature fermented mushroom juice punctuated the plate. The beef, from a seven-year old, retired dairy cow, had been dry-aged by Nilsson himself for five months – from Christmas till summer almost. It was exceptional. Melt-in-the mouth tender, the meat was full of smoky, charred savour. Its unctuous adipose was especially toothsome whilst pungent like good cheese. The moreish, creamy-crisp onions were a great complement; having been cooked in reduced whey, their sour-sweetness cut the steak well. Year-old mushroom jus packed a punch.

Efterrätt: Wild Raspberries Ice; Fermented Lingonberries ‘Vattlingon’ Thick Cream and Sugar. As a pre-dessert, sugared ‘lingonberry water’ with cream and some wild raspberry sorbet were presented on a pair of wooden spoons, nostalgic of those that the first snack arrived on. The latter was fresh and fruity-tart whilst the former a more intricate, but finely balanced bite. Traditionally Swedish/Russian vattlingon that originated when sugar was so expensive that these berries were preserved by simply storing them in bottles of water at room temperature for a year or so.

Efterrätt 2: Sorbet of Milk, Whisked Duck Eggs and Raspberries Jam. Once upon a time, the barn within which Fäviken Magasinet now rests was a dairy school. Consequently, when Mr. Nilsson moved in, he found, amongst other things, a 1920s ice cream maker and it is with this that milk sorbet is made à la minute in the dining room for the last dessert. A bright white quenelle of it is deposited, semi-submerged, in a foamy sabayon. Immersing one’s spoon into the snow-shaded, ersatz crust, a cache of raspberry jam reveals itself. It is an easy-to-eat, classic marriage of milk and berry.

Petit Fours: Pine Tree Bark Cake, Buttermilk; Dried Berries, Meadowsweet Candy and Tar Pastilles. A selection of different sweets awaited diners with their coffees and teas downstairs. Alongside them, three interesting homemade liquors were also ready: raspberry, duck egg and sour milk. Atop a block of rock rested ebony pieces of dried blueberry and blackcurrant, separated by a peachy streak of meadowsweet candy pearls; a small wooden treasure chest held tar pastilles too. All these were precise in flavour and somewhat addictive – especially the liquorice tar, which is apparently an acquired taste. Brought out shortly after the drinks, some excellent pine tree bark cake with buttermilk was warm, moist and tasty.

The wines were all very good and matched the food well. The delicious 2008 Schwarzhofberger Riesling Kabinett from Egon Müller was the standout, but it was also great to see the inclusion of Fäviken’s own Pale Mead from Bengt-Johnny and Jan-Anders in Öster-övsjö on the menu.

Service, directed by Mr. Agrell and assisted by Miss Hanna Roth, was first-rate. Efficient, elegant and humorous, we were entertained and tended too superbly well. Agrell especially was engaging and very knowledgeable about the cooking, beverages and the restaurant, regaling us with many interesting stories about both Fäviken and, much more amusingly, Mr. Nilsson. Although it was literally only the two of them running the front-of-house, one never had to wait for anything nor was it ever any effort attracting someone’s attention. Furthermore, timing – of food and wine – was expert.

The dining room itself is the romantic incarnation of a fairytale imagination. It completely lived up to expectation. Rustic and quaint, it was warm and charming. If there was anything that could be described as imperfect, it was dinner’s soundtrack: this local folk music was sometimes a little distracting during the meal’s quieter moments.

Nilsson and his team made several appearances throughout the meal in what has almost become de rigueur in these parts – service à la nordique, if you will. A couple of courses also entailed à la minute elements completed in front of the guests, including the sawing of the bone and churning of the ice cream. Where possible, some sort of family style interaction was encouraged too: snacks and sweets were served from shared plates, as were the scallops and additional cuts of beef.

Dinner made an impression.

From the first morsel of fermented arctic char – a seemingly simple, small square, maybe enough for a single mouthful – it was evident that this meal might be something special. This minimal nibble was in fact full of flavour and surprise: its pungent musk initially misleading one into assuming something quite intense and powerful, it actually seduced the tongue with subtlety and its instantly recognisable quality. This was quickly succeeded by a series of delicious tastes that showed off Mr. Nilsson’s persistence and patience. Wild goose that had been curing since last August, fatty sow from Christmas over two years ago – such forethought and consideration were remarkable and certainly delectable. The courses proper, preceded by fantastic bread and butter, started with arguably the finest dish, the scallop. More on this shortly. Next, the langoustine and cod really revealed the wealth of amazing ingredients that Nilsson has to hand. Later plates boasted restraint and delicacy, prior to the matured, beefy main that reminded the diner once again of the chef’s providence and planning. Desserts were nice, but arguably not as notable as what came before.

My abiding thoughts from Fäviken are focused about the produce and the personality of the cuisine.

The ingredients were incredible. The shellfish especially were some of the best that I have seen – the scallop and cod perhaps both new benchmarks. The beef here could also include this restaurant in the number of places that I would return to just to eat this meat. It was almost as good as that of Asador Etxebarri and Japan. The repeatedly praised bread made from carefully sourced flours and the wickedly moreish butter deserve yet one more mention here. The eggs do too. Upon arriving at the estate, we were able to visit one of the chef’s suppliers – the increasingly famous Mr. Duck, Peter Blombergsom. This gentleman breeds half a dozen organic and free-range varieties of duck and chicken whilst providing Nilsson with his eggs and bird blood; he has also recently expanded into snail farming. The eggs are certainly of a high standard and I was privileged to try them once more a week later at his newest (and second) customer, noma. The exceptional wild trout roe that arrived super fresh and unsalted must be singled out as well.

Nothing in Nilsson’s kitchen comes from more than two hundred kilometres away. Meat is from Fäviken; vegetables are from the estate too, grown by gardener Magdalena Engberg; the seafood is from Trondheim; with only sugar, salt and wheat sourced from southern Sweden. One might suppose such geographical concentration a constraint – especially considering that snow covers this land six months out of twelve – but not this chef who confides that he has ‘never worked with better produce than here’. He is in a fortunate position. Upon the restaurant’s own grounds, he is able to hunt for moose, grouse and hare; fish in its lakes; and forage for berries, mushrooms, moss and lichen. ‘Of course we could buy vegetables from somewhere else during winter,’ Nilsson declares, ‘but by using our own produce and preparing it in the way that used to be necessary to survive, we force ourselves into thinking in new ways’.

Mr. Nilsson’s own attitude towards ingredients is simple: the initial step in every new recipe must be finding the ‘perfect raw material’. The second step is maximising that product’s potential. The chef enjoys focusing on one principal protein when building a dish, keeping it as intact as he can and altering it as little as possible. It is in the garnish that spicing and additional flavours may augment that of the main meat/fish/vegetable. The prime example of this is the scallop ‘i skalet ur elden’. This course corroborated Nilsson’s argument that the ‘combination of the perfect ingredient and the perfect cooking technique' negates all need for extra seasoning. It is a total eating, drinking, sensory event where everything you taste, all that you taste is scallop – it is the essence of scallop. Stunning and memorable, it conjured up similar sensations as René Redzepi’s iconic langoustine dish did the first time that I ate it. The chef himself admits that his wish would be a menu composed of a dozen such dishes.

‘Time and place’ is an expression that is becoming more and more established – and important – in the average eater’s everyday lexicon. Fäviken has both in abundance. It is a terrific illustration of where the eating experience is the essential digest of what one sees and feels around them filtered through the imagination and intelligence of the chef cooking their meal. Accordingly, this is an immensely personal cuisine.

Nilsson explains it best himself. ‘We do things as they have always been done on Jämtland’s mountain farms: we follow seasonal variations and existing traditions. We live with the community. During the summer and autumn, at the peak of each ingredient’s ripeness, we harvest what grows on our land and refine it using methods that we have discovered from our rich traditions or which we have found through our own search for quality. We build up our provisions ahead of the dark winter months; we dry, salt, jelly, pickle and bottle. The hunting season starts after the harvest and is an important time, when we take care of the exceptional food that the mountains provide us with’.

This restaurant could not be anywhere except in Jämtland. And its chef could not be anyone but Magnus Nilsson. Besides the fact that the restaurant relies nearly fully on its surroundings to fill its stores, many of the techniques and routines of the kitchen are informed by indigenous customs of preserving, curing, fermenting and the like. Rightly so then that the chef is a native too. More than that, he fulfils all the expectations of a Jämt given that the etymological root of the word derives from the Proto-Germanic term meaning persistent, efficient, enduring and hardworking.

Indeed, no shortcuts are allowed. This is one expression of the old-school ethos here – that there are no thermometers and all the cooking is judged by touch are others. As is the open charcoal fire in the centre of Fäviken’s kitchen, which the chef enjoys using as much as he can and where he experiments with the flame and different kinds of wood. These are responses to Nilsson’s childhood and reminisces over the wood-fired oven at his grandmother’s farm. Other idiosyncrasies of the chef are easily distinguishable too. For example, Mr. Nilsson has a sweet tooth and fondness for candy, something that the petit fours, a choice of different confections, are doubtless indicative of. There is also an uncommon incidence of dairy during the meal, which is actually acutely reflective of where one is eating: in Jämtland, there is a strong appetite for milk and thus many milk products, especially cheese, as it is the easiest way to conserve milk. Consider it carefully and this food reveals Nilsson’s terroir, upbringing, personality, tastes and even those that have influenced him too.

It is in such ways that the chef articulates his own character and thus colours his cuisine with individuality.

The chef that has made the greatest impact on Nilsson is Pascal Barbot. This is from whom the Swede has learned the most. The striking minimalism, optimistic use of colour, seasoning style and indifference to saucing of some of the courses all intimated that this is someone who might have spent time with the Frenchman, but it was really the cod that was the single largest clue of this. The cut, cuisson and even caramelisation of it reminded me immediately of Barbot. That being said, this is not in any way an implication that this is imitation in any form. Not at all. This is clearly Magnus Nilsson’s food and one of his greatest gifts is his originality.

His methodical approach and his curiosity are two more of this chef’s strongest qualities. These are perhaps the automatic manifestation of Mr. Nilsson’s scientific mind. Like a scientist, he has an innate affection for researching and testing new techniques and ingredients. Such keenness might be behind one of dinner’s most interesting items: the juniper-infused vinegar. This is basically alcoholic vinegar – the same that is used to clean dishes – yet in such small amounts, it was superbly effective. There was also a logic and attention to detail here that was at times so subtle that it might have been missed. My favourite demonstration of this was with the Icelandic moss. These lichen possess a bitterness proven to whet the appetite and stimulate hunger – hence, they are inherently ideal as a snack. Another symptom of this mind-set is his insistence on an evolutionary process with new dishes rather than a saltational one: ‘the menu is changeable, when one ingredient runs out, it needs to be replaced by another. We never replace dishes ‘just because’, instead we would rather wait for a new ingredient, idea or dish that is actually better than the one being replaced. Much of what we serve has its own lifespan and remains on for a long time, slowly becoming something entirely different to the original, despite having the same name throughout its existence’.

Magnus Nilsson sums up his philosophy as Rektún food. Real food. ‘[The] literal meaning is very simple, but for me it has a lot more values than that. We respect our raw ingredients for what they are, what they look like and where they come from. We strive to monitor production of each ingredient from seed to plate. We accept nature’s own choices as the primary factor and apply our own knowledge in order to maximise every product’s potential before we select the ones we are going to use. We concentrate on harvesting, preparing, cooking and then serving it in most thought through and exact way possible. We present every single ingredient in a manner that conveys feelings that arise in the process to create rektún food…We don’t follow trends. We serve what we want, when we want. Respect, control, selection, concentration, presentation. [This is] rektún food’.

It is inevitable that similarities will be drawn between noma and Fäviken. Both restaurants reside in the same region and both limit the ingredients they cook with to that area too. This is enough for many to conclude that they are essentially the same. This is wrong. Where the two overlap is only on ideology, geography and thus some basic foodstuffs and methods.

Whilst the raw materials might be similar, the results are certainly not. For one, at Fäviken there are three in the kitchen; at noma, there are thirty more. Redzepi has the resources to create perfectly complete new dishes quickly and in quick succession; Nilsson pursues a more measured pace where recipes evolve over time and with the seasons. Here, the cuisine is a little simpler, more straightforward and direct – and rightfully so. But it is not just about what is on the plate. When leaving Fäviken, one departs with the most abiding, brightest conviction of a potential immense and not yet met. The chef is refining – still cultivating – his craft and even now discovering what is realisable with what he has still waiting, unearthed, around him. To see the impending consummation of such a beautiful ideal as his is compelling enough reason to return.

Today, terroirism is trendy and sexy. Thanks to the adherents of new naturalism, eating natural, local food has become cool again. Chief amongst these is indeed René Redzepi, who has shown chefs worldwide – and instilled within them a confidence – that cooking what is native to each is a realistic ambition and, more than that, meaningful and worthwhile. It is not a new idea, but a forgotten one remembered again.

When Magnus Nilsson arrived at Fäviken, it was not with a calculated mission to cook with ingredients as immediate to him as possible. His superlocavore attitude was an intuitive, subconscious – and eventually self-fulfilling – impulsion that grew from an increasing intimacy with the natural world directly around him. It was a slow, steady success and it was not without stress. However, it is Redzepi who Nilsson cites as the one who showed him that it was not a futile effort, but something fundamentally valuable and actually viable.

Food is currently fashionable and the greatest interaction that the average urban individual now has with nature – real, raw nature – is arguably with what they find in their refrigerator or on their plate at a restaurant. Thus, what chefs like Magnus Nilsson and René Redzepi are doing – though doing differently – is incredibly relevant.

They are changing how people eat. They are renewing man’s relationship with nature.

Fäviken Magasinet
216 83005 Järpen Sweden
Tel: +46 647 401 77
www.favikenmagasinet.se

food.snob in Europe

la Grenouillère, Montreuil, France, 1* - Alex Gauthier

Hello,
These are my thoughts on my meal last November.
Please click here for full commentary + photography: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2010/03/17/l’auberge-de-la-grenouillere-la-madelaine-sous-montreuil

March 1979 proved a prolific month for Roland Gauthier – within ten days he had acquired not just a restaurant, but a son too. Gauthier junior was born in Boulogne-sur-Mer into a Jura family who found themselves in the Pas-de-Calais after his father became chef de cuisine at the Château de Montreuil. By taking over l’Auberge de la Grenouillère however, Roland had made a decision to plant roots in the region. They have remained there ever since.

Alexandre, the son, spent summers at Rochefort-sur-Nenon with his grandparents before following in his father’s footsteps and enrolling in the école hôtelière in neighbouring Le Touquet. ‘I grew up in a restaurant; c'est tout naturellement que j'ai suivi le chemin de mon pére. I was not done for studies. La cuisine, it was practical and exciting.’ Upon completion, the young Gauthier carried out a couple of stages in nearby Arras, at la Faisanderie, and at London’s Buckingham Hotel ahead of starting at the Hôtel Westminster back in Le Toquet under William Elliot – thereby beginning both a career that would take him around France and a relationship that endures today. Next he headed to the Auberge et Clos des Cimes to work with Régis Marcon prior to moving further south to Olivier Brulard’s Résidence de la Pinède in Saint Tropez and, afterwards, west to La Rochelle and Restaurant Coutanceau « les Flots ». Then, at nineteen he relocated to Paris and Lasserre with Michel Roth. This domestic tour was also interspersed with international stages at Beijing’s Péninsula Palace, Hôtel du Lac (St Moritz) and the Institut culinaire in Palermo. Back home, on the other hand, hard times had befallen his father, culminating in 2001 with the loss of the Michelin star that la Grenouillère had held since 1936. Thus, in 2003, at Roland’s request, the son returned.

Alexandre immediately set about resurrecting the family’s restaurant – a regional institution. Even though he was only twenty-four, Roland took a back seat and allowed him to work as he wished. It was a great opportunity for the young man – ‘it's huge what happened to me,’ – as well as a real challenge. But challenge was something this chef thrived on: the child, once an able scout, had grown into an avid adventure-sportsman – scuba-diving, rugby and mountain-climbing being some of his pursuits.

Recognition came rapidly. In 2005, Alain Ducasse invited him to Plaza Athénée to cook at Fou de France – an event showcasing promising French talent. That same year Gauthier also achieved a life long ambition by scaling Mount Kilimanjaro. Subsequently, infamous French food critic François Simon singled him out as special amongst Génération C chefs (a movement embracing world flavours) whilst even Gordon Ramsay garnered him with praise. Most recently, the chef has become a favourite of Omnivore too – a fixture at OFF, he took part in both 2009’s ‘four f****** dinners’ and 2010’s ‘four friendly dinners’ in New York City as well, cooking at Momofuku Ssam Bar and then Roberta’s. He also now owns a casual eatery, Froggy’s Tavern in Montreuil, with William Elliot.

Despite being asked to run a restaurant at such a relatively early age, he has no regrets. Nearly. ‘I just wish I had time to work with Gagnaire, a brilliant madman, and Michel Bras, for the purity of his cuisine and incredible technique.’ He has succeeded regardless and in 2008, he regained la Grenouillère’s missing star, puting Montreuil back on the map gastronomique.

Amidst the listless landscape that comprises Calais’ hinterland, Montreuil-sur-Mer lies upon the banks of the quiet Canche. Even if ironically most famous for what was in fact a fictional role in Les Misérables, it is also an ancient settlement that boasts fortifications constructed by Vauban. On the bounds of this town, balancing on the brim of one of the river’s easy meanders, the restaurant resides in a typical Picardy farmhouse. Dating from the nineteen-twenties, the main structure is nearly hidden behind low-sweeping trees and large shrubs that although appear as if allowed to grow capriciously about the building, are actually carefully kept. A tall, conspicuous conifer, leaning at a seemingly unfeasible angle, bows across a small, gravel courtyard littered with white, wrought-iron garden furniture. The entrance can be found on the far side of this terrace whilst guestrooms rest to its right. Carved into the stucco, ivory façade, itself interrupted only by latticed, shuttered windows and crowned with light brown, thatch roof, it is a small, unassuming doorway singled out only by a suspended, heraldic shield that spells the auberge’s appellation.

Once within, the guest is immediately greeted by a little foyer that feels as if it could even perhaps pre-date the building. Along the back wall, several shelves lined with liquor bottles hang behind a large bar sculpted from deep, red wood. An iron fireplace stands to one side whilst buffets, the other. The floor is closely checked, black and white tile; large wooden braces criss-cross the ceiling; whilst the wallpaper is pale peachy-orange and decidedly floral. Trinkets are strewn over all the surfaces with frog figures featuring foremost. To the left and right of this space are two rooms holding fifty-five covers whilst the drawing room and kitchen are straight ahead.

However, it should be noted that things are likely to change a little in early 2011 with the redesign of the kitchen, hotel and grounds by architect Patrick Bouchain.

The main dining area is decorated in the same warm shades outlined with dark wood that forms the windowsills, faux half-timbering along the walls and beams above; several carpets are ornately red and deep blue. An antique brick fireplace complete with pendent copper pans and fresh logs sits betwixt the entry and kitchen door; atop it, inscribed upon a broad panel, is ‘la Légende de la Grenouillère’. Girdling the whole room there is also a ring of hand-painted frescoes, drawn by American humorist Frank Reynolds in the thirties and depicting merry scenes of frogs eating and drinking at dinner tables as well as illustrations from such famous fables as those of la Fontaine. Together with the considerable number of frogish figurines, these make certain the restaurant lives up to its name.

Tables are comfortably spaced and draped with immaculate linens. A small sedimentary tablet acts as both cutlery prop and bread plate whilst the only added adornment is a porous stone ingrained with twirled strands of wild grass.

Amuse Bouche 1: Riz frites, sauce hollandaise. Two tumblers came crammed with stubby chips inlaid in some hollandaise sauce spiked with ginger. These golden, glistening twigs were not actually fashioned from potato though, but from fried glutinous rice, thus they had a very interesting waxy texture as well as toothsome savour – underlined maybe with a little cheese. The vibrant emulsion was light yet velvety and vivid.

Amuse Bouche 2: Tasse d’eau de mer. A small glass held slivers of rouge-tinged raw sea bass, oyster, steamed spinach leaf, olive oil and sprigs of chervil and basil. Into this, a dram was dispensed from a bottle plugged with a shot-measure pourer and containing mineral water infused with wakame, nori, lemon and sel gris de Guérande. The bottle, with its cloudy contents, looked as if it had been filled straight from the ocean – and it tasted like a shot of the sea. The aquatic aroma struck first, giving way to the briny savour and distinct textures of fish and oyster, each enlivened by salty spinach and lightly acidic lemon. A final bite of basil and chervil left a refreshing linger on the palate.

Les Pains: Pain blanc et de seigle. Two whole loafs of homemade bread – one white, the other rye – were placed on the table upon their own colourful stone serving slabs, each replete with a block of local beurre demi-sel askew set and already inset with wood-handled Opinel. The blanc was soft, fluffy and had nicely open crumb whilst the seigle was firmer and crustier.

Entrée 1: Mauvaises herbes…crevettes grises. Onto a plate, empty except for a smear of pressed herb jus and signature sprinkling of white pepper, a sterling silver ring mould was placed. A meticulously assembled mass of green herbs emerged from this collar which, when removed, also revealed a tightly packed circular stub of brown shrimp. These small, tasty crevettes, covered in the same jus, were an excellent match for the ‘lowly’ salad of nicely lemon seasoned wild herbs – a well chosen collection of aniseed-like chervil; salty purslane; crisp carrot tops; and fresh salad burnet.

Entrée 2: Saint-Jacques, radis noires, blanc neige. A diminishing daub of blanc neige, semi-covered with cubes of raw scallop and wispy ribbons of black radish, ran tangent to the dish’s inner rim; over all, a little grilled peanut oil was drizzled. The presentation was a picture – everything white and cream disturbed only by the faintest black lines that once formed the vegetable’s exterior. The creamy shellfish were of real quality, their natural sweetness reinforced by the tenacious foam and radish; the nutty oil also had surprising presence. Nevertheless, overall this course was somewhat unbalanced – the different components hitting not necessarily a discordant note, but not an accordant one either.

Entrée 3: Oeufs de caille, choux de Bruxelles, raisins. Upon a bed of crushed Brussels sprouts were set two small quail eggs overlaid with single sprout shells; grated garlic, scattered with tiny squares of diced grape, covered these. The cabbage with its delicate sweet nuttiness, complemented by the mild garlic and grape, was enriched by the brace of bright, white soft-boiled eggs. The still runny, intense yellow yolks also worked well texturally and visually with the green and grainy mash and crisp sprout skins.

Entrée 4: Saint Jacques brûlées, pleurote vapeur. The middle of the plate was peppered with burned and broken chips of potato stained with squid ink; off to the right, the large, central sliver of a pleurote supported some seaweed and a strongly caramelised scallop surrounded by an emulsion of its own cooking liquor. The presentation was poignant, suggestive of a scene from the aftermath of a fire. The debris-esque potato added crunch and roasted savour to the pleasingly meaty, steamed mushroom and sweet, soft scallop. A marine theme was maintained throughout too by the ink, shellfish, seaweed and oyster mushroom (even if with the last it was only nominal).

Entrée 5: Gnocci aux citron et epinards a la beurre. A trilogy of golden gnocchi, steeped in lemon butter, arrived almost obscured by a couple of large, overlapping leaves of nearly raw spinach. The tense, barely bitter blades tendered relief to the acidity of the lemon and crunch against the soft graininess of the light pasta. These three, simple ingredients tied together superbly.

Plat Principal 1: Homard Genièvre. A barely perceptible pink coil lay secreted within scentful shrubbery. Separating the stems exposed a whole lobster nestled like a foetus. Poached for forty-five seconds it had been smeared with juniper butter that had already melted. This blue lobster had tremendous sweetness whilst the cuisson – it had really merely been warmed – was incredible. The shellfish retained its moisture and suppleness and, eaten with one’s fingers, was messy satisfaction. The bittersweet juniper was a lovely counterpoint: some of the charred berries, still attached to the boughs, tendered hearty bursts of flavour.

Plat Principal 2: Encornet, figues. In one corner, a whole pan-fried squid, its beheaded head prone besides its standing bottom half brimming with its tentacles and sprinkled with fresh chive, was placed upon a purée of fig. Vivid scarlet, this last element made it seem as if the bisected shellfish had bled over the porcelain. Albeit whimsical in appearance and individually agreeable, the squid (pleasingly tender) and the fig (gently sweet and touched with spice) failed to strike a successful chord altogether. Yet, it might be worth mentioning that the original recipe called for pig’s blood sauce instead of this fruity one – the substitution being the forced result of dietary requirements.

Ahead of the next course, a tray of fantastic fungi was delivered. Larger than life, richly (but strangely) coloured and so very rustic-looking, these dotted stem boletes truly possessed the air of something fabulous about them. Once shown off and the largest left behind, the maître d'hôtel, Pascal, proceeded to amputate part of its trunk. Upon slicing, to add to the mystery already around these mushrooms, the exposed flesh fast became blue…

Plat Principal 3: Bolet à pied rouge, pomme de terre crue râpée, jus de veau. Half of a much-smaller bolet was ultimately served accompanied by a portion of the cap of a larger one, raw shavings of potato and a tableside spoonful of veal jus. The pan-fried mushroom – a beautiful specimen comprising almost every shade of orange from flame to tenné to dark brown – was plump and succulent with subtle, sweet relish. Uncooked potato was an uncommon addition, but brought crunch and some refreshment against the meaty sauce.

Plat Principal 4: Vachette, purée d'ail grillé. A thin, sheet-like slice of entrecôte from a young cow had been spread over a splash of grilled garlic mash; a single, pristine rocket leaf lay over the beef. Sourced from a neighbouring farm, there was more to this meat than initially met the eye – it had been charred on one side, but left raw on the other. This gave an additional dimension to the tasty and juicy cut. Bearing hints of barbecue, the garlic was a classical companion to the steak whilst the green, welcomingly peppery.

Pre-dessert: Gâteau de miel avec citron. Two thick tiers of honeycomb, dripping with honey made by bees living off local blossoms, were delivered by Pascal, who then toured the table, portioning off a waxy morsel for each guest, dousing it in lemon before allowing it to be taken. This did well, cleansing one’s palate before desserts began.

Dessert 1: Chataigne-pain brûlé. A small, wooden chest of cracked-open chestnuts came next, out of which, one was set standing afore each diner. The spiky, brown shell sat stuffed with slightly charred chestnut meringue speckled with crunchy chestnut pieces. Delving beneath this brim exposed a smooth ice cream centre around broken bits of the caramelised nut.

Dessert 2: Boule chocolat/chircorée. A delicate sugar-glass sphere encased milky chocolate ice cream and sat adjacent to a scoop of thick yoghurt; chicory had been grated over both. Easily smashed open with one’s spoon, the sugar melted in the mouth, contrasting well with the barely bitter-citrus herb. Meanwhile, the yoghurt and chocolate – sour and rich respectively – made excellent counterpoints.

Dessert 3: Coing-pomme. Dense crème, semi-wrapped with quince jelly came bestrewn over with nearly dehydrated, diced Boskoop apple peel: the lightly-coloured cream was set off by vibrant orange-red gelée that was paralleled by the apple’s rusty skin. The quince, reminiscent of membrillo, was good quality and partnered the dulled sweet-tartness of the juicy Dutch apple very nicely.

Dessert 4: Boule oseille. A plate was presented bearing nothing but a single bright blade of sorrel – the top of its stem dangling over the dish’s edge – prior to Pascal’s appearance with a platter of green ice cream-filled globes. Ready with a pair of tongs, he approached and prepared to place each of these before each guest. But suddenly, whilst still half-a-metre or so from the table, the first ball fell from his forceps and smashed against the centre of the almost empty ceramic. Whilst the startled guests all gasped, he calmly continued delivering this last dessert this manner.
The effect was immense and the ice cream itself was light yet satisfying, brilliantly poised between sweet and acidic.

Petit Fours: Meringue et ananas guimauve. If the preceding course shocked, the final surprised. One of the staff produced a hammer and small chisel with which he proceeded to break open the piece of porous rock that had remained idle and long-forgotten in the middle of the table that entire evening. What was assumed simply something cosmetic was exposed as in fact crumbly, moreish hazelnut meringue.
Lines of luminous pineapple candy were a tart supplement.

Pascal, who runs la Grenouillère’s front-of-house, was excellent. Attentive, engaging and more than convivial, he was a superb host. He was also supported by a team of friendly and efficient staff whilst the atmosphere at the restaurant was certainly absorbing: there was an ambient warmth to the comfy dining room with its soft lighting and tongue-in-cheek furnishings. Together with the relaxed service, everything was ready for an easy, smooth experience.

Furthermore, the traditional yet enduring surroundings were a stark, but charming contradiction to the contemporary nature of the cookery – although, given that the chef’s approach pends on contrast, this inclusive juxtaposition is nothing if not fitting.

First to arrive were snacks of riz frites, sauce hollandaise, ahead of the chef’s autograph amuse, tasse d’eau de mer. With these consecutive couple of dishes, Gauthier demonstrated an essential detail of his cooking: it is a cuisine founded on the local and punctuated by the exotic. Crevettes grises and their abettors of oft-leftover (and so fancifully hailed ‘moody’) herbs exhibited his humorous side, whilst the all-alabaster Saint-Jacques, radis noires, blanc neige showed a keen and engrossing attention to appearance. From blank and white to bright green, the subsequent oeufs de caille, choux de Bruxelles was perhaps the tastiest course yet. The visual continued to delight with the simple seeming gnocchi that were really quite satisfying, after which came the immensely gratifying homard genièvre before the weakest plate of the meal – encornet, figues. However, disappointment was spared by the vachette, purée d'ail grillé, which was both toothsome and interesting at once.

Desserts did not demean the standard already set. Chataigne-pain brûlé, amusingly meted out, was very good and the coing-pomme, even better. Whereas, the final sweet, the boule oseille, and especially the way in which it was served was a delicious moment.

Without doubt the most outstanding and exciting characteristic of Alexandre Gauthier’s cuisine is his willingness, his eagerness to explore things unfamiliar – to question what others readily accept as absolute. These traits were manifest predominantly in two respects – presentation and ingredient/flavour pairings.

Both in assembly and on arrival, dishes were designed to attract attention and incite curiosity.

With regards to delivery, the chef went beyond conventional, straightforward service and the customary tableside addition of saucing to bring another feature to courses. One standout instance of this was the smoking juniper bush – its smouldering boughs laden with succulent lobster – whose enticing scent worked to arouse one’s appetite ahead of the food’s actual appearance. Even more memorable was the advent of the last dessert; the utter unexpectedness of the smashing sorrel ice cream and the fleeting, funny confusion amongst those at the table that followed remains unforgettable.

Gauthier’s distinctiveness does not end there: the plating is definitely – defiantly – different too.

The chef’s signature is obvious: minimalist servings concentrated on a single part of the plate. It is an approach so simple yet so striking. Whilst nearly every other recipe, everywhere else revolves around a dish’s centre, Gauthier, by merely moving the focal point to one corner or side and condensing the course into only a few squared centimetres of space, immediately intensifies all the elements’ effect. It is as seditious as it is cheeky.

As alluded to earlier, the chef also enjoys teaming native and foreign ingredients together. ‘Why be satisfied while others have olive oil, zucchini flowers or pomegranates? This is unfair!...I live in the north, where it’s not so rich in products. Va faire une salade d'endives extraordinaire...for me it’s about finding tangents. I do not constrain my cooking. My kitchen is constructed by adding to, subtracting from the tastes of my father…then, I focus on the technical implementation. J'aime ça. Ça rassure, la rigueur.’ Even so, he is proud to present the best of his region – local butter and milk, fish from Boulogne-sur-Mer, pigeon from Licques – whereas he rejects the term ‘terroir’ considering it confusing, preferring ‘territoire’ instead.

Thus he toys with old recipes, reinventing established formulas with worldly flavours. One such dish with which the chef won himself renown was clams et couteaux cuisinés à la grenade et à la mangue, which he presented at the Fou de France. Although examples of this today were plenty too: sauce hollandaise, traditionally a complement to tall spears of asparagus, instead partnered sticks of sticky rice; quail eggs and Brussels’s sprouts were mixed with morsels of raisin; squid was smeared with fig; and indigenous apples shared the plate with exotic quince. Nonetheless, such colourful collages as these sat on the same menu as the tasse d’eau de mer that tasted like a sip of the nearby English Channel – or at least its essence, distilled down – whilst the subsequently served crevettes grises that joined the close-by-picked mauvaises herbes could have been plucked from the very same waters. As far back as medieval times, as far away as England, Montreuil-sur-Mer was famous for its juniper-infused woodcock patés; here, Breton shellfish was imbued with the savour of this same local scrub. Whilst the wild mushrooms, sorrel and potato are all also synonymous with the area.

‘My advantage is having many learned chefs with whom I worked, but by whom I have not been 'formatted’.’ Gauthier does offer something unique indeed. His creations rely on rigorous technique, but appear simple and are easy to eat. After my first taste of his cooking, I did feel a small measure of scepticism over whether his aesthetic approach could maintain one’s interest over an entire meal – but it did. It is something of a stroke of brilliance – a compelling and witty challenge to what the experienced diner takes for granted. Presentation was confrontational yet plates possessed confidence and energy. ‘I just want the relevant,’ the chefs declares and he cuts straight to the essential with dishes powerful, precise and to the point.

It is a cuisine that dares. Alexandre Gauthier describes himself as testing the boundary between ‘pertinent et impertinent’. Walking such a tightrope however carries an inherent hazard – and this meal will bear testament to that fact. Sometimes dishes failed to come together, but these were minor and forgivable for when those risks did come off, the results were terrific.

A mischievous talent and a cuisine différente…une cuisine délurée.

http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com
foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk

food.snob in France

Restaurant Paustian v. Bo Bech, Copenhagen, Denmark

Tak igen, Mads.
i'm not Danish, but I seem to spend an ever-increasing amount of time there!

I haven't eaten very much in Stockholm - but i have also heard a lot of good things about both Dahlgren (both the gastronomique and brasserie restaurants) and Oaxen.

food.snob in Europe

Restaurant Paustian v. Bo Bech, Copenhagen, Denmark

Tusind tak, Mads.

Unfortunately, the chef announced last week that he shall be closing the current restaurant and moving to a space more central in autumn....

food.snob in Europe

noma, Copenhagen - 6 years, 2 meals, 1 day

M, thanks for your reply. Awesome.

food.snob in Europe

noma, Copenhagen - 6 years, 2 meals, 1 day

Hello,
These are some thoughts about the day I 'spent' at noma...
Please click here for full photography + commentary: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2010/03/16/noma-6-years-2-meals-1-day/

This will be a one-off post, a special entry – special to me anyway – as it concerns a special day, a special experience in every sense. For that reason, I shall abandon all the little rules, conventions and obsessive compulsions that have come to order my work. That means less script, more feeling and, as can be read already, writing in the first person.

This is the story of a day spent at noma. One entire day at a restaurant to which I have returned many times, but of which I have written only once. My original lunch was an enlightening event that changed how I eat – how I live. Successive visits have been equally as influential and have, without doubt, included the greatest meals of my life. I have, however, felt unable to share them – although not for a lack of wanting to. I filled that first post with (what I believed was) the best I had, with all my facts, thoughts, with every impression, inspiration – with everything. 6,633 words of everything. Another sentence, an additional word I feared would merely be redundant, repetitive or worse, might blunt what went before. This may have been miserly, neglectful…égoïste even, but it was nonetheless completely true. True until the 16th of March 2010 that is.

That third Tuesday of March saw the release of Michelin’s Main Cities of Europe 2010 guide, relevant to Copenhagen and the rest of the Continent’s major cities. In anticipation of the announcement (although in fact after any excuse at all), I made two reservations for the same day – this day. It was a triply thrilling notion: lunch then dinner at my favourite restaurant plus an opportunity to eat at the world’s newest three-star…

The night before the big day was an anxious one, heavy with a similar nervous excitement to that which comes about each Christmas Eve. At the same time though, it was also bizarre to be even having those sorts of thoughts myself – as someone unconnected to noma – but then again, such is the contagious effect that Redzepi and his team have: they enthral, they charm, they make you feel as if you too are part of something more, part of something together.

The morning prior to the pronouncement was almost worse. And, as history would have it, it was also anticlimactic. Nothing for noma. This time. That meant an awkward entrance at the restaurant – mostly for me than for anyone else there. The staff, their composure immaculate, seemed utterly unaffected; I, on the other hand, was uncertain how to act and so just attempted to follow suit, ignoring the earlier news.

Soon enough I was seated, ready to start. I was – maybe even more so than ever – eager and intent, excited to see what untried dishes would be tasted today, curious as to how they would structure the two meals. But I was not left ignorant for long. Moments later, the chef came to the table to explain…

With a typical puff and characteristic caress of his boyish wisps, Redzepi revealed how the day would unfold – for table four at least. He had a theme devised...
…for lunch, every dish will be over three years old; for dinner, each would be less than three weeks old.

Save for an impulsive if less than eloquent, ‘cool, OK’, I was left at a loss for words. Speechless.

As I alluded to previously, this post will be full of fewer words than ones past. Instead, I prefer to let the photographs speak for themselves.

Please scroll slowly…

Lunch – Then – Only dishes created over three years ago...

Forret 1: Boghvede crepe med rygeost og löjrom. Buckwheat crepe with smoked cheese and bleak roe.

Forret 2: Kammuslinger, kogt porre og ‘tør mayonaise’. Scallop, cooked leek and ‘dry mayo’.

Forret 3: Kartoffelmos. Mashed potatoes.

Forret 4: Kongecrabbe og muslinger. King crab and mussel.

Forret 5: Blæksprutte og kartofler; mayonaise og brunet smør. Squid legs and potatoes; mayo and brown butter.

Hovedret 1: Søtunge og blomkål, honningkager og enebær. Brill and cauliflower; gingerbread and juniper.

Hovedret 2: Torsk; syltede svampe. Cod; pickled mushrooms.

Hovedret 3: Stegt terrine på kalvehaler og færøske jomfruhummer. Fried terrine of veal tail and Faeroese langoustine.

Hovedret 4: Farseret vagtel med løg i forskellige teksturer. Stuffed quail with onion textures.

Dessert 1: Fåremælk yoghurt med mynteolie og Granola müsli. Sheep’s milk yoghurt with mint oil and granola muesli.

Dessert 2: Geleret kærnemælk, malt og roeiscreme. Buttermilk jelly, malt and sugar beet syrup.

Dessert 3: Æble og hasselnød. Apple and hazelnut.

Dessert 4: Valnødde pulver og is. Walnut powder and ice cream.

Petit Fours: Flødebolle med yoghurt; chokolade kartoffelchip med fennikel. Yoghurt flødebolle; chocolate potato crisp with fennel.

Dinner – Now – Only dishes created in the last three weeks…

Snacks 1: Havtorn læder og syltede hyldeblomst. Seabuckthorn leather and pickled elderflower.

Snacks 2: Småkage med kogt kalvekød og solbær. Veal speck cookie with blackcurrant and sorrel.

Snacks 3: Rugbrød, kyllingeskind, stenbiderrogn og rygeost. Chicken skin sandwich with lumpfish roe.

Snacks 4: Syltet og røget vagtelæg. Pickled, smoked egg.

Snacks 5: Radiser, jord og urteemulsion. Radishes in a pot.

Snacks 6: Æbleskiver. Æbleskiver.

Snacks 7: Toast, vilde urter, torskrogn, eddike og andeskind. Vinegar dust toast.

Forret 1: Rødbeder; Havesyre og rapsolie. Beetroot, sorrel and rapeseed sauce.

Forret 2: Rejer og søpindsvi; Fløde og strandurter. Shrimps and sea urchin; cream and beach herbs.

Forret 3: Tørret kammusling og karse; Biodynamiske gryn og bog. Dried scallops and watercress; Biodynamic cereals and beech nut.

Forret 4: Unge grøntsager og torskelever; Løg bouillon. Søren Wiuff’s baby vegetables and cod liver; onion bouillon.

Forret 5: Østers grød; Muslingeskaller og søl. Oyster porridge; mussels and søl.

Hovedret 1: Blæksprutte og havesyre; Brombær og slåenbær med æggeblomme. Squid and sorrel; blackberry, sloeberry and egg yolk.

Hovedret 2: Årgangskartoffel og valle; Løvstikke og . Vintage potato and whey; Lovage and Prästost.

Hovedret 3: Ramsløg og hvidløg; Timian. Ramsons; thyme.

Hovedret 4: Spejlæg; Svenbo og Gotland trøffel. Fried egg; Svenbo and Gotland truffle.

Hovedret 5: Oksekæbe og julesalat; Syltet pære og jernurt. Ox cheek and endive; Pickled pear and verbena.

Dessert 1: Bladselleri og knoldselleri. Celery and celeriac.

Dessert 2: Mælk og Gammel Dansk is; Dild. Milk and bitters ice cream; dill.

Dessert 2: Jordskokke; Æble og malt. Jerusalem artichoke; apple and malt.

Petit Fours: Flødebolle med yoghurt; chokolade kartoffelchip med fennikel. Yoghurt flødebolle; chocolate potato crisp with fennel.

The service at noma is incredible. Since I have expressed many more thoughts more fully elsewhere, I will try to be brief here. The front-of-house staff are delightful and amiable, brilliantly attentive and expertly coordinated. Servers move in flawless synchronisation, still always smiling. They are led by Lau and Pontus – two gentlemen of whom I could not think more highly or ever praise enough. Furthermore, engaging with the youthful, exuberant chefs as they surrender the plates they have just put together with their own hands, enhances the entire event immeasurably and is an idea that has already been revolutionary – restaurants literally around the world now do likewise. To quote what I scribbled afore: ‘breaking down any imaginary boundaries between customer and kitchen, there is also something very emotive and effective about this approach. Chefs, as they proudly present them before the diner, describe their dishes with the natural affection that the maker has for what he has made – and rightly so. After all, what they are achieving with these is worthy indeed: with each, they are giving back Nordic cooking its identity.’

One of the numerous little details that made lunch great was how the kitchen and staff shared in the experience. Only René and Torsten had cooked these dishes before whilst no one but Lau and Pontus had served them. Thus, there was a tangible and manifest animation and enthusiasm from everyone as each course was created and delivered. This was coupled with the nostalgia and clear sentiment of those for whom it had been some time since they had last seen them. Emotional moments - as the source and significance of the recipes were explained tableside by noma’s nestors – littered this meal. It was truly touching.

This also happened to be my first dinner here and it never ceases to surprise how different the same restaurant can be during the day and at night. Dining seems a near impossible choice between the two. At lunch, there is the vitalising light that sweeps in through the many windows and washes the room with brightness and energy. Evening, meanwhile, has its own charisma. Sunshine is traded for candlelight, intensifying the intimacy and making the room rather romantic. The waxy illumination adds something indefinable yet snug and quintessentially – and there really is no other word for it – Scandinavian.

Both meals were beautiful.

I am almost too abashed to admit that during the day’s first couple of courses, I was so unstrung and skittish that I was nearly unable to enjoy the food properly. Maybe it was the adrenaline from earlier or the consequence surrounding the occasion, but I did have to take a pause ahead of the next plate. From that moment onwards though, it was easy…

Each serving was one of quality and creativity; of alluring aesthetic and ethereal appeal. A delicate crepe concealing smoked cheese started the meal. This was proceeded by the kartoffelmos, an amusing deconstruction of a traditional Danish dish, that was light-hearted and toothsome; its colourful assembly suggestive of some child’s plaything. Then, after a superbly poached piece of king crab paired with quail eggs and mussels in many forms, a sequence of four fantastic courses followed, commencing with the delicious blæksprutte og kartofler, an instantly recognisable noma classic. The tender squid tentacles, teamed with various textures of potato and enlivened with vinegar tapioca, were outstanding. The søtunge og blomkål that arrived with a small burning branch of aromatic juniper was one of – to my mind – most Nordic things I have ever tasted; the gingerbread’s spicy-sweet inclusion here, inspired. Next came the immensely satisfying slow-baked and tasty cod perked up with pickled mushrooms. Stegt terrine på kalvehaler was another stunner. The 2004 Årets Gericke winner comprised sweet, supple langoustines together with a rich morsel of veal tail, all seasoned nicely with mustard seeds and balanced with bitter endive.

Desserts too were excellent. They began with a lovely sheep’s milk yoghurt that played very will with minty oil and crunchy, subtly sweet breakfast muesli. Buttermilk pudding implanted with malt tuile wafers and surrounded by raisins imbued with aquavit and a drizzle of sugar beet syrup was sublime. Æble og hasselnød, painting-like in its design, was a delectable ending.

I did not know what to expect from these older dishes. I suppose that deep down, if pressed, I might confess to assuming that they might not live up to the exceptional standard of today’s ones. However, any such presumptions were proven foolish – and not surprisingly so. After all, these were the plates upon which noma made its name, earned two Michelin stars and forced its way into every aware eater’s consciousness.

Dinner picked up were lunch left off. The composition of snacks that one starts with has changed a little – evolved – since my initial visit and are still very much my favourite series of amuses anywhere. Subsequent to these, two of the traits that separate noma’s cuisine apart from that of the crowd’s were displayed with the rejer og søpindsvi foremost and then tørret kammusling og karse immediately after. The former, something simply stunning to receive, was evocative, intriguing and boasted raw shellfish combined with dairy. In fact, since tasting Redzepi’s blæksprutte og grønne jordbær; fløde og dild, I have been almost incapable of enjoying uncooked squid, oysters, mussels, etc without a similarly creamy complement. For me, this is one of the most genuinely intuitive of ingredient pairings – and, having first found it here, it is one I now inseparably associate with this kitchen. The dried scallops and watercress, alternatively, highlighted another asset altogether. Every time I have eaten at noma, entirely brand new taste profiles have been revealed to me. By this, I refer not to simply sampling the unusual, like a cloudberry, beach mustard or woodruff, for the first time – all unknown to me themselves yet with an essence essentially familiar (tart, pungent, sweet) – but something broader. Dishes show off a whole scale of flavours utterly unrecognisable – without frame of reference – and irritatingly difficult to articulate into text. More remarkably, Redzepi consistently creates such courses.

Lissom octopus legs, entwined amidst acidic sorrel stems and sat in swirls of sharp sloe and blackberry with rich egg yolk, left behind another lasting memory ahead of an amazing act of table theatre. A small wooden tray carrying Danish cheese, grater, goat’s milk butter, oil and felt-tip tattooed egg was placed before me. This odd arrival was eventually accompanied by a sizzling hot iron pan as well as a set of specific instructions: oil the plate; crack the egg; add the butter; shave the Svenbo. The splendid smells along with the hiss and sizzle of the cooking captivated and entertained the entire room. This was a frugal dish in a fine-dining setting – until the final flourish. When the egg was just about ready, the chef reappeared and ladled Gotland truffle purée around the finished plate. Delicious. And I had made it myself. The meal’s terrific rhythm continued with a real climax – oksekæbe og julesalat; syltet pære og jernurt. Since June, the main course has improved every single time I have been back and this was definitely the best yet. Ox cheek, tender and intense, rested under a canopy of pickled pear slivers that, alongside redcurrant wine-infused endive and lemony verbena sauce, cut the meat’s richness impeccably well.

At the risk of relentlessly repeating myself, desserts too were tremendous. This is another part of the carte that seems only to have become better during my time. A refreshing mix of celery and celeriac was succeeded by tantalising milk and bitters ice cream sprinkled with sharp lingonberries and dill. The final sweet may have maybe been even better. A scoop of Jerusalem artichoke ice cream, in a shallow pool of apple sauce punctuated by ink-like spots of malt oil, sat smothered with super-thin slices of the same fruit and studded with matching ebon discs made of malt oil – these biscuits being addictively good.

I cannot say which of today’s two meals I enjoyed more; it is too difficult a thing to decide. However, what I can comment on is how lunch and dinner differed; how the cuisine has changed – and how it has stayed the same.

The clearest distinction was that during lunch it was arguably possible to see some external influences on the cooking. Any such inspiration was very subtle and perhaps only observable as these older dishes were juxtaposed so directly against dinner’s newer ones. Those earliest plates featured, for example, more el Bulli-esque foams whilst the farseret vagtel smacked strongly of something classical - something more likely to be found on Kong Hans’ menu than noma’s. In contrast, the evening’s recipes seemed to have had any such residues removed – these were incomparable to anything that I had seen before. The kitchen had clearly and markedly improved and matured over the years. Although, of course, development over time is to be expected everywhere. What is so special here is the pace and the product of this progress – a cuisine supreme and singular.

Some of the most distinct dissimilarities were seen during desserts. Those at lunch were noticeably sweeter whilst crafted from a wider range of raw materials; the geleret kærnemælk, for instance, contained now-uncommon alcohol (aquavit-suffused raisins). Wary of satiating diners and keen to leave them feeling comfortable at the meal’s end – plus the chef’s personal preference and pursuit of something distinctive – afters have become seriously more savoury and almost strictly vegetable-based. Further observations may be less significant, but were nonetheless interesting. They included the occurrence of scallops, which I had not yet seen at noma; that portions, if not larger, were more substantial; and the incidence of some products at the restaurant’s start that continue to be employed today – the crispy potato ringlets, various fish roes and vinegar tapioca amongst these. As well as using some of the same signature components, some of the original style of plating has also still survives even after six years; examples being same-shaped smears and swirls; entire, intact stems; and upstanding vegetable cylinders.

Individuality and unbroken betterment at noma is undeniable, but it is not limited purely to this one restaurant. It is endemic to Copenhagen. Initially, it was indeed René Redzepi that drew me to Denmark, but what I have found whilst there is a dining scene unequalled by any other anywhere else. It is my favourite city to eat in. Sure enough, I do have my most regular tables – MR, Paustian v. Bo Bech, Sollerod Kro – but there exists here a whole host of ambitious places teeming with potential including the Paul, Kiin Kiin, Mielcke & Hurtigkarl and Herman to name but some. Not only is the standard so high, but the style at each so individual. And – just like noma – they are not standing still. In merely the last ten-or-so months, I myself have seen an evolution at many of them – Paustian v. Bo Bech and Sollerod Kro especially. I must also single out another place that has impressed me considerably: Restaurant AOC. Only opened last autumn, the huge strides made between my two meals – the foremost straight after its launch, the second six months later – are astonishing. Its momentum is simply immense and it is one of the city’s most exciting kitchens. Nor is it solely me who thinks thusly – it has already made headlines and been recognised by Michelin with a first star (coincidentally on this same day).

Recently, the results of the annual San Pellegrino World’s 50 best poll were announced in London. The next morning, the world awoke to realise that noma had become its best restaurant. It was a suspicion shared by many beforehand with Redzepi long-accepted as one of the most influential chefs cooking today. The consequences of what he has accomplished at the Grønlandske Handels Plads are overwhelming and can be sensed in kitchens and dining rooms worldwide. The tables have indeed turned: it is now his cuisine that inspires those of others. Nonetheless and although totally deserved, the attention that this latest acknowledgment has brought with it has still been incredible and, more so than any earlier, pervasive – ordinary people now know the name noma. And now that they know noma, it is my own hope that they will learn about all of Copenhagen as well…

noma changed my life. It changes it still. As I have explained, I owe those there for the introduction to Nordic cuisine, but my debt is decidedly deeper than that. In countless visits to the Danish capital, I have met many new people – people whose instant acceptance and warm affability have quickly compelled me to consider them friends. There are few places now that I am more comfortable – few places I miss more.

Although I do suffer a certain affection for it, I remain a relative newcomer to noma, having missed its first five years. Therefore, to be allowed a day like this and be given a glimpse of into the restaurant’s history was a most amazing thing and spectacular present. It was an experience I cannot compare to anything else – just like with René’s cooking, no reference points exist. I am sure that anyone for whom noma means anything will understand and appreciate the significance and relevance of these meals.

Finally, I must end with some mention of the enormous gratitude I feel towards René Redzepi. I exaggerate not when I write that he amazes me anew every time we meet and too few are those about which such a thing is true. He is the best man I know. And that’s enough about him.

An incredible tale of six years told in one day, in two meals, in smashing thirty-five courses. It was a gesture unexpected, a gift undeserved.

foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk
www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com

food.snob in Europe

Restaurant Paustian v. Bo Bech, Copenhagen, Denmark

Hello,
These are my thoughts on my meal last autumn.
Please click here for full photography + commentary: www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/09/29/restaurant-paustian-v-bo-bech-copenhagen/

Almost all are aware of the Sydney Opera House, but nearly none know the name of the man whose vision it was. He was Jørn Oberg Utzon. Even though a masterpiece – although arguably the most famous monument in the southern hemisphere – its construction and the near scandal that surrounded it, resulted in Utzon’s resignation and early return home shortly before the project’s finish. Having left Australia, his reputation somewhat besmirched, he continued working with success yet never again landed another major civic commission.

What was perhaps the world’s loss was the Danes’ gain – one Dane’s especially. Furniture magnet, Ole Paustian, hired Utzon to design his new waterfront showroom in Nordhavn where supply ships from Norway unload and reload whilst luxury yachts rest lazily. It turned out to be the architect’s last undertaking on native soil and, inspired by Denmark’s beech forests, was completed in 1987. An adjacent restaurant and office were added two years later; the former run as a reputable, local café under Erik Geppel until 2004 – until Bo Bech took over.

Bo Bech was a late beginner – but a quick bloomer. He had earned a university degree, been a salesman for General Motors and served as a soldier overseas all before he had even chosen to cook. ‘Italians and French,’ he asserts, ‘like to say that they learned to love food from their grandmother or something. Actually I have no idea when it begins. But all of a sudden, it’s there. And it feels right.’ Having not grown up with such ambitions, he considers himself ‘almost an accidental chef’.

After his studies, Bech craved a career wherein he would see instant results. He tried working at GM, but did not find what he sought there. Compulsory military service – a stretch in former Yugoslavia with the Danish Royal Guard – followed. It was then that he decided to try his hand at cooking; it was not clear how or why an interest in food started, but as soon as he realised it, ‘it was a revelation!’

Thus, at twenty-four, he joined Frank Lantz’s Krogs fiskerestaurant in Copenhagen, his hometown. ‘The norm was then to begin fourteen to sixteen year olds, so even from the outset I was a little behind in points,’ he remembers. Still, his eyes were immediately opened: ‘it just said, ‘boom! You’re home. And then it just takes off.’ Eager to make up for lost time, Bech set off on a two-year tour abroad. Moving first to London, he worked at le Gavroche then Marco Pierre White’s The Restaurant. He describes the last as ‘very crazy. But often when you learn the most you don’t know it. Often it’s because it looks very hard. When you leave, when you look back, you see the change in you for the better.’ Paris came next with eminent spells at Lucas Carton with Senderens and l’Arpège under Passard. Returning to Denmark, short stints at Kong Hans Kælder with Thomas Rode Andersen (Copenhagen), Michel Michaud’s Marie Louise (Odense) and Petri Pumpa for Thomas Drejing (Lund, Sweden) ensued. It was not till 2000 that Bech eventually (briefly) settled down as head chef at Jan Hurtigkarl & Co. in Ålsgårde.

Hurtigkarl was a ‘good teacher’ and he thought his experience there rewarding, but by the end of three years, the chef felt himself confronted with a choice – ‘should I continue in the direction I have right now or should I be independent?’ He wanted to go solo so left in October 2003. At that stage, however, all he had was an idea and desire; he needed a restaurant and he needed money. After some shiftless months – ‘one cannot build credibility lying on the couch and fifty kilos heavier’ – it was Paustian that finally ‘found him’. To purchase its lease, he approached the bank, but they refused to lend him the necessary cash. His response was to set up a stall in front of it and cook for the employees. It worked.

Restaurant Paustian v. Bo Bech opened in 2004. Three years later, it was recognised by Michelin with an espoir. Right away, the chef wanted more. And he got it. One year on, Bech won his first star. ‘It happens very rarely that I cannot control my body, but I must admit I cried for one hour when they called.’ It meant much: ‘it’s like getting three rockets in the ass – extra. This is a tribute to my whole team.’ Throughout this period though, the free-speaking and forthright chef had not stood still having also gained fame as the presenter of Denmark’s equivalents of Kitchen Nightmares (Med kniven for Struben) and Masterchef (Kokkekampen) as well as creating a stir in April 2009 when he opened his own bakery on Grand Kongensgade. The store had no name, no phone, no credit-card machine – and sold a single style of loaf. ‘To bake is quite simple – water, flour and salt, but it’s still crazy hard… [And] we want to make the best bread.’ Its launch was really a dream come true for him and to celebrate he had a Tagliavini-kiln furnace – ‘[it’s] an Italian Ferrari of an oven’ – specially imported for it.

Whilst the bakery is set in Copenhagen’s centre, the restaurant resides further north within Nordhavn – the recently reclaimed nineteenth century dock that is now the intended subject of Scandinavia’s most ambitious city development scheme, the Nordholmene Urban Delta. Specifically sitting in the part of the port known as Kalkbrænderihavnen – where limestone was once the chief custom – Bo Bech is directly opposite the imposing, industrial Svanemølleværket thermal power plant, each on either edge of Denmark’s largest yacht harbour, the thousand-berth-strong Svanemøllehavnen.

Bold, black vertical letters spell out Paustian down one entire face of the furniture-shop and are visible from nearly any angle around the marina. Standing just before the store, but accessed through the same building, is the actual restaurant. Two sets of double-doors lead on from the entrance, the second of which bears the work of celebrated Danish artist John Kørner. Once through, guests are greeted by a larger-than-life statue of a dog in the small, red-light reception that borders a blossoming herb garden. Straight ahead, there is the open kitchen where Bech does his business. On the right, divided off by a row of dense columns, is the dining room. A series of sizeable windows rim its three bright white sides, although the inner walls themselves are significantly inset, in effect making each casement a bay. Above these, and separated by graffiti-like skyline illustrations of Copenhagen, London, NYC and Berlin courtesy of the OEPS Crew, is another array of smaller apertures.

The twenty-foot high, subtly slanted, purple ceiling creates an ample and dramatic space that revolves around a central serving station composed of open and closed rectangles and adorned with seasonal flora. Clusters of light bulbs dangle on long leashes from the roof, individually encased in irregular and oversized orbs that seem as if sculpted from spun sugar. The newly renovated room has been furnished by Paustian and boasts less than a dozen tables – one of which carries wheels of cheese and another, a great lemon-coloured champagne bath. Those that are used are bare bar varying small organic ornaments such as a fresh herb pot, whole squash or cauliflower. Staff are in casual uniforms specially made by Vilsbol de Arce.

Bo Bech offers a lunch carte of two to five courses as well as two extended, spontaneous tasting menus – the poetically entitled, Alkymisten (Alchemist) and vegetarian Klorofyl (Chlorophyll)…

Amuse Bouche 1: Dag gammelt brød med efterårs trøffel. The fragrance of freshly grated autumn truffle was this meal’s earliest sensation. It arose from a round, mesh cracker composed of day-old breadcrumbs over strewn with the shaved tuber. Stale bread – something commonly binned or, at best, fed to the birds – had been reconstructed as a medium for one of man’s most valuable foodstuffs.

Amuse Bouche 2: Råkost af rødbeder med grov sennepsmousse. A trinity of small mitre-like, burgundy beet bundles, bejewelled with plump flavescent beads of mustard seed, formed a crescent around a sculpted scoop of speckled coarse mustard; punctuated by drops of balsamic vinegar, a little mustard oil sprinkled the plate. There was a keen and careful balance here. The three varieties of mustard custom-mixed into one had sweet-heat that was cooled by the raw ravioli comprising crisp beetroot skins wrapped about the vegetable’s earthier mousse. The balsamic was syrupy-sharp whilst the seeds added pungent notes as did the oil, those of nut.

Amuse Bouche 3: Svampebouillon. Poured at the table, a mushroom bouillon was next. From auburn to ochre to bronze, the wide, white bowl meant that the still, reflective surface of the soup seemed to change colour with the crockery’s depth. No cutlery came. Instead, one was obliged to lift the bowl to their lips and sip; the effect of this – besides obviously being able to taste the broth – was the extra emphasis on its aroma as it neared the nose. Made from morels, girolles and button mushrooms, this was toothsome and heartening.

Brødet: Porøst maltbrød, surdejsbrød og kærnemælksbrød med lakrids. Swart malt bread wrought as a long rectangle, its sides convex, was brittle and verged on bitter; Bech’s signature sourdough, baked at his own bakery, was crusty, firm and flavoursome; but the small buttermilk bun, thinly painted with subtly sticky Pakistani liquorice powder, was deliciously addictive and the favourite. Set in austere ebony holders, two types of butter were provided: a lightly Læsø-salted organic standard from Denmark’s oldest dairy, Åbybro Mejeri; and a beurre noisette one made from the former, which had at first been caramelised then allowed to cool before being whipped into something moreish.

Entrée 1: Lameller af avocado med let saltet caviar og mandler. A perfect square – nine by nine centimetres – constructed from super-thin strips of avocado, their inner ends intertwined alternately and overlapping each other, came lightly laminated with almond oil, a little lemon and crowned with a black cluster of caviar. The presentation was superb: each lustrous lamella of the Has avocado had a unique hue that in concert acted as a single brilliant and bright sheet upon the perfect alabaster bed underneath; the cushion of glistening, ebon eggs lay in its centre. Buttery and mildly nutty, the fruit’s taste was accentuated by the almond oil; the Rossini ‘Baeri’ caviar was the condiment, offering a salty counterpoint.

Entrée 2: Æstetiske jomfruhummere i vilde grannåle parfumeret med røg. A considerable piece of cracked and peeling spruce was presented at the table; a small chalice holding smoked salt was placed alongside. Almost at once, the floral, woody scent of smouldering lumber was sensed. The lid-like top layer of bark was lifted to reveal a charred mass of the same tree’s leaves; further inspection unearthed a single, warm langoustine secreted within the charred sprigs. Spiced well by robust traditional Viking salt, the pan-seared then smoked shellfish was succulent and tinged with the flame’s flavours.

Entrée 3: Braiseret porre med saft af grønne jordbær og limfjordsøsters. A braised leek, sliced into equal, little lengths, was peppered with diced oyster leaf from Gotland and laid over an oyster mousse that rested in the juice of unripe strawberries. The mellow and tender vegetable had an instant affinity with the elemental leaf and excellent paste – the last of which was made from Limfjord molluscs, which some consider the finest anywhere. The surrounding strawberry jus had an interesting, subtle acidity that complemented the bivalve and leek very well.

Entrée 4: Råstegt sort hummer med knuste kartofler og vilde krydderurter . Danish ‘asparagus’ potatoes, boiled with skins intact then crushed, came arranged in an interchanging ring with pan-fried local black lobster; over everything, an almost unseen crust of hay-smoked cheese was stretched across, itself garnished with various young greens. Within this circlet, what had at initially appeared another potato was actually a poached hen’s egg. The herbs – fennel, sage, spearmint, nasturtium, coriander – left fresh and minty bitter-sweetness that offset the richness of the smoky-sweet hø-ost and sticky egg. The soft, surprisingly delicate yet rustic kartofler were well-seasoned as was the juicy shellfish.

Entrée 5: Røget ål med cremet peberrod og havesyre. A smear athwart one half of the plate started intense myrtle and finished chiffon coloured. Upon the converse side, a spruce sorrel stalk sat dusted with dried eel; beneath the blade was a filet of the smoked fish itself. This last element, whence emanated an enticing scent, was delicious and full-flavoured. The lemony leaf was a first-rate foil whilst the spicy, creamy horseradish and refreshing parsley were classic combinations. The chalky crumbs atop the sorrel – cured eel commixed with maltodextrin – added a touch of sweetness and imparted a pleasing mouth-feel.

Plat Principal 1: Vesterhavspighvar med bløde tomatnuancer. The restaurantchef presented a plump tomato tableside, which he proceeded to press with a yellow plastic lemon squeezer. His task done, a deep dish, empty except for a roasted tranche of turbot, was delivered; into this, different types of tomato cooked in a sauce made from the tête de turbot and their own jus were ladled before the just-extracted juice was poured in. The west coast fish was terrific – nicely-caramelised, thick and firm, it was very tasty. The fresh tomato sauce, instilled with the liquor from the fish’s head, had serious savour whilst the peeled fruit, some pickled and others not, in assorted shades, were lovely and warm, delivering agreeably sweet acidity.

Plat Principal 2: Trækuls grillede oksemørbrad fra Farsø med syltet purløgsblomster. Upon flat, white porcelain lay nothing but what looked like a lump of coal and specks of coarse sea salt. Cutting into the jagged, jet-black brick exposed a cerise-coloured core of char-grilled Farsø beef tenderloin atop a pickled chive flower-bed. Although the meaty filet was decent and moist, it was really the stinging ash coating the beef that made this worthwhile and the vinegary-sweet mini blossoms that kept one’s attention.

Plat Principal 3: Grydestegt med efterårs trøffel og smørvalle. Service in five phases entailed the arrival of a sizeable autumn truffle and grater, followed by the advent and unveiling of a large cocotte containing an entire cauliflower head covered in the finely shredded fungus. Step three, a plate appeared, furnished in advance with some truffle cream coated in frothy butter whey; four, the vegetable was apportioned; before a final shaving of more tuber over everything. The pot-roasted cauliflower shared an innate bond with the butter and truffle and also proved a suitable counter for the appetisingly subtly sour whey.

Plat Principal 4: Brissel, hale og bryst af kalv med stuvede morkler. Surrounded by shallow jus de veau, three morsels – thirds of a single sweetbread – amidst a threesome of morels, each set arrect and stuffed with veal tail muscle, stood in alternating sequence, a wreath of fried veal breast fibres overlaying all. These threads melted on the tongue, releasing meaty relish. Plump, stewed mushrooms resembled sponges while the braised meat within them was tender and distinct. Creamy-smooth sweetbreads had succulence and the sauce, satisfying strength.

Plat Principal 5: Lammekollagen med kastanie. A trio of chestnut-encrusted lamb cheeks were planted aslant the lip of a plate, loosely tracing the edge of a small maroon mizzling of jus d’agneau. The braised nuggets were rich and well-grained, if a little dense; the ground nut glaze was a great complement to the meat as well as the potent lamb jus.

Pre-dessert: Oxideret rugbrød med bitter ale og frossen mælkeskind. A pale goldenrod dome was the pivot point around which the crockery’s rim swirled skywards. Rupturing this burnished frozen milk-skin revealed milk mousse and oxidised rye bread crème underneath it. This rye was velvety and slightly astringent; the Funs dark beer it has been blended with, quite malty with tones of toffee; whilst the milky, cool middle, the sweeter contrast. This was a modern twist on a Danish classic – øllebrød or bread porridge.

Dessert 1: Kandiserede bagte vilde brombær med blåbær. A large, deep cylinder of candyfloss was served crowned with a cardinal quenelle of blackberry. A wild forest fruit coulis was subsequently issued over this fluffy drum. Immediately it melted. But, as it vanished, it exposed a bundle of baked berries – raspberry, blueberry, blackberry – that had been bunched beneath it and now sat semi-submerged in vibrant scarlet sauce. The candy had become a nearly invisible sheet of sugar with enjoyably gritty texture that married well with the viscid, tartly-sweet fruits that it swathed. The superb sorbet also contributed to the differing degrees of consistency here.

Dessert 2: Karamelliserede Fransk toast med vanille og skrøbelige bobler af brunt smør. A thick, bulky cube of caramelised French toast was topped with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a cloud of brown butter ‘bubbles’. Adeptly fried, the pain perdu was sweet and soft whilst the foamy beurre noisette emulsion augmented its deep savour, which the ice cream – that kept its shape even though the bread below was quite warm – helped temper.

Dessert 3: Imaginære landskaber af chokolade med aromatisk hasselnød. A field of raw hazelnuts, cocoa butter and baked white chocolate formed a slack square; a liberal spot of sugar beet syrup lay in one corner and a boule of hazelnut ice cream, opposite. The clustered array of crumbs was crunchy and creamy: baked white chocolate was brittle and sweet; cocoa butter – the natural fat of the cocoa bean and what becomes white choc with milk and sugar – had melting texture; and hazel, nuttiness. The sorbet was mild; the beet syrup, like honey.

Petit Fours: Petit fours og kaffe. An overflowing tray held a tower of orange zest-freckled candyfloss that was fragrant with hints of citrus. A small chocolate slab was actually an airy yet compacted macaroon whilst a button of synthetic soya tasted intense and smooth. Lastly, a bowl bore confit English liquorice black olives. This fascinating flavour pairing was startling and, although these were somewhat strong, they were rather addictive too.

Service, whilst professional remained relaxed throughout with all the staff possessing an easy, affable mien. They were also diligent, attentive and had a precise knowledge of the food and its preparation. Despite being a relatively new and youthful team, led by Patrick, there was yet a fluent cooperation and certain enthusiasm amongst them. In addition, a special mention was earned by Julie’s remarkable memory.

The open kitchen allowed both the welcome hubbub of frying pans and bubbling pots to be heard as well as the opportunity to observe Bech in action. As a television personality he perhaps better understands/feels the desire of/importance for many customers to see him there themselves, actually working – and he does indeed cut a poignant figure as he cooks on his own, composed and in total control. That being said, it was also clear the chef was not, in such a way, seeking the attention of an audience – diners are regularly seated with backs towards him. Thus, instead of acting as the star upon some stage, his role rather resembles instead that of a conductor, studying his guests’ reactions and re-acting.

This meal was of a superior standard.

Time and again, amuses are illuminating moments. Today it was no different. Even though each of the dag gammelt brød, råkost af rødbeder and svampebouillon individually demonstrated specific aspects of the chef’s cuisine, together they also showed one more – this would be a lunch unpredictable…

These snacks started with a consummate contradiction: leftovers and luxury. It was a statement: ‘we will spoil you, but we are going to have fun doing it.’ Nor was that the end of the antonyms evoked by this teaming together of stale bread and truffle – here was super-crisp and soft; fragile and dainty against rough and carefree; old versus fresh. Next, the raw beet ravioli revealed that, when it comes to realising recipes, Bech possesses a strong intuition for arresting aesthetic as well as a feminine touch that allows him to assemble dishes calling for delicacy and deftness too. Lastly, the wild mushroom bouillon exhibited the chef’s consciousness of how all one’s senses contribute to an experience as well as proof that he is comfortable and confident enough in his cooking to serve even the simplest looking offerings.

The menu serious commenced with the chef’s signature: lameller af avocado. This was what Bech admits redefined his cooking. This was the recipe that revealed to him the delights of creating conflict within a dish, the amusing satisfaction achieved through curious contrast between rich and poor products. His representation of this concept was pristine and refined yet restrained and discreet; it resembled a work of art. Succeeding this was the æstetiske jomfruhummere, whose arrival was made even more emphatic for its juxtaposition with the previous course. Rustic, dramatic and engaging, this was nearly a challenge to the avocado and caviar before.

Lunch moved into another gear with the braiseret porre; once again attractive, this also demonstrated easy, effective balance betwixt excellent ingredients. It was followed by råstegt sort hummer. Bo Bech enjoys working with the primitive potato, ‘…it may be everything. [They] are something we can use every day without giving them a second thought. Potatoes are neutral and can weave themselves into every meal.’ Here, the luxurious lobster and simple spud had been made to seem the same – still in their skins, to touch, both were yielding yet supple. The medial egg, masquerading as another tater or even perhaps some shellfish, was further manifestation of the chef’s typifying subtle – sometimes sneaky – wit.

Smoked eel with creamy horseradish and sorrel was a classic combination of products in a new way – whilst also mingling the modern with the natural. After a dish northerly in origin came one more southerly in style. North Sea Turbot with soft nuances of tomato was a definite, delicious highlight; its fresh colours and vivid savours making this a very memorable course. The tableside rendering of its sauce was also novel and nice. Next to really make an impact was the sweetbread, tail and breast of veal with stewed morels – the 2009 Årets Gericke winner. Intense and satisfying this created a climax to the carte.

Sweets met the savouries’ high measure. A very traditional Danish treat – Øllebrød – was deconstructed by Bech with his recreation, although unrecognisable on sight, at once familiar in flavour. The kandiserede bagte vilde brombær, so whimsical in its delivery, verged on spellbinding with a taste and mouthfeel just as successful; karamelliserede Fransk toast was a tasty and technical achievement; whilst imaginære landskaber af chokolade, a fulfilling chocolate finish.

This extended menu informed – this writer at least – of four clear-cut fundamentals upon which Bo Bech’s cooking is built.

The most marked tenet of this quartet is what the chef himself describes as ‘friendly conflict’ and which has already been implied above a propos the lameller af avocado. From the first amuse – earlier-termed leftovers and luxury – a pattern was established. Avocado and caviar; leek and oyster; potato and lobster; tomato and turbot; cauliflower and truffle; and offal with morels continued the trend. Bech confesses to being fascinated by such contrast and revels in being able to elevate the most modest of produce to the level of those more appreciated. It is something he does so well: instead of a forced or harsh mishmash, it is a jestful struggle shaped by humour and intelligence and consummated with superb and nimble balance.

One aspect of the chef’s creations that interests and stirs utmost is his cultivated sense of aesthetic. Each course was pleasingly picturesque. From those most straightforward and simplistic appearing – the svampebouillon, for instance – to the more complicated – say the brissel, hale og bryst af kalv med stuvede morkler – there remained an alluring harmony of hues and dramatic candour. Another notable detail was the seamless association between plate and presentation with the chef’s use of the crockery and his ability to sculpt the recipe to suit it some of the best I have seen. Furthermore, Bech is able to fashion dishes that have diners almost simultaneously assuming how effortless they are whilst trying to understand just how their composition were even possible. In partnership with this expert arrangement was well-thought out delivery: nature’s introduction into the dining room with the æstetiske jomfruhummere; the visible juicing (upon a luminous, plastic squeezer no less) for the vesterhavspighvar; the showing off of the large cocotte carrying grydestegt blomkål (instead of something likelier like a classic stew); and, foremost among these, the amusing, evanescing kandiserede bagte being the most special such instances. In nearly all these, as well as others (trækuls grillede oksemørbrad, råstegt sort hummer…) there was also the afore-alluded to clever and sharp comedy.

A small, but acutely apperceived point was the easy discernment of a definite and deliberate segue between courses and certain culmination to the meal itself. It felt as if the order of what came was given real consideration with the intention to lead the diner leisurely through their experience. ‘We are doing everything we can to get people to relax and enjoy themselves,’ Bech explains. There was a genuine sensation of savours progressing in intensity throughout lunch too.
Finally – and hopefully not a total negation of what has already been written – there are no rules: you simply could not guess what would be served next. In this single meal, French, Italian, Spanish, and naturally, Nordic influences were evident. Yet each of these differing inspirations were materialised with instinctive skill in impeccable manner. The surprise was also not limited to geographical location, but extended to technique; traditional means were met by modern. Just as John Utzen took as his muse the homemade houses of Morocco, ancient Mexican plateaus and temples, Arabic tents and so on, Bech draws on his travels too. Encouraged by his favourites – l’Arpège and Mugaritz included – as well as where he was worked, the chef has articulated his own specific expression, unbounded and uninhibited: ‘I have no prejudices about what one can and cannot do with food. On the contrary, I desire that everything should be tested.’

‘There is nothing wrong with the ordinary, but I love to explore new avenues.’ Indeed in years past, Bech did indulge his appetite for experimentation and molecular was the marker with which his cuisine was decisively stamped. If true then, it is false today. To label his cooking as MG now would be simply incorrect and not do the chef justice. Reading accounts of older meals, it is apparent that this is a cuisine in a state of evolution. A critical shift can be seen from a scientific base onto one organic with the former a term he no longer wishes to be ring fenced by; ‘I do not think we focus on [it]. It’s just a tag with many uses because they find it hard to put me in a box creatively. In reality, it probably scares more than it really attracts.’ This does not mean Bech has abandoned all his avant-garde habits, however when developing new dishes, it is legumes he ponders first. Perhaps recalling his days at Petri Pumpa, a vegetable kitchen, in Lund, he declares, ‘every meat can be loosely identified. It can, for example, be hard to taste the difference between calf and beef. On the other hand, green matter in its own natural form is easy to recognise. Nothing can be compared with celery, carrots or leeks.’

Moreover – and to conclude this issue – the very phrase, molecular gastronomy, feels cold, detached and inaccessible – in other words, everything Bech is not. Technically exacting he is, innovative too and fond of pushing borders, but scientific is a title that simply does not sit well. After all, this is a chef – un cuisinier – preparing food with emotion, reflection and respect. Rather than systematic, clinical and unemotional, it is abounding with affection, tenderness and sensitivity. ‘Most food is not hard to do, it is the love that it’s made with that makes all the difference,’ he insists.

Bo Bech is able to weave together the diverse influences and varied themes that dominate his style into a distinctive and exceptional cuisine, into a unique and exciting interpretation of splendid ingredients. It is a thoughtful and suggestive approach that is direct, clear and clean, bright and prepared with patience, sincerity and grace. Employing relatively few elements and with a healthy focus on vegetables, the chef creates plates plush with colour combined with immaculate and meticulous minimalism that are never as simple as they seem. The result is surprising and entertaining, provocative yet richly personal.

Enfants terribles is how the Danish press have dubbed Bech along with fellow chef and friend Paul Cunningham. This is because he cooks how he wants – without confines: ‘I just think that I do what I like. My strength lies in the fact that I am not trying to please everybody.’

Dining here, this is clear. At Bo Bech’s, you never know what you will get…

…but in the very, very best of ways.

foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk
www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com

food.snob in Europe

MR, Copenhagen, Denmark, 1*

Hello,
These are my thought from my meal last August.
Please click here for full commentary + photography: www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/08/08/mr-copenhagen-2/

Once upon a time, Mads Refslund wanted to be a writer. As a child he enjoyed penning fantasy fiction pieces – short stories about princes, princesses and unicorns. However, having finished school, he decided to abandon books for another interest – cooking.

Refslund had first begun dabbling with the culinary arts aged just eight. At twelve, a pizza he had made impressed his mother so much that she framed a slice and hung it on the wall until it rot. Later, he lived with his ‘father, who worked at night for Politiken, packing. He slept all day…and was often so tired that he gave me permission to go into the refrigerator and knock something together for dinner. It was often spaghetti and meat sauce, but I was eager to make the perfect sauce…’

His studies complete, he enrolled at the Hotel & Restaurant School where he met and became instant friends with René Redzepi, who ‘opened the door to the Michelin world for me’. His friend had trained at Pierre André and so Refslund followed in his footsteps with an apprenticeship at the Gentofte Hotel. In 1999, ‘making my way into the world’, he landed at Formel B, one of Copenhagen’s hottest restaurants at the time, working with Paul Cunningham and Pernille Skjødt (Soren Gerickes’ daughter) under Henrik Boserup. ‘I could not get better teachers. Paul taught me how to get food to actually taste of something and Pernille taught me about light, feminine cooking – how food should be refreshing. It is probably only now I really understand how good she was.’

Having left Formel B after two-and-a-half years there, he busied himself with brief stints at the Hotel d’Angleterre, Plaza Sofitel, le Sommerlier (stage) and Restoration, reuniting with Paul Cunningham at the last. Both then moved to Coquus in 2002, but soon departed as Cunningham had plans for his own restaurant The Paul in Tivoli the next year; as they awaited its opening, Refslund completed a stage at Mitt. However, shortly after its launch, Redzepi and Claus Meyer approached him. They were just about to start their own project – noma – and offered him a partnership. He accepted. The trio embarked upon a three-month research tour of the Nordic region; it was an enlightening, life-changing experience. Upon their return though, the two friends soon discovered that they could not work well together. Refslund therefore left noma six months after joining, but he did so with no regrets and a friendship still strong.

After a short spell in early 2004 under Mathias Dahlgren, then at Bon Lloc in Stockholm, the Dane took over the kitchen at Kokkeriet. A year on, he received a call from a would-be investor wanting to set up a new restaurant. Refslund felt that ‘he was looking for a little bit of a famous cook’, but having drifted around so much heretofore, he was looking to settle down himself. ‘Coming here, I said, 'I want to build it my way.’ And so he did.

MR opened in spring 2005 to immediate acclaim. Within one year, Michelin had awarded him an espoir; within two, Refslund had won his first star. Domestic recognition was just as ready – no one in Denmark has received more annual prizes (Årets Gericke née Årets Ret) for their dishes (2007 dessert; 2008 starter; 2009 starter). Nevertheless, trouble was brewing behind the scenes.

The silent investor – car service company, Totempo – had filed for bankruptcy in January 2009. Moreover, unbeknownst to the chef, the concern that owned MR was already straddled with liabilities left over from a previous failed venture. Soon the interest on their debt exceeded revenue and, within a few months, the business could no longer afford to pay for wages and taxes. Refslund was forced to close his restaurant on 1 April. It was a painful experience: ‘I’m really sad that it came to this, because everything was going so well. It isn’t a good feeling when you can’t pay your suppliers and employees…being bankrupt is horrible. I was treated like a criminal and creditors stood at the neck of one another to get their money.’

‘I am MR and I will not let go,’ was Refslund’s instant reply. He reacted quickly and within only three months had found ‘three new investors with hearts in the right place’. He also negotiated with his former partner to keep the same name and contacted Michelin to inform them of the situation and assuage any anxieties they may have had. On 30 June, MR reopened.

During those dark, spring months though there had been a fundamental change – meat had been removed from the menu. The chef’s intention was twofold: first, tired of working with flesh, he wanted to fulfil a slow-burning yearning to focus solely on what would be the ‘three keys to the kitchen’, fish, seafood and vegetables; and secondly, because he saw a niche – ‘there is a f****** shortage of seafood restaurants in Copenhagen, there's basically only Krogs Fish Restaurant’. However, he was hardly happy to be simply another fiskerestaurant; he wanted to revolutionise the notion. ‘MR swims against the tide of battle against ‘drowned fish’,’ asserts their website. ‘Visit even the best traditional restaurant and you'll probably get served…fish or shellfish buried in butter or fried hard in sauce until natural taste, texture and health qualities have evaporated. You leave sated, but with a heavy feeling better suited to a steakhouse.’

To achieve this, the chef has established relationships with Jutland fisherman able to provide him with diverse types of fresh fish whilst additionally securing a Greenlandic agreement supplying a huge range of raw shellfish. Refslund – a media darling anyway – has won over many critics since the transformation and MR is now only one of two Michelin-starred seafood restaurants in all of Scandinavia.

Whither once the general public went to buy coal for their fuel, discerning society now seeks ‘fish that swims against the tide’. MR resides in a little red house on the southern side of Copenhagen’s arguably most central square, Kultorvet. The restaurant occupies the top three levels of the building, but the ground floor holds one of the city’s oldest and most popular pubs, Tavern Hvide Lam, which dates from 1807. The raised entrance, marked by an ivory door and little else, leads onto a small corridor that links into a long reception room. Pristine white panelling; hansa yellow hued wallpaper embossed with what could be cream lines of fleurs-de-lis; flowing rich burgundy drapes that fall upon the hard, dark wood floor; a vintage iron stove and pipe; and sleek, blonde low seating give the impression of an old-fashioned, unpretentious and elegant clubroom. Multi-coloured candles, amber and crimson flower-bulb chandeliers and soft jazz are more bohemian touches.

A staircase trails the inner wall and directs the diner to the main dining area on the first floor in front of the kitchen. Opposite the stairway a golden banquette borders the wall whilst an extended serving station stands alongside it. To the left, is the most spacious, more open half of the room holding the largest tables. The décor is minimal. Eggshell-shaded walls are skirted by big alabaster boards; tables are thickly laid with immaculate white linen; and the only adornment about the room is a bulky section of blanched tree bark upon one side as well as more amber flower-bulb lighting. The black and pearl carpet bears a pattern best described as resembling a backgammon board. The contrast between the quaint interior and Refslund’s contemporary cooking is a subtle and clever one; ‘a meeting of history and modernity’ is how he himself terms it. Additionally, there is an enchanting and comfortable air to the entire restaurant, which for many locals evokes the feel of a Danish fairy-tale.

As for this meal’s story though, it began with…

Amuse Bouche 1: Agurk og laks; Rugbrød, røget ål og æble; Stegt banan med karry; og Sprøde fiskeskind med eddike. A gruffly hewed ebony granite slab carried skinny strips of delicate local salmon entwined within curls of cool cucumber and sprinkled with fragrant flowers of leek; a small club-sandwich of diced apple and smoked eel betwixt brittle slices of thin rye bread; and chips of thick, fried banana infused with curry and crackly cod skins dusted with pleasantly tart vinegar, all accompanied by a liberal streak of smoked cheese littered with lime zest.

Amuse Bouche 2: Blomkål couscous, varm mayonnaise og dild. A small, straw basket was brought to the table. Within, amidst cluttered sprigs of fresh hay, lay a single hen’s egg. Its crown already cropped, inside aromatic nutmeg and dill rested upon temperate mayonnaise, which in turn formed a mantle over a secreted cluster of crumbled cauliflower florets in their own purée. Creamy, silky then crunchy, this comforting and deliciously deep mouthfeel also delivered salty-sweet earthiness, making this something decidedly moreish.

Amuse Bouche 3: Østers i sake; grøn peber. Belon oyster, shucked and swimming in sake along with a lone green peppercorn, sat atop a hot rock. The craggy, bright white chalkstone from Gotland baked the mollusc’s shell, which heated the alcohol and thus the shellfish itself. The consequent shot was strong, spicy and, in my opinion, maybe overpowered the oyster.

Brødet: Manitoba, hvedeklid og maltbrød. Homemade breads comprised soft, yeasty wheat bran wedges; dark, crusty malt; and mushroom-shaped rolls of Manitoba that were crunchy outside and fluffy inside. In conjunction, a light and lively blend of organic Danish butter whipped through with crème fraîche and buttermilk in-house was served.

Entrée 1: Makrel; Stikkelsbær. Atop an almost lucent layer of ripe green gooseberry gel, three morsels of raw mackerel were arranged in a small triangle together with precisely placed hibiscus petals, cress, French sorrel, croutons, the meat of mature red gooseberries and dribbles of cold fresh cream. The fish, nicely clean, was mild, but not too meek for the sour and lemony combination of leaves and fruits although the dairy did act as gentle ointment. The grainy bellies of the red berries were also a good foil for the firm mackerel.

Entrée 2: Rå jomfruhummere & foie gras; Valnødder & citron. Langoustine tartar and raw foie gras sat side by side in two broad bars. One light, the other dark, they were jointly dressed with chickweed, lemon, fresh walnuts and a drizzle of oil from the same nut. Separate glass saucers offered extra lemon and sea salt. The foie, frozen beforehand, had been grated upon the plate then allowed to thaw so that once at the table it was already velvety smooth and ready to melt in the mouth – the last effect mirrored by its sweet langoustine neighbour. The citron and succulent chickweed helped mete the richness of the former whilst the milk-poached walnut pieces added dull crunch.

Entrée 3: Pinocchio kartofler; Oste suppe med mandler og kammuslinger. A brace of scallops, seared a soft blonde that almost matched their chiffon-coloured surroundings and basically submerged, were barely visible in a bowl of Vesterhavsost soup. Overtop, unripe basil flowers floated together with yarrow leaves whose laciness loosely mimicked the effervescence of the surface. More was buried below this frothy cheesy face – namely delicate almonds and miniature ‘Pinocchio’ potatoes that tendered substance and contrast to the dish. The Vesterhavsost, from the Thise Dairy in Jutland, was salty and satisfying whilst the scallops, sea-sweet. Lemony-mint and bitter hints came from the basil and yarrow respectively.

Entrée 4: Asparges pocheret i saltet smør; Luftig vinaigrette af peanut olie. A quartet of green asparagus tops stood upright in the plate’s centre; pickled crudités of white asparagus snaked around these spears while spoonfuls of lime espuma encircled them. The vegetables – the green poached in salted butter and white marinated in elderflower vinegar – both came courtesy of Søren Wiuff and were both terrific examples. Even if the lime foam and grilled peanut oil vinaigrette were each difficult to detect, the acidity of the baby sorrel and elderflower made a decent attempt to offset the vegetal sweetness.

Entrée 5: Tun; Syltede tomater med olivenolie og eddike. Two strips of tuna, just kissed by the frying pan, were plated with multiple preparations of three strains of tomato as well as char-grilled courgettes. These were all adorned with bright red blossoms and dark green blades of nasturtium; frozen vinaigrette of tomato juice and olive oil was ladled over tableside with dramatic result. There was discernibly deliberate contradiction between this colourful Italian collage and the more sober, Danish Royal Copenhagen china it came in. The tuna, though meaty, was rather mild and hence performed but a minor part overall. Raw and pickled, unripe and mature various varieties of tomato brought differing degrees of tangy-sweet-juiciness with them while naturally linking well with the fruity French olive oil and peppery herbs.

Plat Principal 1: Brændende område; Aroma og teksturer af brændende områder. It was whilst at his Samsø summer home, watching the local farmers that once practiced (now-outlawed) prescribed burning as a means of preparing their fields for fresh planting that Refslund was long ago inspired to create this dish.
It follows in the long line of vegetable-based signatures begun by Michel Bras and his gargouillou, but rather than simply replicating the Frenchman’s translation of Aubrac’s terroir, the Dane delved much deeper, literally: instead of concentrating on what the countryside shows off, he reveals what it conceals, what lies beneath the soil.
A glass bell jar, so densely filled with smoke that its contents had become obscured, was set down. The cloche removed, the cloud disbursed and immersed the table in enticingly smoky aromas of burnt hay before at last exposing the entire plate. Rings of red onion, tender carrots and turnip, parsley root, celery, chips of golden beet and more, marinated beforehand in a mixture of peanut oil, lemon, horseradish and acacia honey and blanched ahead of some quick charring, were served with one immaculate, baby red radish, its sprouts still intact. Toasted Jerusalem artichoke mayonnaise mingled amidst these vegetables, which had been assembled over pommes purées; crumble of dried potato skins, roasted peanuts, button mushrooms and muscovado sugar; as well as a dark daub of Gotland truffle crème shaded with sepia.
The symbolism was self-evident: the truffle was the soil; the potato-peanut-mushroom powder, ash and embers; whilst the singed roots were the remains after the flames had been snuffed out. Consistent with such a fantasy, these last items had been cooked simply and served in their entirety – scorch marks their only affectation; just as if they had been really found in a fire’s dirty aftermath.
Each element achieved an astonishing effect. Although the overall taste adjusts with the season, what stays constant is the strikingly realistic, remarkably authentic acidic-sweet-smokiness. So powerful, so precise, this has the potential to transport the diner somewhere far from the dining room.

Plat Principal 2: Hummer; Urter fra stranden og løg. Pearl, spring and young red onions teamed with Danish black lobster, its tail split into two segments and glazed with its own oil, were served strewn with onion-chive vinaigrette, pourpier and beach mustard. The lissom and flavoursome shellfish tallied excellently with the sweetly pungent array of onions, whose succulence tempered the intensity of the lobster oil, which verged on bitter. Poupier were crunchy and saline whilst beach mustard introduced bracing sharpness.

Plat Principal 3: Aborre; Vild brøndkarse med porre. A pair of fair-sided, golden-crested loaves, lined up lengthways and overlaid with curly shoots of watercress, also had the herb’s sauce poured onto one side during its service. At first, the two ingots appeared identical, but on closer inspection, proved not to be so. One was in fact pan-fried perch and the other, leek. The former, crisp and salty, and the latter, fibrous and sweet, complemented well the fresh crunch of the stems and toothsome watercress jus.

Dessert 1: Gulerødder; Honning og havtorn. Sea buckthorn and honey ice cream, coated in milk and honey mousse, was covered in bright pastel granité of carrot; wafer-like slithers from the vegetables’ centres, leaves even attached, sprung forth from the cool mass. Even though the berry ice cream was quite sour, the roots were equally sweet; the milky medium amid them was pleasingly milder.

Dessert 2: Røde bær; Yoghurt og melasse sukker. A deftly laid trail of red berries, dotted with tiny meringues and wood sorrel whilst mizzled with molasses sugar syrup, was bordered by a cloud of yoghurt whey sorbet. Odd cuts of strawberry and whole blackberries, blueberries, blackcurrants and redcurrants were pleasingly tart and moist. Molasses sugar, concentrated and toffee-like, was met by the delectable sorbet, lemony herb and seasonal fruits.

Dessert 3: Skov; Aroma fra skovens træ. It was only apt that a dessert celebrating the forest to actually arrive upon a solid oak cross-section. Sponge-like chestnut cake and a scoop of birch ice cream, straddled with pine granita, dominated its display. Underneath these, oak caramel, toasted hazelnuts and pine chocolate were also present over homemade nutella that had been painted over the plate. Together, these components formed a natural accord that was refreshing and interesting. There was dull sweetness from the birch, more from the chestnut, an uplifting sense of pine and subtly woody oak in addition to a small measure of fulfilling chocolate. Nonetheless, a minor criticism may be that this chocolate, chilled by everything else, eventually became too cold to dissolve away on one’s tongue.

Petit Fours: Kaffe trøffel med mandler; og peanut trøffel med mælkechokolade. Two chocolate truffles meant the meal’s end. A smaller peanut and milk choc was buttery, nutty and smooth whilst a larger one of coffee and almond had roasted savour and delicate bite.

Service was relaxed yet still retained some formal structure. There was a restaurant manager and sommelier who tended to the clients on a continuing basis, but – in Nordic fashion – dishes were carried out from the kitchen and, as required, plated at the table by the chefs themselves. This team, consisting principally of Mads, Jesper and Asbjørn, were each extremely well-natured, friendly and generous company.

The building certainly had charm and character while the ambience was a tranquil and serene one, which suited the rather handsome and understated setting. Furthermore, there was a keen and captivating juxtaposition between these surroundings and what was served. Refslund’s more modern recipes as well as his sense for efficacious tableside theatre and appealing presentation often made for an interesting comparison with this aged milieu, which perhaps actually added a certain consciousness and/or deeper gravitas to the experience. One especially conspicuous externality of this dim and calm dining room was evinced when the kitchen door slid open: for a few brief moments, there was a sudden, curious din from within and a burst of bright light whence the chefs, swathed in white, enter. It was an eloquent image.

This meal impressed.

The earliest amuses bouche were, on the whole, very good. They were also meaningful. Besides such local staples as salmon, smoked eel and cheese, fish skins and rye comfortably sat curry, sake, banana and lime. Although all things Danish had their place – pride of place – here, MR was clearly not a closed kitchen. Then, suggestive of a gift with its winsome and dainty delivery, the cauliflower couscous egg was luscious and lasting. Conversely the østers i sake that followed was the only item of the day that I did not like.

Rå jomfruhummere & foie gras is a Mads Refslund classic. It was easy to discern why. To begin with, the plate was simply very easy on the eye: dark and light, tanned and white, the two principle parts carpeted over with golden walnut and brilliant green. Then, of course, there was the taste. Just a few herbs plus a squeeze of lemon were necessary to attain an instinctive and absolute balance between meat and marine.

The chef’s fondness for clean flavours and lightness appeared, at least on paper, contradicted by the next course – pinocchio kartofler; oste suppe, effectively cheese and potato soup. In his hands, however, this heavy-sounding recipe was really something surprisingly modest and graceful yet full of savoury relish. Afterwards, in spite of being one of the weaker servings, asparagus in salty butter still bore incredible ingredients – specifically those of Søren Wiuff from Lammefjord. Actually, for what it is worth, this farmer’s asparagus are the finest I have ever had.

When asked to articulate his approach, Refslund has responded, ‘I don’t know if it's typical Danish, but I use a lot of Danish things, almost all Danish things, Scandinavian things. But…I just wanted to throw in some Mediterranean accents and…I love olive oil from Italy.’ The tun illustrated that. On the pridie of August, he would not let geography for geography’s sake intervene with this seasonal selection of choice tomatoes, courgettes and olive oil.

And then. Brændende område; Aroma og teksturer af brændende områder. Burning field; Aroma and textures of burning fields. It is a title far too practical for a thing so poetic; too literal for something as romantic; far too efficient for anything this expressive – it is an economical name to express a moment of whimsy. This is in fact one of the best dishes I have eaten anywhere. Presentation, performance, suspense, savour, illusion even and then some more stem from this. As the aroma captivates, the tastes tingle and tease the tongue and lips whilst the astringent, dusty, pasty textures smother and gently dry them out. A stunningly successful and convincing course this was.

Dinner continued with the excellent lobster; beach herbs and onions. This was an accomplished example of marrying mer avec terre – or hav med land; of bringing out subtle and balancing strong flavours. Next, the aborre; vild brøndkarse med porre was capable, but – considering its place as the final savoury – did not surpass what went before it. On the other hand however, one can argue that after the high arrived at with the burning fields, the fairly robust lobster and then cleaner, lean and lighter perch offered an easier landing and softer shift into desserts. Plus, the chef’s visual ruse with the fish and leek was rather cute.

In the main, savouries were more memorable than desserts. Forest fruits (skovbær), such as those in the røde bær; yoghurt og melasse sucker, are in Denmark customarily boiled down into a compote called rødgrød and teamed with cream (fløde). Refslund’s reworking comprised the same fruits served whole with yoghurt sorbet. Lastly, skov; aroma fra skovens træ demonstrated one final time the chef’s panache for plating and flair for finding stimulus outdoors.

‘Bonding rawness’ is how Refslund explains his philosophy. This concept entails a closer assessment of produce, extending to its quality and freshness, but essentially going beyond that. Raw materials are ‘visualised and chosen for their intrinsic values’; the aim is the ‘highest expression that nature produces’. The consequence is a cuisine ‘seeking to sustain ingredients’ natural and original flavours and ‘not to pollute [their] pure taste with excessive preparation or cooking’.

A sensible consideration of Refslund’s style maybe ought to begin with his concentration on the ‘three pillars: fish, shellfish and vegetables’. In this regard, the restaurant’s reopening was a reincarnation – and perhaps a renaissance. For the chef, the transition was commonsense – ‘the last two years I have been very eager to work with fish and vegetables and the closure [was] a good chance to change things completely.’ He even ‘considered [working] exclusively with vegetables, but I was afraid’. He goes further to justify his decision: ‘quality and freshness are deep in our DNA; in Denmark, it’s our privilege that marine animals grow more slowly in a cool climate, which gives them time to develop more savour – the same applies to vegetables, longer in the soil. Since we’re largely surrounded by sea and fields, everything we need is within reach; we…can therefore also keep CO2 emissions to a minimum.’ Given my own proclivities, this new approach is one I can sympathise with.

Refslund’s creations are emphatic on arrival. He has a canny sense for presentation and production, equally able and effective with the subtle and cerebral – recall the mental contradictions with the tuna – as well as with the dramatic and explicit – remember the hay-smoke-seeping cylinders served at the table. Nature is the chef’s first inspiration and one of his strongest talents is his ability to realise in the kitchen and on the dish ideas derived from his environment – ‘the sea, forest, field and so on’. The egg sitting in straw as if freshly laid, oyster seemingly washed up upon a stone and forest-flavoured sweet things sitting atop a slice of oak were all just some example of this today.

As for the chef’s plating, there is also a distinctive pattern. At its essence, it is quite simple, clean and minimal with just two or three core components, although over these there is routinely some sprinkling of herbs, stems, leaves and flowers that make things seem busier on first sight. Such fresh garnishes add colour, vibrancy and life. He is also strongly inclined towards keeping ingredients intact and uncooked. Actually, raw food is something he is particularly partial to – ‘[there] is the purity that I love. It tastes like what it is’ – whilst cumbersome saucing is something he is very much not: ‘...people are tired of the heavy, Francophile cuisine. There is no reason to cook when a great many things taste so good with virtually no preparation.’ His thoughts on ‘drowned fish’ have been mentioned...

Refslund certainly has a reputation for innovation – Redzepi describes his friend’s restaurant as ‘like el Bulli meets the north’. It is an invention rooted in tradition: ‘I like to experiment with old recipes, handed down from my grandmother. The ingredients are distinctive and you recognise the taste immediately. This is pure nostalgia. And we love that’ – as demonstrated today by the red berry dessert. He also draws heavily on Nordic culture, which ‘gives me moments of profound insight that I strive to capture and transcribe,’ citing here his fascination with smoke.

As an interestingly aside, in a number of ways, Mads Refslund rather reminds one of another – Pierre Gagnaire. Any similarity is not so much with respect to their food itself, but relates to their manners, methods and mentalities. Both are capricious characters, who work well on impulse and whim. Both are modern chefs who like not to restrict the worlds within which they work with geography or ideology. And both of their spontaneous styles are deeply personal ones. The benefits of this can be immense – meals can be revelations riddled with moments of magic – but there are inherent risks too. Chiefly, their absence, although not necessarily detrimental, might at least mean a different experience for the diner. In MR’s case however, sous chef Jesper’s ability and dependability have been proven already as it was in fact he, not Refslund, who cooked tonight. The two have also been criticised for the lack of consistency and flow within their menus. In my experience, even if there were dishes this dinner that were only decent (personal taste will always play a part, I suppose), constancy in terms of quality and execution was definitely not a concern. Indeed, it might be fair to say that this meal seemed more a succession of great plates rather than a deliberate progression to some point – I am not sure whether I even know if I prefer one attitude over the other. But what I do know is that of both Refslund and Gagnaire, I am a fan.

Seemingly sealed off from the rest of the city, Refslund has sought to create a reflection of himself at MR: ‘I have put my mark in every nook and cranny.’ No one takes themselves too seriously here and there is an irresistible spirit that translates into a dynamic, engaging, entertaining yet intimate experience: it is simply so much fun.

Ironically enough, ‘I am actually afraid of deep water,’ confesses Copenhagen’s foremost seafood chef. ‘I probably have too much imagination; if I can not see the seabed… I can only swim because my mother forced me to learn.’ It is an illuminating remark seeing as creativity and fancy are abundant at this ‘hothouse for the art of cookery’ as the chef calls MR – where a cuisine founded upon natural, Nordic fundamentals is exercised instinctively with grace and good-humour by someone who appreciates aesthetic and theatre, has comfort and confidence in his own cooking and owns an intuitive understanding about ingredients.

Moreover, some measure of talent and even more potential does Mads possess. Mads, the mercurial.

www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com
foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk

food.snob in Europe

Pierre Gagnaire, Paris

Merci.
A Herve This meal sounds pretty special too.
I'd agree with your opinion on MG as well.

food.snob in France

Pierre Gagnaire, Paris

...you're being funny, right? :)
Gagnaire is amazing.
It wasn't a super-consistent meal, but the highpoints far surpassed any weak ones. A very memorable experience.

food.snob in France

Pierre Gagnaire, Paris

Hi,
these are my thoughts on my meal at rue Balzac last July.
Please click here for full commentary + photography: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/07/02/pierre-gagnaire-paris/

‘There was a hard, dark side to my family,’ begins the chef whose face is now synonymous with a smile. ‘[My father] was an introverted man, not at all expressive. He was orphaned and had been brought up by a strict and authoritative grandmother.’ Jean-Claude Gagnaire, an Apinac native, ran a one-starred restaurant in Saint-Étienne. ‘The motto in my family was do your duty…I was the eldest in the family of four and I knew what I had to do.’ Thus Pierre Gagnaire feels he ‘never had any choice, I just had to be a chef. I put my foot inside the system – and couldn’t get out of it,’ and so, although he had enjoyed his time at school, where he ‘discovered the pleasure of books’, by fourteen he was already an apprentice in the pâtisserie of Jean Vignard’s Chez Juliette, one of Lyon’s leading restaurants. A couple years subsequently, he was at another of the city’s institutions, Tante Alice, prior to a summer internship in 1968 at Paul Bocuse – ‘I was frightened by him. I was too impressed by him to ever work for him.’ He then spent a year at the casino de Charbonnières-les-Bains and learned the art of rotisserie after which, just as another prominent Parisian chef, Pascal Barbot, would do similarly years on, Gagnaire completed his military service as a cuisiner-amiral on board le Surcouf; ‘I loved it,’ he recalls. In 1973, he returned to France and Paris, working at the Intercontinental before the legendary Lucas Carton, but he was abroad again two years later as he set off on a petit tour du monde, focusing on the New World.
It was not until 1976 that the chef eventually returned to and took charge of the familial restaurant, le Clos Fleury, in industrial Saint-Étienne. ‘It was like being given a car with no papers. By this time I had realised that cooking was how I could express myself, but with my father in the background. I could not do what I wanted.’ In spite of retaining his inherited star, he describes the four years he was there as ‘a bad experience…a mess’. It was a testing time indeed – customers were even unhappy that their French chef had married a German. It was only in 1980, when Jean-Claude retired, that he was able to close le Clos Fleury and open his own venture, Aux Passementiers. In only his first year he had won his first star and, in 1986, his second. By 1993 he at last had all three.
Nevertheless, even this supreme reward was not enough to save the restaurant from the ultimate embarrassment, bankruptcy, three years later. ‘I lost absolutely everything in one day, all I’d worked for and built. But I would have lost my soul if I’d stayed there and adapted to the taste of the bourgeoisie.’ He needed a clean start. Therefore, six months on, he moved to Paris and took over the Italian, Bice, in the Hôtel Balzac. He retained two of his stars. ’It was a rebirth,’ and it took the chef just another two years to redeem his third star.
The turn of the century brought with it further reward. In 2001, Gagnaire began working closely with ‘the father of molecular gastronomy’, Hervé This, a professor at the Collège de France – an affiliation still strong today. A string of restaurant launches has ensued since: Sketch, London (2002); Gaya Rive Gauche, Paris (2004); Pierre Gagnaire, Tokyo (2005); Pierre, Hong Kong (2006); Hôtel « Les Airelles », Courchevel (2007); Pierre Gagnaire, Seoul (2008); Reflets par Pierre Gagnaire, Dubai (2008); Twist, Las Vegas (2009); les Menus par Pierre Gagnaire, Moscow (2010); and most recently, the reopening of a Pierre Gagnaire in Tokyo after the closer of the former in 2009 (2010).

But rue Balzac remains ‘mon cœur’. A few moments uphill walk from the Champs-Elysées stands the nineteenth-century luxury hotel at the crossroads of two roads named for famous writers: rue Balzac and rue Lord Byron. Bright but basic red plaques spelling out the chef’s name and the iconic π symbol are the only suggestions that the restaurant resides within the same building. Once inside, Pierre Gagnaire’s entrance is on the right of the glamorous, gilded lobby.
A dim, drawn-out corridor leads past the bar and onto a double-decked dining room most recently renovated in 2004 by Michèle Halard. Several, sizeable circular tables cover the lower level whilst half-a-dozen smaller ones line the two raised levels either side of the main space. The ceiling is sombre grey; walls light, lacquered wood; and carpet, a narrow-pinstripe of greens and browns. Large, latticed windows look out upon the street outside yet, concealed without with ivy, maintain the interior’s privacy. Pieces of abstract art, some on loan from Galerie Lelong and flower arrangements by Christian Tortu are scattered around the room and a glass-faced wine cellar fringes the furthest wall. Belle Époque details abound in the cerulean-coloured insets stencilled in ebony floral patterns, suspended chandelier, black-capped table lamps and soft jazz playing in the background. Well-spaced tables are laid with white piqué linens, contemporary crockery from Feelings (Bernaudaud, Raynaud and JL Coquet arrive later), little π pebble and a silver vase with short yellow canna lily.

The carte is not a curt affair. Along with a menu du marché and lengthy, seasonal tasting menu that evolves over the period, there is an extended ALC listing short, succinct subheadings (parfums de terre; jardin marin; turbot, kokotchas & carabineros…) followed by several lines of occasionally purple detail.
It was as I perused these scripts that Gagnaire entered the dining room to greet his guests. When he came to my table, unexpectedly he recognised me from my last meal at Sketch. After a short conversation, the chef kindly volunteered to cook for me himself – needless to say, I indulged him…

Amuse Bouche 1: Collection de la croquette et sablés; pâte à filo curcuma et huile d’olive de Toscane avec thym frais, côte de romaine, crème d’anchois; un plat de cercles rouges. The first set of amuses totalled a trio of separate servings.
A tray of canapés carried three spherical nibbles: a petite croquette de béchamel, sablé au fromage and a sablé aux amandes. The croquette, warm, crumbly, creamy and mild, was the start of a series of increasing nuttiness and textural solidity which – via the crackly, nutty-sweet vieux comté biscuit – ended with the hard, almond cracker.
Next, a small bowl bore a raised shot glass that held a pâte à filo curcuma chip and sprig of fresh thyme sitting together in shallow Tuscan huile d’olive. The curried stick and thyme went well with the peppery, herby Italian oil whilst a cut of romaine rib glazed with anchovy, balanced on the brim beneath, was cooling and salty.
Subsequent to these came a circular study in reds. Atop a wide white plate, rippled with easy etchings, sat a threesome of varyingly round items. The largest – a dipped dish containing rust-coloured chestnut tuile, topped with pointe de thon rouge, that concealed a grainy carrot velouté – rested slightly off-centre. On the far left lip, a tall, oversized thimble filled with syrupy fruit ratatouille was capped with a thin beetroot crisp and crowned with a tiny brick of its jelly. Finally, almost opposite, lay a little ladle cradling a spiralled gelée of lemon balm over a disc of watermelon reposing in its juice.

Les Pains: Baguette, pain brioché et tuile croustillante aux olives noires. Miniature brioche loaf was faintly crusty and hardly heavy; sharply-pointed baguette had more crunch and tore nicely; and brittle black olive crisp had good flavour. Two butters – both Bordier – were brought out on their own tableware: a silver coaster of unrefined beurre demi-sel; and a green saucer with a brick of beurre aux algues.

Amuse Bouche 2: Glace de navet daïkon au raifort, feuille de bière blanche; crème d’oignons doux des Cévennes, gruyère Etivaz au mac-vin; râble et foie de lapereau en saupiquet, pistaches fraîches; groseilles, gnocchi noirs, melon au poivre et pursha; et infusion de lisette au chardonnay - roquette, comcombre et ciboulette. The second array of amuses arrived in five parts.
A squared central dish was found in the customary spot as four smaller, differently-shaped ones were dealt out in a semicircle around it. One began with horseradish mousse mounted with a jellied layer of white beer and quenelle of daikon ice cream spiked through with balsamic vinegar and finished with a wafer of raw radish. The raifort’s spiciness played well against the sweetness of the bière – a theme mirrored by the balsamic that agreeably pierced the smooth, tasty glace. A cup of Cevennes onion compote scattered with Macvin-soaked Etivaz Gruyère succeeded this. Here the creamy, potent cheese failed to alleviate the savoury-sweet crème d’oignons, fortified with jus de boeuf, which was just too strong for my liking. A self-standing spoon offered a bite of the Burgundian classic, baby rabbit in a creamy wine and vinegar sauce. The pretty pink and green stack of shredded saddle and liver mixed with grated fresh pistachio and garnished with reine des prés was, together, tender, mellow and mildly sweet. A colourful mélange of melon and squid ink gnocchi dressed with Persian lime and peppered red currant sauce was sweet, sour and salty at once. Lastly, lifting the lid of a small ceramic crock revealed a rosy-fleshed, glaucous-skinned morsel of baby mackerel swimming in its dark chardonnay-infused bouillon; this very clean fish was of clear quality.

Entrée 1: le Rouget. A large silver tray with two bowls was delivered tableside. The smaller of these was shown off before its contents – filet of pan-fried red mullet broken apart into its individual filaments and mingled with peeled almonds, parsley and golden prunes from Iran – were spooned into the larger, whose base was already lined with thick tomato bisque.
Scarlet red tomato jus formed a rich, reflective surface around the collection of pink, alabaster and yellow that had been assembled in the plate’s centre. This gazpacho-esque sauce was full of bright, almost tangy savour whilst the denser paste beneath had an agreeably coarse consistency. The tasty mullet had innate accord with the tomato as well as the nuts that tendered their subtly sweet crunch. The inclusion of the Iranian prunes was inspired; gently warmed, they were faintly firm while simultaneously strongly sharp and sweet, thus complimenting and contrasting the flavours already afforded by the other elements.

Entrée 2: Agneau de Lozère & Saint Jacques. Removing the cloche revealed a cluster of roughly-chopped salicorne and mange tout that together resembled the grassy sheet over a small knoll. This verdancy was interrupted by the matted ivory shimmer from a sprinkling of diced scallops and the sneaking appearance of pasta underneath. Sweeping away the greens unveiled a single, sizeable cannelloni of lamb confit mizzled with its own jus and chives. The pasta was just substantial enough for its presence to be felt whilst the sauce, concentrated and intense. Crisp and salty-sweet vegetables alongside the caramelised scallops were a lovely foil to the rich, meaty filling of shredded lamb from Lozère.

Plat Principal 1: Le Boeuf: Origine Française; cube de riz Basmati au thé vert; thon rouge enrobé d’un caramel d’oseille au cassis; l’abstrait… This course encompassed a principal plate and three smaller ones.
At first concealed below a loosely-laid silver cover, slices of braised beef, resting in a ring, had been drizzled with deep maroon cherry jus and arranged with lightly steamed leaves of lettuce overtop. The tender pieces of peppered French meat from boucherie Nivernaise were animated by the tart-sweetness of the full, robust fruit sauce as the succulent greens provided relief as required.
Additional dishes included, in turn, two squares of fatty mi-cuit red tuna coated in sorrel syrup, rounded off with sorrel leaf and very good duck skin crisps and accompanied by caramelised blackcurrant; a lettuce-raviole of warm, velvety basmati rice, cooked al dente, and glazed in a light olive oil-matcha cream; and small cuts of more beef and slithers of onion topped with a pinkish cube introduced as ‘l’abstrait’. This last item’s ingredients were difficult to identify – creamy in texture and barely bread-like in taste, it was also somewhat sweet and smoky whilst possessing umami. Soon it was evident though that this was actually the chef’s intelligent jesting: even if its makeup may have been initially uncertain, in savour and semblance it was unmistakeably familiar – it was meant to be bone marrow.
…As it happens, this mock marrow was composed from a mixture of smoked mousse, beef consommé, bread and kanten.

The savouries over with, Le Grand Dessert de Pierre Gagnaire started. Although titled in the singular, this comprised a succession of ‘desserts inspirés de la pâtisserie traditionnelle Française; elaborés à partir de fruits, de légumes de saison, de confiseries peu sucrées, de chocolats…’ some arriving alone, others together.

Dessert 1: Salades de fruits. Melon pieces in fruit syrup were placed under a crunchy, fennel tuile upon which a slice of mango, made to look like an egg yolk, came covered with yellow passion fruit seeds and pulp. The bitter liquid below balanced out the mildly acidic-sweet maracuyá.

Dessert 2: Pain perdu. Peach ice cream sat surrounded by poppy jelly containing diced peach chunks and a small square of French toast was seated on the plate’s rim, garnished with a leaf of lemon verbena. With its unique, perfumed sweetness, the ice cream was very pleasing, however the poppy rather faint and soft pain perdu, whilst well-made, did not seem to sit naturally with the rest.

Dessert 3: Fraises à la crème. A solitary strawberry, its end tipped in slightly viscous cream, was set in the centre of a saucer of rose sugar. This course’s constituents all shared an easy affinity with each other, but ultimately this was a portion more memorable for being pretty than it was for being tasty.

Dessert 4: Granité à la framboise et cerise. Another serving in the most romantic shades of red and pink entailed juicy raspberry and cherry granita over lemon crème; blanched almond halves were propped atop while a brace of lemon balm blades were affixed to the bowl’s side. Even though some sloppy plating meant that the glue attaching these leaves was still visible this Sicilian reinvention was, nevertheless, simply delightful.

Dessert 5: Gateau au chocolat. Over red fruit coulis stood a jenga-like tower of pâte sablée, pistachio mousse, hazelnut biscuit and at last génoise au chocolat – all in equal squares, but of unequal depths and different colours; liquid chocolate truffles, one light and another dark, lay either side of the confectionary column, which was drizzled with warm, runny chocolate sauce at the table. This near-deconstruction of a cake was just decent with each slice proffering varying textures and distinct tastes. The two explosive truffles were highlights.

Dessert 6: Verrine cassis. A martini glass brought blackcurrant in three ways: at its base could be found sweet, cold compote, above which a crisp blackcurrant wafer held separate a frothy top of fruity-tart foam dressed with a pansy flower. This was a refreshing, clean finish to the desserts.

Petit Fours: Roulé au chocolat blanc avec citron; ‘cerise’ de pâte d'amande; pâte de pistache; ficelles à la rhubarbe; cigarette au chocolat menthe; roulé au chocolat noir avec kirsch; et bâton de chocolat ivre. A long ceramic semi-cylinder that appeared with the first of the sweet courses carried several dainties. There was a sharp white chocolate roll filled with lemon curd; marzipan shaped like a cherry, but really encasing spicy blackcurrant; strong, firm pistachio paste; delectable, sharp threads of rhubarb; bitter choc stick flavoured with mint; dark chocolate with kirsh; and a sticky, fruity cocoa tube imbued with alcohol.

Mignardises: Truffes de la maison. Coffee was complimented by three types of chocolate: a milky Tonka bean palet d’or and monogrammed dark and light truffles.

It is a little difficult to comment on service. On the whole, the staff were friendly, able and efficient. The maître d'hôtel, Hervé Parmentier, seemed diligent, attentive and amusing – replete with a moustache well-suited to a British sergeant major, he appeared almost as eccentric as his chef and twice as frenetic. However, I did have a gripe, but it related to something specifically concerning my meal and an issue that would, under normal circumstances, most likely not have arisen. At least, I shall assume so.

What troubled me a little was that my serveuse was almost utterly unable to explain any of the dishes. Typically such a trifling dilemma might be disregarded, but I found it especially demanding happening here – at Pierre Gagnaire. This is because this chef, more than most, has a penchant for quite quixotic ingredients, particularly herbs and spices, which might make a huge difference to a dish. Without the serveuse’s aid, it required more effort on my part to attempt to discover and distinguish these, thus diminishing my ease. Furthermore, her inability to assist fully seemed to also make her more uncomfortable and maybe nervous, which did not benefit either one of us.

Fortunately, this flaw in service did not frustrate my enjoyment of the food. Of the entire two sets of amuses, little stands out as memorable. The ratatouille, glace de navet daïkon au raifort and râble et foie de lapereau en saupiquet were the only notably nicer moments whilst the crème d’oignons doux des Cévennes the only one to which I took a dislike. Additionally, although the butter was very good, the bread was unremarkable. Finally, desserts followed in the same vein as amuses: many were simply forgettable with just the granité de pêche et cerise and verrine cassis more than fine.

Nonetheless, although it may sound as if riddled with shortcomings and so less than successful, this lunch was nothing of the sort. First, these aforementioned ‘unremarkable’ and ‘forgettable’ courses were still decent, even if less than exceptional – and certainly not unpleasant (except for crème d’oignons doux des Cévennes that is). Secondly, the dishes proper – specifically le rouget and agneau de Lozère & Saint Jacques – were simply stunning; but before focusing on these in more detail, I will comment further on what came prior to them.

Even if the amuses were not delicious to my mind, there were still entertaining. Given that these plates were prepared ahead and with more time (unlike the improvised entrées and main), they painted a better picture of Gagnaire’s intellectual approach and the deep thought that he applies to structure in his cuisine. For instance, regarding the very first snacks offered, there was their already-explained order and rationale. This principle extended to that whole course: those nibbles had the heaviest of flavours and densest of textures; the pâte à filo curcuma et huile d’olive de Toscane that followed was lighter in both respects; whilst one finished with soft and fruity items. Additionally, this last collection of bites showed the same sort of keen consideration. Each element matched sweet and savoury as well as smoothness and crunch – and again, the final watermelon-verveine morsel was the lightest and most refreshing, almost cleansing the palate.

The second series of snacks was just as deliberate. At a glance, one could immediately discern that every dish was of a special shape whilst the content of each was also of another colour. The distinction did not end there as all the plates presented a different foodstuff – vegetable, dairy, meat, fruit and fish. Lastly, each element’s temperature was taken into account: one commenced with the coldest (the ice cream) and ended with the warmest (bouillon).

With the rouget, the chef’s intentions were more open to contemplation. He was obviously teaming together tastes typical to the Mediterranean – red mullet, tomato, almond, dried plum – but, as far as I am aware, in an unfamiliar permutation. The recipe resembled something Italian, Spanish, North African and maybe more all at once. Could he have been attempting a play on paella, wherein the almonds represent grains of rice? Or was this Gagnaire’s reinterpretation of a gazpacho or even a bouillabaisse? The motivation might be unclear, but the result was certainly something excellent.

The agneau de Lozère & Saint Jacques was another lesson in flavour pairing. Whilst many may be surprised to see lamb and scallops reside side by side, Gagnaire made them seem the most natural of couples and, aided by the sweet and salty greens, the two remained in refreshing and tasty balance. After all, he has been quoted saying, ‘God put all those ingredients on Earth…why not use them all?’ Furthermore, whilst many may be nearly offended to observe these Saint Jacques cut into small pieces and not kept whole, such concerns fail to even register with him. Thus did this plate illustrate an important detail of the chef’s cuisine: there are no rules.

Random combinations of produce, unusual treatments of products, the introduction of science into cooking…Gagnaire utilises all such practices without prejudice. Actually, the only limits he appears to allow himself to accept are those surrounding the quality of his ingredients and a desire to pursue a more organic direction in molecular gastronomy. To help him realise the latter, he teamed up with bio-chemist Hervé This. Their collaboration has become famous and its fruits can be tasted through the würtzs, liebigs, abstances and, as was the case today, abstraits, that litter the menus of his restaurants.

Indeed, even though Pierre Gagnaire is considered one of the most progressive and modern of chefs, there remains a distinctly classic stroke to his style. Regularly deemed as baroque, there are aspects of his meals that resemble those from the eighteenth century. This is most identifiable in the delivery of his dishes. Two to three hundred years ago, it was the custom of the French royal court to serve à la française – all at the same time – and hence create drama and excitement. At the same time, there was also a flourish in the crafts industries with new serving vessels created to add to this spectacle. Gagnaire exercises such tactics himself. From the very onset, the diner is subject to a flurry of small treats that arrive altogether or slightly staggered – each served in crockery unique to it. The effect of this is three-fold. There is the same visual thrill; a generous notion of the kitchen engendered; whilst one is also left a little intoxicated – maybe even intentionally overwhelmed – by the multitude of assorted savours and aromas.

Naturally, Gagnaire being Gagnaire, nothing stays as it is. Courses will drift between service à la française and à la russe – individual dishes – at the chef’s command although amuses and the plat principal do tend to be multi-plate events whilst desserts are delivered usually singly yet in quick succession.

Such is the nature of the cuisine. Surprise, shock, intrigue…are essential elements of dining here. The chef himself likens cooking to jazz with its inherent improvisation whilst regarding it as also ‘more like an intellectual game’. In his own words, his is a ‘lively approach which takes risks and, as my critics say, occasionally goes overboard. I trust that these people will forgive my over-enthusiasm!’

‘His cuisine is hard to classify because it is guided by inspiration. It's modern, it's baroque, it's self-taught. You get the feeling he's there with his ingredients enjoying himself and if you chose the same dish on two consecutive days, it would be slightly different’, explains Troisgros, trying to articulate the essence of eating here. ‘My style,’ says Gagnaire himself, ‘is joyous, immediate and tries to tell a story. I want to make people dream and bring them somewhere they don’t know’.

These notes seem almost incomplete without some mention about how others regard Gagnaire or at least visits to his establishments. He is undeniably someone who seems to divide opinion: diners love his food or hate it; his meals are incredible or terrible. Considering that he is somewhat of an agitator, someone who seeks a reaction from his guests, the fact that attitudes about him lie around the extremes is hardly startling. From my own appraisal – which comprises two occasions at Sketch, London and this one at rue Balzac wherein, admittedly, I was fortunate enough to have him cook impromptu for me himself – I must confess that I have been very impressed. Effective, colourful and intimate, his is a cuisine that I find especially attractive and deeply personal. However, this being said and really for this very reason, I feel that I would not eat at any of his restaurants were he not in the kitchen that day. His cooking is so ingrained in his personality and mentality that was he not at the stove, I cannot believe that my assessment would be the same as if he were…

Genius is not a label I bandy about very willingly - there is indeed one chef, although increasingly I am recognising it in another, whose talents I sincerely ascribe that term to. However, Gagnaire is an exceptional character. ‘Wizard’, maniac, mastermind, alchemist, the ‘Matisse of cooking’, are just some of the titles bestowed upon him. In all fairness, each is probably as accurate as any of the others…and to my mind, he is as much a chef as he is an intellectual; as much an artist as he is scientist; as mad as he is brilliant.

A strict classical training has given him the tools and techniques whilst a childlike curiosity has equipped him with almost an unrivalled repertoire of ingredients. Led by his artistic impulses and liberal enthusiasm, informed by his friendship with This and directed by a methodical and meticulous manner, Gagnaire expresses himself unreservedly with great precision and poignancy whilst delivering an experience for the senses, full of gourmandise, and always anything but pedestrian.

‘My goal is to infuse my cooking with feeling and intelligence. People need poetry, tenderness and well-made things…and being 'good' means opening up the range of emotions.’

foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk
www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com

food.snob in France

Troisgros, Roanne, 3*

These are my thoughts on my meal at Troisgros last June.
Please click here for full commentary + photography: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/06/29/maison-troisgros-roanne/

Once upon a time, it was the physical geography of a land that dictated the creation of settlements. Supplies of fresh water, flat land for farming, an easily defendable position – these were the factor’s that informed the decisions of early explorers. Examples abound: in England, London(ium) lay upon a busy river-crossing; in Turkey, Byzantium controlled the access to the Black Sea as well as the route between Europe and Asia; in France, Carcassonne sat atop an impregnable hilltop…

But that was thousands of years ago. In the France of today, what with townships long-established and one’s necessary needs mostly met, just as it was nature’s hand that directed the flow and collation of essential communities, it is now the hand of man that selects the most apposite settings for his own leisure. One pertinent illustration of this is the Autoroute du Soleil. This manufactured feature, steering the modern, motorised travelling Frenchman, has neatly regulated the location of some of the country’s greatest restaurants.

For seventy years or so, droves of affluent Parisians would dribble down the Routes Nationales 6 et 7, en masse, seeking the sunny south. To fuel, feed and fatten them, restaurateurs followed, relocating old and opening new establishments along the highways. These establishments became institutions: la Côte d’Or, Lameloise, Georges Blanc, Troisgros, la Pyramide and Pic included.

Each of the above-mentioned restaurants holds or has held three Michelin stars, but one has held them longer than nearly any other, anywhere – and continuously since 1968 – Troisgros.

Jean-Baptiste Troisgros and wife Marie originally ran the small Café des Négociants in Chalon-sur-Saône, deep in Burgundy’s bosom. Together they had two sons, Jean and Pierre, born just two years apart. In 1930, just after the arrival of the youngest, the family moved to Roanne, a sleepy town west of Lyon intersected by the RN7, where they bought a modest restaurant with several rooms attached that stood opposite the train station; they named it the Hôtel-Restaurant des Platanes. Both self-taught, Jean-Baptiste managed the salle and the cellar whilst Marie prepared regional, bourgeois recipes. Although it was the wife cooking, her husband determined the cuisine. Superfluous garnishes, multi-use roux…such things were disregarded in favour of simplicity and ‘sincerity’. It was an instant success; within five years the couple had made their name and renamed themselves the Hôtel Moderne.

Following the war and occupation, the two sons, raised in the restaurant, were able to begin their training. Jean apprenticed in Paris whilst Pierre went to the Hôtel du Golf at Étretat then Saint-Jean-de-Luz. Initial training completed, the brothers reunited under Richard at Lucas Carton (where they became friends with the young Paul Bocuse) then worked under Point at La Pryamide followed by stints at Maxim’s and the Hôtel du Crillon before returning to Roanne. Taking over the kitchen, together they quickly earned their first Michelin star in 1955, sparking another name change. As les Frères Troisgros, Pierre was chef and Jean, master saucier; their father continued as maître d'hôtel and sommelier. By 1965 they had a second star; by 1968 they had their third. The accolades did not stop there though with Christian Millau announcing that at Troisgros, ‘I have discovered the best restaurant in the world,’ four years later. Such recognition attracted many fine young cooks, some of whom went on to make their own names: these included Bernard Loiseau, Marc Haeberlin and Guy Savoy. After consolidating in the seventies, the eighties saw the pair expand their business, purchasing a bordering building and launching five boutiques as well as branded products in Japan. However, in 1983, Jean died; in tribute, the Place de la Gare separating the restaurant and train station was retitled Place Jean Troisgros. During the subsequent year, Pierre’s son Michel joined him in the kitchen.

Ten years earlier, Michel had left the nearby Lycée Technique Hotelier in Grenoble – having at sixteen already met Marie-Pierre, his future wife, there – and started out on a course that would see him move across France and to Brussels, London, New York, San Francisco and Tokyo: ‘from a tiny child, I have always moved to the rhythm of a kitchen. [After Grenoble I trained] alongside Alain Chapel, Roger Vergé, Frédy Girardet, Michel Guérard, Pierre Wynants, Alice Waters, Michel Bourdin at the Connaught [was] the perfect career path and also one with a huge amount of variety.’ Although difficult, Marie-Pierre followed, working at the Hilton in Brussels, Connaught in London, Petrossian in New York and Pré des Sources in Eugénie les Bains. The couple’s next stop was supposed to be Sydney where they were prepared to open their own restaurant, but en route, they returned to Roanne. It was to be a brief, six-month stay, but Jean’s death that summer changed everything. Michel had to remain at la Maison Troisgros.

Father and son cooked together until 1993 when Pierre stepped aside and allowed Michel total control. Although he had ‘inherited taste’ from his father, to the kitchen he brought his own style: ‘my cuisine is minimalist with no flounces, sometimes playful and I always strive for balance in my respect for flavours. These flavours are precise and bright as I use acidity to effect. And I allow myself absolute freedom when it comes to seasoning.’ He also grew the family’s interests with le Central – a bistro-deli opposite the station – in the nineties; le Koumir in Moscow in 2001; la Table du Lancaster in Paris three years on; Cuisine Michel Troisgros in Tokyo in 2006; and most recently, la Colline du Colombier in the Loire countryside not far from Roanne two years after. Meanwhile, he was awarded Chef de l'Année by Gault-Millau in 2003 and with a Légion d'Honneur the year after.

Fringing the Place Jean Troisgros, which revolves around a sculpture of large, metal forks, la Maison Troisgros occupies a prominent spot. The complex is composed of multiple, inter-connected structures whose combined exterior is enveloped with lush shrubs and climbing greens. Within, the restaurant, kitchen and hotel surround a sizeable garden styled with neat trees and shaped potted plants. On one side is the massive yet serene cuisine, adjacent to the dining areas, of which there are three differently decorated ones designed by François Champsaur and seating eighty in all. The principal room, the largest and brightest, is beige and oak trim and opens onto the garden.

Large tables are distantly spread out and spread with a double layer of creamy linen; vibrant green cover plates customised by Bernaudaud and scrawled over with curvy thin scribble adorn them. A large Eric Poitevin painting hangs in the centre of the room. Outside here, above the hotel’s reception, is a small library that houses books on food and travel and boasts portraits by Dauchot and a Pia Fries relief.

During the warmer months, canapés and aperitifs are taken in the garden, where guests are also invited to read the carte. Along with the ALC – which features three classic Troisgros recipes (avant cela, il y a la cuisine de Jean & Pierre) – there is a menu du jour and extended seasonal tasting menu. Thanks to the family’s long, strong relationships with many of the region’s top winemakers, the wine list is as vast as it is impressive with over forty-thousand bottles in the cellar.

Amuse Bouche 1: Chinois de tomates au caramel; semolina avec riz soufflé, citron vert; et crackers chutney ananas, coriandre, tomate. An impeccable alabaster platter was presented carrying a colourful collection of dim sum-esque bites. Encased in herb-beer-and-sesame crust then fried in peanut oil, this ‘Chinese’ cherry tomato with its sweet, crystallised coat was spicy and crunchy on the exterior while moist and refreshing within. A small fried rectangle of creamy, smooth semolina came bound in brittle rice crispies; a wedge of lime sat besides. Lastly, a large cracker puff, topped with pineapple chutney and peeled slice of tomato, was rather hard and a little impractical, quickly breaking into many pieces.

Les Pains: Pain de mie, mais feuilleté, sésame et aux céréales. Four sorts of warm bread were served: decent baguettes of regular and sesame, seedy cereal roll and light, fluffy swells of cornbread. Alongside these sat a demi-sel butter from Charantes-Poitou.

Entrée 1: Maquereau au cassis. The shallow hollow of a wide, white plate was filled and sealed with a mirror-like layer of blackcurrant jelly; two clear-cut morsels of mackerel, glistening due to their still intact silver skins, were set upon this gelée together with a diminutive diamond of blackcurrant-vinegar-imbued onion, itself straddled by a sprig of salicorne and dotted with mustard, whilst another brace of these sat along the rim. The fruity jelly was subtly sweet and sharp whilst the mackerel, very clean. The greens added saltiness and mustard the hint of heat, but all in all, the flavours of this dish were perhaps a little too subdued.

Entrée 2: Gnochettis d’artichaut à la sardine, à peine fumée. A trio of skinny gnocchi, crowned with two tiny slivers of sardine and ribbons of orange rind, rested amidst alternating strips of artichoke heart sprinkled with sweet almond oil; the pasta, actually also made of gently smoked artichoke, were filled with béchamel. The delicate gnocchetti were nearly undifferentiable from ones of normal dough in terms of texture, though their casings were sweeter and nuttier. Inside, the velvety sauce afforded an able mouth-feel whilst the raw vegetable, with which the aromatic nut oil worked nicely, offered crunch.

Entrée 3: Girolles & moules de bouchot à la « peau de lait ». A sizeable plate with sunken middle was set forth. Across its centre, a square sheet of milk skin was stretched out, its corners stuck upon the huge brim; whilst inflated from beneath, it was simultaneously weighed down by some saffron cream. Carving open the elastic crust covering golden-brown girolle mushrooms and Bouchot mussels, more of this sunshine yellow sauce was found. Specially grown on wooden poles that project out from the sea, these moules were juicy and fleshy whilst the springy mushrooms had a peppery-fruitiness that matched the distinct saffron pleasingly. The milky surface, the consistency of which was interesting, was itself rather tasteless.

Entrée 4: Mezzaluna de pomme de terre, parmesan & truffe. A quartet of dainty half-moon shaped ravioli, scattered with pea halves and chopped mousserons, had a velouté onctueux of mushroom butter poured overtop at the table. The al dente pasta, which in a familiar twist, were in fact formed not of egg, but potato, were packed with more of the tuber, parmesan as well as truffle of Tricastin from the famous town of Richerenches (one of the largest black truffle markets in all Europe). When unwrapped, the mezzaluna imparted surprisingly strong earthy odour whilst the truffe’s savour went naturally well with the parmesan and fairy ring mushrooms. The petit pois added sweetness and some texture whilst the silky soup, enriched with jus de volaille, was comfortingly rich.

Plat Principal 1: Cabillaud à l’eau de tomate et à la pastèque. A deep bowl was brought bearing a very neat block of Breton cod encrusted with dried tomato, a wafer-like tongue of watermelon and quartered tomato that had been soaked in Jerez vinegar; tableside, the introduction of eau de tomate created a shallow, amber bath around these. This very flavourful and concentrated bouillon – similar to a fruity-sharp dashi – was warm, salty and quickly became tinged with pastèque essence. The fish, which had been poached for fifteen minutes in olive oil, remained almost raw and agreeably flaky. The tomato was faintly tart whilst the watermelon, full of succulence.

Plat Principal 2: l’Escalope de saumon à l’oseille (la recette originelle comme je l’ai toujours vu). A flat, slim peachy-pink filet of Scottish salmon sat amidst pastel yellow sauce strewn with sorrel; the plate itself was unique, depicting several of the same fish in one corner. This is one of the Troisgros family’s most celebrated creations and has remained on the restaurant’s menu since 1965; it was also one of the most widely imitated dishes of nouvelle cuisine. Based on the Loire recipe, alose à l'oseille – fresh-water shad with sorrel sauce – this was originally said to have been an improvisation by Pierre Troisgros' mother-in-law in an attempt to finish the excess sorrel she had leftover after making sorrel soup. Here, the fried salmon, firm yet still not fully cooked through, was moist and flavoursome. The sorrel sauce of reduced white wine, Noilly Prat, mushrooms, cream, shallots and white pepper in which it swam had lovely creaminess and a distinct acidity that proved a tremendous foil for the fish.

Plat Principal 3: Homard bleu à la poudre du voyage & à l’épine vinette. Oven roasted and smeared with exotic spices, the tail of blue lobster and its claws, their skins coral-coloured and speckled with crimson barberry berries, were placed on Swiss chard stem and blades respectively. The tender lobster with its at once familiar and foreign seasoning – thyme, cinnamon, etc – was tender and toothsome. The épine vinette, a fruit more popular in South American and Persia (and believed to have been used to make the Crown of Thorns), had strong sourness that complemented the shellfish and spices, as did the barely bitter, moist chard.

Plat Principal 4: Beignet de pigeonneau aux amandes fraîches. In the dish’s centre a beignet of squab breast, wrapped in spinach and coated with squid-ink-dyed breadcrumbs and almonds, lay in jus de foie laced with Jerez vinegar; on one side came a row of griotte cherries, almond shards and small broadbeans whilst on the other, a tian of tomato and courgette flanked by the bird’s thigh. Served separately, a mousseline of aubergine was light, creamy and intense, even if eventually somewhat monotonous. The pigeon, its skin crisp and tasty, was an appealing raspberry hue and had beefy relish. The sauce held the elements together with the vegetables tending refreshment and the fruit, nuts and beans, tartness and crunch.

Les Fromages: la tradition des fromages fermiers, frais & affinés. The cheese chariot carried between thirty and forty varieties supplied by two local affineurs including one of France’s most famous, Hervé Mons. From the selection chosen, the milky Brillat Savarin, a cow’s milk from Normandy; fruity, firm tomette de brebis from the Pyrénées; dense, full Charolais, a mixed cow’s and goat’s farm cheese; and thick, creamy Tarentais from the Savoy all stood out. A sweet vanilla and tomato chutney as well as pieces of raisin bread and hazelnut butter sablés accompanied.

Dessert 1: Sabayon à la verveine et au chocolat. In a martini glass, dusted with powdered chocolate, lemon verbena sabayon concealed raspberry compote and crumbs of more choc. The airy yet thick cream had a light, lemony zing that was in harmony with the sweet acidity of the berries. Brittle bits of Valrhona, whose milky savour shared an affinity with both the other ingredients, kept the consistency interesting.

Dessert 2: Mikimoto à la poire et à la coriandre. Named after the famous Japanese jeweller, this dessert was composed of two meringue spheres split in two and reassembled to resemble an oyster shell complete with small quenelle of pear sorbet representing the pearl within. The make-believe bivalves were embedded on another thin jelly base (like the mackerel before). Well-made meringues were crisply coated whilst fluffy inside; William’s pear sorbet was more cold than anything else; and the coriander leaf left behind a nice citrus note. This jelly was rose and a little sugary.

Dessert 3: Nage de cerises, granite Campari & glace basilic. A delicate pool of cherry jus, lined with plump dicings of the same fruit, surrounded a tangy, cool granité of Campari. Atop these rested a silken scoop of excellent basil ice cream that was herbal and faintly minty-sweet. Against this, a fine meringue tile painted with ground basil powder lay askew. The strong anise edge of the alcohol struck a chord with the herb.

Petit Fours: Petit sablé pâte d’amandes; tuile de chocolat avec fruit de la passion; cigarette curry; et neige framboise et pistache. A curvy glass vase bedded with wooden potpourri bore an assortment of petit fours: pistachio and raspberry seasoned meringues; curried wafer; chocolate cracker with passion fruit; and an edible biscuit figure. The meringue bauble was pleasant and had jam hidden within. As thin as paper, the cigarette also had mild, lingering aftertaste whilst the skinny tuile held seedy, sharp crème. The multicoloured man made of marzipan was a very amusing and affectionate addition, although rather unremarkable taste-wise.

A 1998 Puligny-Montrachet Clavoillons, Domaine Leflaive and demi-bouteille of 2000 Chateauneuf du Pape, Clos des Papes, Paul Avril partnered the food.

Service was diligent and adept; the staff were relaxed and I felt fairly at ease as I ate. In many ways, it was a rather faultless performance. Yet, all the way through, I continued to discern a little distance and detachment. It was not a case of anyone being unfriendly or impolite, but there was a lack of interaction or intimacy. Others might label this professional reserve, but even were this accurate, there was still something certainly wanting here – a sense of occasion.

The menu commenced with some initial nibbles that, inspired by the Orient, were not unexpected given the chef’s predilection for the Far East, but were not memorable. The first course of maquereau au cassis, arresting and appetising in appearance, was in fact lamentably muted. This was true even more so of the gnochettis d’artichaut that came next. Things picked up with the girolles & moules and the mezzaluna, but never actually took off. Of the dishes that followed, it was the classic escalope de saumon – a supplement onto the carte – that was maybe most flavoursome. The choice and standard of cheeses were excellent, but desserts seemed merely an afterthought. When Michel was asked to describe his perfect meal, he confessed that he would ‘gladly pass on dessert’, so it ought not be a surprise desserts did not compare well to savouries here.

It was, in truth, a lacklustre lunch.

Enchanted by the legendary Troisgros name, as well as the exciting prospect of the chef’s own cuisine acidulée, the hope for a meal very memorable was high. However, although there was clearly considerable potential here, titanic expectations proved titanic-like indeed; the common, continual complaint throughout being a lack of pronounced savours and of general deliciousness.

The chef’s style was one characterised by a distinctive and creative application of classical French technique within recognisably Italian and Japanese outlines. The former influence was one that has been felt by Michel Troisgros since birth. His maternal grandmother, Anna – or as he would refer to her, la Mémé Forte – was responsible for feeding the family; thanks to her, a life-long love of tomato sauce, lemon and simplicity in cooking were established. The chef’s tastes were reinforced and broadened by a career that took him all across the world. Following on from the tradition of such kitchens as those of Chapel and Giradet, working for Guérard in New York showed him real diversity for the first time before Alice Waters presented his beloved Italian fare in a brand-new light. Living in California also re-introduced him to Asia. His father, Pierre, had spent several months as the opening chef at Maxim’s in Tokyo when Michel was still young; returning with exotic gifts and, more relevantly, exotic ingredients, his son was instantly inspired by the land of Japan. The chef has made an average of two trips there each year, for the last twenty. He is even experimenting growing wasabi near Roanne with Japanese and local farmers whilst he has also convinced a citrus seed manufacturer in the Pyrenees to grow yuzu for him.

This was all patent on the plate. The amuses, the mackerel entrée, the cabillaud and Mikimoto dessert all obviously betrayed some of this Asian motivation. Meanwhile, the gnochettis, girolles & moules and mezzaluna were evidence of the Italian influence in his cooking. However, though all these might be classified easily into such brackets, each also bore originality. This was in the form of flavour combinations – cod and watermelon; pear and coriander – and of compositions and invention with Italian recipes all reconstructed in some way – the open, milk-skin ravioli; the substitution of wheat for various, uncommon ingredients in the pasta. Additionally, on the whole, there was an acute appreciation for aesthetic; colourful, clean and attractive, some of the courses were really rather striking in their construction. It was with such technical, crafty and artistic qualities that the cuisine excelled today.

Where the meal failed to deliver was on the most important factor – taste. Subtlety can be impressive, but here savours were just too mild. In many instances, it was a case of the dish looking better than it tasted (therefore almost doubling one’s ultimate disappointment). An example would be that maquereau au cassis. Minimalist and elegant, with its elements poignantly poised upon a glass-like layer of gelée, this appeared special. Unfortunately, all the flavours were simply not marked enough for my liking or to leave a lasting impression. The same criticism can be levelled at the subsequently-served small artichoke gnocchi. Gracefully arranged around the plate, even smaller slices of sardine and snippets of orange rind delicately balanced upon each of them, this showed sophistication, but offered little else. Nevertheless, there were several exceptions to this pattern; the Tricastin truffles, l’eau de tomate and l’escalope de saumon à l’oseille, all come to mind immediately.

The escalope de saumon à l’oseille warrants singular mention. A vintage Troisgros recipe from the sixties, when the cooking borrowed much from rustic kitchen and the food had ‘earthy simplicity’, this dish sat in shocking juxtaposition to everything before and after it. How ironic it was that this symbol of nouvelle cuisine, this signature of the house of Troisgros commemorated by the railway station opposite the restaurant that was once repainted salmon and green in its tribute (although it has recently been refurbished), was now but an arresting anachronism in the context of this meal. Yet, on the other hand, as if just to complicate the matter a little more, even though far less prim and essential in its presentation and a little less polished, this actually bore the strongest flavours. Whereas the rest of this menu was typified by gentle, mild savours whose revelation and pleasure required more of my effort and determination, here the richness of the salmon, the cutting acidity of the sorrel, abounded unabashedly in every bite. This last detail leads me to my last major point.

Acidity. ‘…[it] is a recurring theme in my cooking. It's almost everywhere and often helps structure a dish, creating a backbone – the elements in the plate all relate to it and it makes sense of the whole. If bitterness represents a serious side in the palate of taste, acidity often provides a note of irony.’ It is fair to say that the chef has built a reputation on his penchant for aigre-doux and acidité (something else he owes to la Mémé Forte and her use of lemons and citrus). Thus I thought it rather curious that the course in which the most sharpness appeared was one not conceived by Michel himself, but by his grandfather. Taken alone, this was surely not an issue, but because it was almost totally missing from the rest of the meal, this was a concern.

What with each plate neither ever really fulfilling the potential of the restaurant or the promise it itself professed to possess upon its very arrival, nearly every dish was tainted with some degree of disappointment: therefore, it was only inevitable that the entire experience would fall fairly short of success. Furthermore, any frustrations were not ones attributable to the incidence of errors or to any single thing explicitly disagreeable, but to a common mundaneness. The food was forgettable and the acclaimed, the sought-after acidulée absent from the cuisine.

This flatness in the cooking seemed echoed by the earlier-described dullness in service; just as the dishes lacked life, the staff did too. That sensation that one is eating somewhere truly special – that ought to be a central aspect of dining at this level – was definitely not there.

If truth be told, I felt as if I could have been having this meal at any table in any town almost anywhere…and that is certainly not what I considered ‘worth the trip for’.

foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk
www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com

food.snob in France

Le Chateaubriand, Paris

@John Thanks for the link. That's an interesting statement. I have not tried Pacquin (yet), but have had a completely lacklustre meal at ZKG. Barbot would easily be my favourite of the four (and one of my very favourites anywhere really).

@erly lol indeed

@PhilD I too am a fan of Frenchie

food.snob in France

Le Chateaubriand, Paris

Hi,
these are my thoughts on my meal here last June.
Please click for full commentary + photography: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/06/25/le-chateaubriand-paris/

Iñaki Aizpitarte could be the coolest chef in Paris. Tall and swarthy, wearing three-day-old stubble and pastel yellow socks, he can often be seen behind the bar of Le Chateaubriand entertaining his regular chic clientele that includes actors, artists, media-types and, of course, foodies.

Recently, the chef has received serious praise and been invited to show off his cooking in such cities as Madrid, Copenhagen, Melbourne and nearly New York (he was unable to participate at Omnivore NYC as he had forgotten to renew his passport), but in actuality, he became a chef really by accident and relatively late in life.

The youngest of five children, Aizpitarte was born in Besançon then brought up when a teenager in Hendaye – basically the closest French town to the Basque homeland from which his parents fled to escape General Franco’s regime. After finishing school, he set out on his own only eighteen and penniless. A string of sundry jobs followed: he was a stonemason with Compagnons du Devoir in Angers (‘they were too strict, it lasted two months’); a landscape painter alongside his uncle in Dax (‘I enjoyed the mornings in the gardens’); before arriving in Bordeaux to study oenology (he attended five lectures in five years). In 1999, with only five-hundred Francs to his name, the twenty-six-year-old Iñaki decided to visit Israel. There, he ended up washing dishes at the Rozata restaurant, where he ‘helped when they were in the juice’ – no surprise then that Midnight Cowboy is his favourite film. Impressing the Serbian chef, the Frenchman was soon put behind the stove – ‘he taught me the basics,’ he says, ‘I knew instantly that’s what I wanted to do. That was it.’ A subsequent spell touring Latin America preceded his return to France and arrival in Paris.

Cooking school was not an option financially so he taught himself whilst working his way through the city’s kitchens. He began at Café des Délices under Gilles Choukroun, who would later become influential as head of one of the new waves rippling through French gastronomy. In 2003, Aizpitarte moved to la Famille in Montmartre where he first caused controversy and won acclaim for his creative cooking. Two years on and he was at Transversal, Laurent Chareau’s restaurant within the Mac/Val modern arts museum in Vitry-sur-Seine, just outside of Paris. Dishes here were inspired by the exhibits – the chef once served a course comprising just a single, peeled apple pip. Another two years later and he was ready for his own venture. Thus, together with Frédéric Peneau, the former owner of Café Burq whom he first met whilst at la Famille (the pair were practically neighbours), he bought a historic bistro near Belleville in April 2006. it was an instant hit with its immediate success underscored domestically by being declared Le Fooding’s Best Restaurant (2006) and worldwide by the San Pellegrino Breakthrough Prize (2008).

The old bistro, once a grocer, was a serendipitous discovery. Located on a large, sycamore-saddled avenue close to Goncourt, the restaurant’s wide-open façade sitting within its small burgundy frame barely sticks out from the street’s shops. Having kept the same name, Aizpitarte and Peneau also kept the same time-worn, masculine interior. A vintage zinc bar rests upon dark rosewood on one side of the space with espresso machine, heavy-duty slicer, shelved drinks bottles and chalk-scribbled blackboards behind. Hard chairs and naked tables, snugly set as if in a canteen and fashioned from the same deep, roseate timber, clutter the colour-speckled grey mesh-mosaic floor. Creamy, almost empty walls are skirted by a metre-or-so of burgundy. A third, much larger blackboard bearing the names of the chef’s friends hangs in the room’s centre whilst a wall-to-wall mirror lines the backend of the restaurant near the somewhat exposed kitchen. Lighting is from two chandeliers, three glass globes and a perforated skylight on the high ceiling, but the space still remains rather dim. A service station on which loafs of bread are freshly cut stands near the bar. Tables carry cutlery and simple glassware.

A photocopied piece of paper dictates the day’s menu…

Amuse Bouche 1: macquereau, shiso, pastèque. A neat slab of watermelon, overlaid with a sliver of olive-oil-marinated mackerel, sat in smoked Japanese rice vinegar along with two more morsels of the macquereau; shiso and crushed raspberries, whose bright red juice dribbled into the dull yellow vinegar, were sprinkled sparingly over all. The fruit and mellow vinegar’s light acidity cut the richness of the tasty fish whilst the latter also added some welcome woodiness. The watery, sweet melon balanced the shiso that was at first bitter then peppery and slightly astringent.

Le Pain: pain de levain. Bread was bought in from arguably Paris’ best baker – Poujauran. The sourdough, freshly sliced by the serveurs as needed, was fluffy with tangy, yeasty crust. Butter was not served.

Entrée 1: veau de lait, langoustine, truffe d’été. A heaped pile of cherry pink milk-fed veal chunks, crowned with skinny cross-sections of radish, was semi-submerged in an opaque langoustine jus littered with large shards of summer truffle and blades of red basil; deep green pistou glacé came smeared across the top of the tartare as well as afloat. Supplied by the city’s finest boucher, Hugo Desnoyer, the delicate and tender meat’s quality was immediately clear. However, it was also completely overwhelmed by the strong shellfish jus, itself almost spicy, whilst the truffle proved little more than decoration. The herby pistou provided a slight relief, but not enough.

Plat Principal 1: lotte, jardinière de légumes. Pan-fried slice of monkfish tail, coated with vadouvan, was accompanied by a collection of vibrantly-coloured vegetables drizzled with a dab of olive oil and garnished with toasted fennel fronds. The familiar yet exotic scent of curry came through slowly, but convincingly from the blend of onions and Indian spices that stained the ivory skin of the nicely-seasoned, succulent fish, which, barely cooked, retained its juicy firmness. The fresh greens, simply served whole, halved or quartered, unpeeled and tops intact, arrived in various degrees of rare – from well-charred spring onion to untouched petit pois.

Plat Principal 2: carré d’agneau de Lozère, artichaut, chèvre, olive. Double-cut Lozère lamb rib chop was plated with bisected baby artichokes and a streak of fromage de chèvre Ardéchois that was peppered with olive crumble. Another Desnoyer delivery, the lamb was delicious – the carnation rose meat almost raw with just the fatty outer coat cooked and crisped amber. The classic combination of artichoke, creamy goat’s cheese and black olive at once suggested Provence, although the crumble was actually rather dry and lacking taste.

Dessert 1: fraises, chantilly. A bowl bore deconstructed pavlova aux fruits rouges or even Eton mess. Sweet, plump strawberries were the base upon which brittle, sugary meringue was set, before both were immersed in a cloud of velvety smooth verbena Chantilly cream. Beneath the alabaster blanket were buried chips of sucre pétillant whose surprising effervescence corresponded pleasingly with the herbal verbena.

The staff here, all men and almost all long-haired and bearded, are often labelled as eye-candy – but this description detracts from the fact that they are actually good at what they do. Efficient and helpful, they were also relaxed and friendly; even as the evening wore on and the restaurant filled, they remained patient and eager. Indeed these very fittingly macho, but affable Basque-esque characters only contributed to the charm of the place. In addition, there was an undeniable, sensible buzz about the room from the intimate bobo crowd that pervaded the space and nearly spilled out onto the street through the bistro’s open front.

My thoughts on the menu itself were mixed. Watermelon and mackerel, being an unusual yet intriguing combination, made the amuse bouche exciting to receive but, although decent enough at the time, eventually forgettable. The entrée of veau and langoustine, an interesting take on terre et mer, was effectively bland and all the worse given the excellence of the meat. Dinner only really began with the lotte, jardinière de legumes. This straightforward dish was light, tasty and quite right for summer. The next course was the best of the evening. The mouth-watering carré d’agneau was superb, even if the artichokes were admittedly unmemorable and olive, unsuccessful. The dessert was a refreshing, fun finish.

Simplicity and deconstruction appear to dominate Aizpitarte’s style. The chef has a reputation for taking recipes apart and reforming them, nominally – and this was seen thrice today. First, the veal and langoustine was a luxurious reinvention of the common bistro combo of steak and prawn – surf and turf – that can be found on most menus. Secondly, the plat principal was a traditional concoction straight from the Côte d'Azur that was dismantled into its rudimentary elements then plated as primarily as possible. Lastly, as mentioned, a reworking of classic meringues with red fruit was a light, bright note upon which to end.

Creativity is key to this chef. He is eager to ‘amuse’ and excite the diner ‘with very distinct flavours colliding and eventually marrying’. To achieve this, he is not afraid to stray from the hip locavore label and to include ingredients from around the world, thus underlining his role as a leader amongst the Génération C collective which, started by his former mentor Choukroun, aims to offer an affordable cuisine of modernised classical techniques and foreign flavours. His cooking is not fusion though, but informed by his many travels throughout South America, the Middle East, Asia as well as Southern Europe.

This modern, cosmopolitan theme is in stark contrast to the very restaurant wherein it resides: contemporary cooking in a classic bistro; colourful food within sombre walls; cold ingredients served in a warm setting. The only pattern that pervades both plate and space is an explicit lack of clutter and fuss.

This minimalism was not limited to presentation, but extended to the treatment of ingredients. Cooking was considered an extravagance; heat, an indulgence. Tonight, everything – meat, fish, vegetables – was either raw or barely-heated through. Furthermore, this lack of material modification also meant that products remained, as much as possible, in their original states – for instance, the legumes were often whole or just sliced once, at most twice, and also served with their skins. Saucing too was sparse with nothing thicker than a light (but concentrated) jus employed.

But none of these are criticisms, necessarily.

Aizpitarte reasons for this approach can only be intimated at. He is clearly after clarity in his cuisine: ‘I just hope people can understand what I am trying to accomplish each time and that by having fewer and fewer flavours, the essential becomes more distinct.’ This, coupled with the state of the restaurant’s small kitchen which has changed very little since the chef first took it over, might go some way towards explaining his attempts to deliver ‘something pretty quick’, whilst the lack of cooking may meanwhile be just the consequence of his constant ‘challenge [to him]self to simplify and simplify.’

On the one hand, there could be two negatives construed from this. First, regarding effect, there is the almost inevitable corollary to such methods as these – a new menu each day that depends on the least number of flavours, bound by almost nothing but themselves, merging for maximum effect will sometimes ‘miss’. Sometimes, this relentless deduction of elements will be to the detriment of the dish. Secondly, regarding cause, it might be argued that perhaps the chef is not exerting himself to his fullest and thus not revealing his true potential with each plate. Although I am almost embarrassed to admit it, this thought did niggle at me afterwards.

On the other hand, this haute cuisine at reasonable prices – Aizpitarte’s ‘cuisine de vagabond’ – is a worthy pursuit: ‘I don’t want to only have rich patrons. I want a place where my friends can come from time to time; a place they can afford. So it’s really important for me to have both affordability and creativity’. The aforementioned concessions may be the costs of such an egalitarian ambition.

Whilst in admitting mood, I must also confess that expectations possibly played some part in my muddled enjoyment of this meal. Given the chef’s inclusion in Gelinaz! (a clique of cooks) along with the likes of Fulvio Pierangelini and Davide Scabin, and later, together with the latter, his contribution at Cook it Raw!, working side-by-side with Redzepi, Barbot and Adrià, among others, I basically wanted le Chateaubriand to surprise and impress me.

In reality, it was only pleasing – and maybe this is why my emotions are conflicted between the fact that dinner at Le Chateaubriand is arguably the finest meal one can have in Paris for under fifty Euros and my certainty that a talented chef offering one menu should be offering a great menu – which evidently was not always the case this night.

Nonetheless, there were positives; there was potential; and there is always the attraction inherent in the gamble that an ever-changing carte entails.

The necessary question that remains then is whether I would want to risk another roll of the dice...

Strangely enough, yes. Definitely.

www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com
foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk

food.snob in France

In de Wulf, Belgium: ‘Identity Crisis – Service à Six Mains'

Thank you, Nancy.
I hope you have a great couple of meals. Do let us know how it goes!
Bon voyage et appetit!

food.snob in Europe

In de Wulf, Belgium: ‘Identity Crisis – Service à Six Mains'

This are my thoughts on the gastronomic event - ‘Identity Crisis – Service à Six Mains' - held at In de Wulf in Belgium on 22 September.
Three local chefs - Kobe Desramaults (of In de Wulf), Alexandre Gauthier (la Grenouillère) and Filip Claeys (De Jonkman) - prepared a single meal.

For full commentary and photography please click here: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/09/22/in-de-wulf-dranouter

Half-an-hour across London. An hour-thirty on the Eurostar. Taxi from straight outside Gare de Lille Europe.

‘Dranouter, S'il vous plaît.’ ‘Où?’ il m’a demandé. ‘Dra-nou-ter, en Belgique à Heuvelland, quarante kilomètres d’ici,’ je lui ai dit. ’OK, je pense que je connais la direction. Pas de problème…’

One hour and ninety Euros later, having asked four times for directions, one might at last find themselves at a quaint renovated farm amidst the rolling Flemish fields of bucolic Flanders.

Here is In de Wulf.

Meaning ‘inside the wulf’ (a wulf being a farm protected upon three sides by greenery), this was the setting that three neighbouring chefs chose as a stage on which to make a public statement; a platform to prove and promote the potential of their native cuisine to an assembled, invited collection of chefs, journalists and would-like-to-bes bloggeurs. The evening’s event, ‘Identity Crisis – Service à Six Mains’, was organised by resident, Kobe Desramaults, along with accomplices Alexandre Gauthier (la Grenouillère) and Filip Claeys (De Jonkman) respectively, to champion Flanders and celebrate its uniquely special terroir.

This restaurant, actually once the chef’s childhood home, was originally a cottage that his parents had converted into a pub then modest brasserie and inn. As a teenager though, the youthful Kobe had no ambition to enter the family business with the arts, particularly drawing and painting, dominating his interests instead. His mother had her plans (and her way) however and upon his seventeenth birthday arranged an apprenticeship for her son in the kitchens of the Picasso in nearby Westouter. After two years here mastering the basics, he made the step up to three-star Oud Sluis on the Belgian-Dutch border. The initial months living in the Netherlands were the hardest of his young life, but under Dutchman Sergio Herman, he persevered and ‘[his] eyes were open for good’ with a fondness found for innovative technique and creative cuisine. Two more years later, the chef wanted to move on and, leveraging Herman’s Spanish connections, went to Commerç 24 in Barcelona. There he worked ten months, learning about molecular gastronomy from Charles Abbelan, an el Bulli graduate. He wanted to stay longer, but was needed back in Dranouter and so, in 2003, returned to take over his mother’s restaurant. At first, still finding his feet, Kobe kept the established classic menu whilst offering a more experimental second. It was hard work, but in 2004 a favourable review from an influential journalist put In de Wulf on the map. Soon the dining room was full and the chef able to expand, renovating the kitchen, dropping the older carte and refurbishing the building. In 2005, Kobe was made the youngest Michelin starred chef in Belgium.

The second Belgian cooking at In de Wulf was Filip Claeys. He had been inspired by his father who worked at La Souricière (1*) in Adinkerke: ‘I knew that I wanted to be a chef when I was a very little boy…When I think back to my childhood, I really grew up between the pots and pans. At the age of four, I recognised the difference between a perfect Camembert and Brie. When I was eight, I could even beat a béarnaise. The passion for cooking was always there.’ This passion led him to hotelier school at first Ter Duinen Koksijde then Ter Groene Poorte before his first position at Le Fox (1*) with Stefaan Buyens. Twelve months here and he was off to de Karmeliet (3*), where he spent six years under Geert Van Hecke, eventually becoming his sous chef. He then moved, like Kobe had done, to Oud Sluis as Herman’s number two and remained there for the next five years – and this was where he met his wife, Sandra, who worked in the dining room. In 2006, the pair, feeling themselves ready to run their own restaurant, took over the locally-renown De Jonkman in Sint-Kruis on the outskirts of Bruges. The chef, whilst winning his own star, has since spent time in kitchens in Tokyo and San Sebastian to further improve his cooking.

The third chef was a Frenchman. As fate would have it, Roland Gauthier had acquired both a restaurant - l’Auberge de la Grenouillère in la Madelaine sous Montreuil – and a son within only ten days of each other. It was almost inevitable then that Alexandre, just like Filip, followed his father’s footsteps into the kitchen. His career started with an apprenticeship at neighbouring Le Toquet’s Hôtel Westminster with William Elliot prior to spells at Clos des Cimes under Régis Marcon, Olivier Brulard’s Résidence de la Pinède and with Grégory Coutanceau at les Flots, all by the age of nineteen. A stint in Paris working for Michel Roth at Lasserre came next as did various stages across the world in Beijing, London, St. Moritz and Palermo. Meanwhile however, in 2001 his father’s restaurant had lost the Michelin star it had held since 1936, accelerating Alexandre’s return. Cooking his self-defined cuisine délurée, this avid adventure-sportsman (scuba-diving, climbing Mount Kilimanjaro) rapidly attracted attention. In 2005, Alain Ducasse invited him to Plaza Athénée to cook; fierce François Simon singled him out amongst Génération C chefs (a movement embracing world flavours); even Ramsay praised his handling of frogs; and most recently, he was part of a select clique of Frenchman in New York at the Omnivore Food Festival and running one of David Chang’s ‘four f****** dinners’. He won back the missing star in 2008.

Throughout the day of the event, as the three chefs prepped their plates in the large, modern In de Wulf kitchen, diners drifted in from North, South, East and West. As they arrived, out on the terrace, in the lounge as well as within the cuisine itself, they mingled with each other and with their hosts. It was an open, familiar atmosphere where interaction felt easy and natural yet the air was charged with a certain sense of occasion that was embraced by all.

At a little past eight o’clock, everyone entered the spacious dining area. Here the refined rustic aesthetic was accentuated by unvarnished woods, exposed brickwork and bare tiled floor. Tables, dressed in thin and loosely-fitted linen, were considerable in size and set wide apart. A fireplace, replete with two stacks of fresh-chopped lumber, lay on one side whilst latticed windows formed the wall opposite. It was a bright room with homespun charm and a pastoral austerity that was honest, refreshing and comfortable. It was the romantic ideal of a rural farmhouse.

A short speech from Kobe and the meal commenced…

Amuse Bouche 1: Bulots – Kobe Desramaults. Local whelks and their mayonnaise, made with white vinegar and peppered with cèpe powder, arrived in individual, pitted pebbles shaped by the sea that invoked the sea snails’ natural habitat. The poached whelks were sea-fresh and tender, but with bite whilst the mayo, formed from a reduced bouillon of the bulots, was dense, creamy and nicely flavoured.

Amuse Bouche 2: Porc Soufflé – Kobe Desramaults. Fried pork rind, fashioned almost as a shell, was laden with cubes of meat layered with chervil in honey-vinegar dressing.

Le Pain: Pain de levain – Kobe Desramaults. Rustic bread suited the rustic surroundings and came from the baker Bril in nearby Bailleul. As accompaniments, butter from a neighbouring dairy farm and traditional smout – salted pork dripping with spices – were supplied.

Amuse Bouche 3: Tasse d’eau de mer – Alexandre Gauthier. A small glass held slivers of rouge-tinged raw sea bass, oyster, steamed spinach leaf, olive oil and sprigs of chervil and basil. Into this, a dram was dispensed from a bottle plugged with a shot-measure pourer and containing mineral water infused with wakame, nori, lemon and sel gris de Guérande. The bottle, with its cloudy contents, looked as if it had been filled straight from the ocean – and it tasted like a shot of the sea. The aquatic aroma struck first, giving way to the briny savour and distinct textures of fish and oyster, each enlivened by salty spinach and lightly acidic lemon. A final bite of basil and chervil left a refreshing linger on the palate.

Amuse Bouche 4: Joue de raie – Filip Claeys. Skate cheek, cooked at low temperature in beurre noisette, and a single hazelnut, its skin carefully etched in circumscribing circles, were coupled with a cream of exotic spices, purée of the same nut and a blade of basil. The warm morsel melted on the tongue, its brown butter finish in inherent harmony with the crunchy nut and its appetising mousse. The sweet-pungent mayo of cinnamon, cardamom et cie was another delightful addition.

Entrée 1: Bar de mer du Nord, herbes sauvages, légumes saumurées – Kobe Desramaults. Raw North Sea bass, creamy pink in colour and interspersed with pickled vegetable’s picked from Kobe’s own garden, came sitting in light herb emulsion and scattered over with herbs that had been plucked from the local woods. The acidity of the subtly vinegary vegetables – cucumber, cauliflower, onions and baby mange tout – provided a fine foil to the chunky, quality fish, as did the wood sorrel.

Entrée 2: Grand vive, fenouil, blette, arroche des jardins – Filip Claeys. A fillet of grand weever, marinated in fennel oil for a day before sealed sous vide with it for four minutes and seared shortly in the pan, lay atop dark green Swiss chard leaves and under its vibrant stalks, themselves covered with deep cardovan red orach; fennel mousse and fennel purée completed the plate. The weever, a rockfish that buries itself in the sand hiding the poisonous spikes that skirt its body, is a local species that Filip explained to each table his father, a fisherman, once caught but was often thrown away by others who thought it useless. It had a delicately rich savour, surely from its diet or crustaceans and shrimps, and surprised with its succulence. The fennel’s anise was a classic match for its sweetness whilst the more bitter chard and salty orach offered balance.

Entrée 3: Cornichons, tarama – Alexandre Gauthier. Gherkin, halved and only just char-grilled on its inside, was set on one corner of the dish as if washed up on a bright green tide of tarragon-tarama that had yet to fully recede. Like a surfboard, the pickle carried Ventrèche and the leaves of the fresh herb; a little olive oil marked the tracks of the ebbing wave whilst ground white pepper played the spray. Gauthier seemed clearly intent on making a mark with his minimalist, provocative plating. By sitting the elements off-centre and allowing the paste of herby-cod roe to run off over the rim, the chef had done two things shockingly simple yet both very radical. This was not a conceited challenging of convention though; the creamy, sweeter roe was an excellent complement to the crunchy and faintly tart gherkin that remained nearly raw. Peppery-anise tarragon also added aroma whilst the white pepper, some sharp, but blunted heat.

The room almost immediately filled with unexpected pine-like, flowery perfume.

Plat Principal 1: Homard, genièvre – Alexandre Gauthier. Suddenly, a small bush of juniper was presented – some of the branches were singed and still visibly fuming. A barely perceptible pink coil lay secreted within the shrubbery. Separating the stems revealed a whole lobster nestled like a foetus. Poached for forty-five seconds it had been smeared with juniper butter that had already melted; although admittedly lacking much sweetness, the cuisson was incredible. Eaten with one’s fingers, the lobster had only really been warmed and retained tremendous moisture and suppleness. The bittersweet juniper was a lovely counterpoint whilst some of the charred berries, still attached to the boughs, tendered hearty bursts of flavour.

Plat Principal 2: Pigeon de Steenvoorde maturé et cuit au foin, légumes ’Zwartemolen’, jus au foin – Kobe Desramaults. Shown off prior to being served, these Steenvoorde pigeons, supplied by Alex Dequidt from the most northerly department of France, had spent two weeks stuffed with and buried in burnt hay, before oven-roasted en cocotte with more of the grass.
A single rosy pink breast from each plump, mahogany pigeon rested alongside a single, skinny, golden parsnip that was placed atop turnip purée sprinkled with roasted onion powder; juniper seeds, broad beans, their white blossoms and shiny yellow turnip flowers straddled the root whilst hay jus sat in the middle of the dish. The tender bird had a nice gaminess that was tempered with some subtle sweetness from the hay, which also emitted an aromatic fragrance. Juniper cut through the richness of the meat and the Zwartemolen vegetables, from due east of the restaurant and prepared al dente, retained their earthy, nutty savours. The onion dust brought complexity and an interesting hint of barbecue with it.

Plat Principal 3: Canard sauvage ’Damme’, girolles, jeunes oignons, jus de sureau – Filip Claeys. An almost cylindrical, carmine-coloured fillet of wild duck from Damme, near Sluis, having spent two hours marinating, had been cooked sous vide very quickly. A tuile cradle carried a quenelle of confit thigh pâté mixed with rillette of the duck’s liver while raw girolles, aubergine purée as well as one onion microwaved, one pickled and their purée littered the elderflower-infused jus cuisson that had been poured tableside. Once more, the meat was excellent – juicy and flavoursome, both it and the more intense pâté-rillette were countered well by the sweetness of the floral, slightly citrus elderberry sauce. Onions were nicely savoury and proffered crunch; the mushrooms, a touch of fruity pepper; and aubergine, some velvety smokiness.

Plat Principal 3: Boeuf ‘Flandres Occidentale’ – Kobe Desramaults. West Flemish red is a rare pure-race breed of cattle whose origins in this vicinity can be traced back to the sixteenth century. Less than fifty or so of these cows remain thus only three or four are culled a year. Today Kobe, spontaneously and very generously, allowed guests an ample taste of it. The steaks were treated as minimally as possible; just quickly seared, sliced and set in the centre of tables for diners to take with their hands. Although only aged for two weeks, this well-marbled meat was very tender with clean yet full, meaty savour.

Dessert 1: Chocolat blanc, framboise, menthe chartreuse – Filip Claeys. A glass bowl was set down; in it stood nothing but a white chocolate boule. Slowly, warm rooibos tea, brewed with chartreuse mint, wakame, lemon and cacao, was sprinkled over the sphere causing it to immediately collapse, consequently exposing a hidden chest of yoghurt inlaid with raspberry, vanilla sablé, cacao nib, red basil and sancho pepper. There was a wealth of taste and texture within – crunch, fruitiness, aromatic spice, umami, crispiness, sweet-nuttiness, smoothness and more. All the elements however married very agreeably to produce something unusual, verging on the exotic and quite satisfying.

Dessert 2: Craquelin de porc et bière brune ‘Pannepot’ – Kobe Desramaults. This was the combination of two local staples – beer and pork. Here they were manifest as cracking overlaid with dark beer ice cream.

Dessert 3: Poignée de sable – Alexandre Gauthier. Vivid pastel emerald mousse that resembled the excess plaster left behind by the wipe of a dirty spatula resided to one side; the smear’s perimeter closest to the plate’s middle was scattered with golden sand. A spoonful of each suggested the familiar, but in combination, created something new and difficult to determine whilst the juxtaposing grittiness and creaminess of the two components proved pleasing. Soon enough, it was revealed that the green was parsley and the yellow, banana.

Dessert 3: Oseille sauvage, citronelle – Kobe Desramaults. Lemon balm ice cream, nearly smothered with a cluster of mint granité, was garnished with wood sorrel, which also reappeared as a shot alongside. This was a refreshing, acidic dessert that left one’s palate clean and ended the menu on an uplifting note.

Petit Fours: Gâteau de miel avec citron – Alexandre Gauthier. As a delightful departure before the mignardises, Alex then served his signature post-meal treat. Following the final course, la Grenouillère’s maître d’hôtel, Pascal, proceeded to each table, carving small fingerfuls of local flower honeycomb to which he had applied a soothing squeeze of lemon.

Mignardises: Truffes au chocolat et frais des bois – tous. As guests began to mix, the chefs filled tables with their individual afters. These included ripe and green wild strawberries; chocolate covered rice; and custom-made truffles from Dominique Persoone’s Chocolate Line.

The wines on the night were…
Crémant d’Alsace Marcel Deiss; Entre Deux Monts Westouter, Chardonnay-Pinot Gris, 2008; Movia, Rebula Slovenie, 2006; Savennières, Clos de Coulaine, Claude Papin, 2007; Brett Brothers, Pouilly-Vinzelles ‘Les Quarts’, 2003; Moric, Blaufrankisch, Autriche, 2007; Tandem, Alain Graillot, Marocco, Syrah, 2007; Struise brouwers, Pannepot; Maculan, Dindarello, Italie, 2006; and Champagne Gobillard & Fils, Blanc de Blancs.

The staff was composed of a collection from all three restaurants and also included the wives of two of the chefs, themselves maîtresses d'hôtel at In de Wulf and De Jonkman. Although this was the first chance that the team had had to work together, everything went very smoothly. Furthermore, such family-orientated service added a sense of comfort and intimacy to the scene – there is always something classically charming about a gentleman cooking and his wife serving. Thus, it was genuinely quite warming to hear, ‘let me just ask my husband about that’, when seeking certain dish details.

Kobe, Filip and Alex also all took the opportunity to introduce their own courses, circling the groups of seated guests to explain each dish and tell each recipe’s story. This only contributed to the conviviality and esprit of the occasion, binding every plate mentally to its maker and building a bond between diner and chef.

The aim of the evening was not necessarily to give those eating sufficient evidence with which to evaluate fully the three cuisines. It was rather to whet the appetites of those assembled and give them just an indulgent sample of what each could do and what was actually on offer in this oft-overlooked corner of Continental Europe.

That being said, there were some marked themes commonly expressed throughout the courses of all three cooks.

Kobe’s dishes seemed relevant to the new naturals. He revealed a delicate, subtle sensibility that focused on very local, very good ingredients prepared according to traditional recipes, but with the application of modern methods. Here both his Flemish roots and Spanish inspiration became clear. There was a proclivity for acidity and minimalism also evident as well as a penchant for gentle, accordant colours.

Filip was arguably the least familiar of the chefs and therefore somewhat of an unknown quantity. His courses impressed with their precision and calculated combinations of flavours that betrayed his collaboration with Belgian food scientist Bernard Lahousse. He showed an inclination for less noble ingredients and his plates certainly felt distinctly ‘Flemish’. There were some clues of the influence that working at Oud Sluis for so long has had on his cooking, but the chef had clearly found a style of his own and separate to that of his old mentor.

Whilst Filip was understated, Alex was confident. He appeared intent on one thing – getting everyone’s attention. His creations were certainly the most distracting and suggested serious potential. Recipes may have seemed superficially simple, but they were direct, focusing on few elements combined well and thoughtfully with an artistic presentation almost confrontational to established custom. However, this rebel also had a cheeky, playful side with a fondness for shades of green (evocative of the frog, the emblem of his restaurant), which dominated his dishes.

All three chefs delivered. All had an individual voice and all brought something different to the table. Literally. Yet, in spite of their diverging styles, this meal followed a smooth segue and the trio of menus felt a consummately integrated one. After dinner, diners were eager – and many, already conspiring – to visit the three chefs’ one by one.

This was a memorable affair. Many of those present already knew or knew of each other and throughout dinner and following it, discussion was lively with people clearly enjoying the experience. But the cooking really was the centre of attention. Dishes were digested in silence before opinions were exchanged and thoughts expressed. By the evening’s end, with eaters satisfied and enticed to return and with the attraction of Flanders fresh in their minds, guests were thanked and chefs applauded. Most lingered on late into the night, a hardcore few even into the early hours…

And as clichéd as this may be…it really was a case of three chefs, each with un macaron Michelin, delivering a three star meal.

www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com
foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk

food.snob in Europe

Noma, Copenhagen

Tak, hotpot1.
Sorry for the last reply! I hope you got to try it - but reservations are tough....

food.snob in Europe

Noma, Copenhagen

Hi,
These are my thoughts on my meal here last June.
Full commentary and photography can be found here: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/06/20/noma-copenhagen/

Noma = Nordisk + Mad = Nordic + Food. A simple name reveals a simple aim.

There is a movement (for lack of a better term) in gastronomy towards a cuisine that is, above all, natural, but also generally fiercely local, seasonal and with a focus on superior ingredients. It is a style that was enabled by institutions such as Bras, l’Arpège and Mugaritz and is now embodied by the likes of Ubuntu, el Poblet and noma. These ‘New Naturals’ are unique restaurants offering a special insight into the terroir they occupy.

It is the last of those, noma, which concerns this account and its story begins with Claus Meyer. Little known outside of Scandinavia, Meyer is Denmark’s most famous foodie. First television chef, now restaurateur, business man and farmer, this venture is his vision.

For more than two centuries, the Grønlandske Handels Plads in Copenhagen’s Christianshavn quarter was a busy centre for trade with Iceland, the Faeroe Islands and Greenland. Hence, it was common for immigrants from these lands to take their very first footsteps upon Danish soil here; thus it was considered, at the turn of this century, a fitting site for what would become Nordatlantens Brygge – North Atlantic House – a shared address for these northerly neighbours. To accommodate this grandiose project, one of the harbour’s most impressive structures was selected – the five-story, seven-thousand metre-squared former warehouse that resides at the end of the Strandgade.

It was the wish of those masterminds behind this undertaking that it ought also to encompass a gourmet restaurant that showed off the culinary wares of these nations. Henrik Pedersen, the well-respected chef at Babette, was offered the chance to make this happen. However he, although interested and having already drafted in Claus Meyer to assist him, had to pull out over his concerns about running two restaurants simultaneously. Meyer, on the other hand, with Pederson’s blessing, remained very much involved – the attraction for him ‘had much more to do with the possibility of generating…a compellingly stringent and beautiful culinary concept, which the world had never seen before.’

As Pedersen’s replacement, Meyer approached Paul Cunningham. The Englishman was more than curious, but had already agreed to open a new restaurant in the Tivoli Gardens – a deal he was unable to free himself from. In his stead, he recommended two others. One was Bo Bech, who had just ended his partnership with Jan Hurtigkarl. The other was René Redzepi.

Redzepi, at that time, was sous chef at Kong Hans (1*) in Copenhagen and had spent several years working in the finest kitchens overseas, but, in truth, had sort of strayed into a career as a chef. Half-Danish, half-Macedonian, he spent his childhood between the two countries, often spending months at a time with his father’s family in the Balkans. There he lived the more bucolic life: ‘if we wanted a chicken my uncle had to slaughter it. If we wanted milk my aunt had to milk the cow.’ Although unappreciative of the experience as a child – ‘I was very embarrassed about it’ – now he values those times. Although, it was not this intimate connection with food that inspired him to cook; at school, undecided on what career to pursue, he enrolled in cookery college because his best friend had done so. Nevertheless after just two days there, during a cooking competition, he sensed a ‘sudden feeling that this was exactly what I wanted to do.’

Upon graduating, he joined Pierre André (1*) in the Danish capital, where he spent four years studying classical French cuisine. This inspired him to make the move, in 1998, to France and the Pourcel brothers’ Jardin des Sens (3*) in Montpellier. Disappointed to find ‘a lot of shouting in the kitchen. A lot of aggression,’ he left soon enough. However, before he did that, he visited a restaurant just over the Franco-Catalan border that he had heard great things about; it was in Rosas, it was el Bulli. ‘I was blown away. It wasn't the specific dishes that did it. It was the sense of freedom. Up to that point I had assumed all grand cooking had to be French.’ He soon returned, but this time to cook; in fact, he was so eager, he worked the 1999 season unpaid. Redzepi spent the subsequent year in miscellaneous consulting positions prior to a summer spell in 2001 at Thomas Keller’s French Laundry, in California. After this, he was back in Copenhagen working under Thomas Rode Andersen at Kong Hans, which is where Meyer found him two years later.

Seemingly keener than Bech, it also quickly became apparent to Meyer that Redzepi’s and his own ambitions were similarly aligned; he therefore offered him the role and a partnership in the business. However, the chef had a condition; he wanted to have an old friend from école hôtelière days – Mads Refslund – join them as a partner and his sous. Meyer acquiesced.

The team’s first task was a four-week fact-finding expedition through the North Atlantic; they were seeking new ingredients and new methods native to the Nordic region that they could take back to noma. Their trip was fruitful – treasures they unearthed included huge, forty-five-year-old horse mussels in the Faeroe Islands; biodynamic pearl barley, arctic char and rye bread steamed underground in Iceland; and, in Greenland, six-year-old shrimp, small and fatty capelin and crowberries. Furthermore, it left an immense impression on Redzepi: ‘Here, where we are, nature is as it wants to be and I began thinking about how to reflect that nature, express it on the plate.’ Once home, they opened noma in November 2003.

‘They called us the stinking whale,’ the chef remembers. ‘Everybody thought Scandinavian cuisine was a joke when we started.’ Coupled with the tremendous difficulty realised importing all the incredible products they had uncovered, the restaurant faced a challenging initiation. But Redzepi was undeterred and less than ten months later had even organised a special symposium to which the region’s leading chefs were invited. At this event, the New Nordic Kitchen Manifesto – a set of ten commandments specially scripted by the chefs – was penned and a quiet gastronomic revolution engineered.

Soon people paid heed. Supply lines were secured. Success followed. In 2005, noma was awarded its first Michelin star and, having been bestowed an espoir the next year, subsequently won its second in 2007. Now Redzepi has a network of producers three times as strong as the average Danish restaurant whilst also employing five foragers to scout the area for new produce. Additionally, the chef was further recognised with his appointment as ambassador for the New Nordic Food program by the Nordic Council of Ministers and also his selection as the president of Denmark’s Bocuse d’Or team.

Noma’s address could not be more apt: the restaurant reclaiming Nordic cuisine sits on an island of reclaimed land. In the early seventeenth century, Christianhavn was created as a merchant town that provided protection to Copenhagen proper. With its canals and tall, bright, multicoloured buildings (and today its bicycles too), the town built by Dutch architects was modelled on the Dutch capital. One hundred years on, this was where the Royal Greenland Trade Enterprise could be found; the focal point for shipping and commerce between Denmark and her former colonies of Iceland, the Faeroe Islands, Greenland as well as Finnmark. Another hundred years later and these same streets were those favoured by Kierkegaard on his long walks – and he certainly liked to walk.

Nowadays, the old warehouses that line the waterfront have been refurbished. This includes the afore-mentioned culture and arts centre, Nordatlantens Brygge which, once housing salted herring, whale blubber and skins, spelt and dry fish, is now home to the Icelandic embassy and permanent representations for Greenland and the Faeroe Islands, along with noma of course.

The rough-hewn, mottled gray brick building with pitched red-tile roof and narrow, sandy yellow stucco skirting was constructed in 1766 by master-builder J.C. Conradi. It is a formidable, but beautiful frame for the restaurant. Noma’s entrance itself is discreet and distinguished only by a pair of upright pikes in front of the door, carrying caged gas candles, and the noma name stencilled in three-dimensional, lower-case letters to one side of it.

The interior is quintessential Nordic. Created by Signe Bindslev Henriksen, the space marries old-world charm with clean, uncluttered modernism. ‘I knew that this was the place, it had such a warmth about it with its wooden beams. I was sick of luxurious, palatial restaurants,’ tells Redzepi. Indeed, woods dominate. Floorboards of Pomeranian pine; ancient and limed pillars supporting rugged exposed timbers; with grainy, smoked oak tables, seats and serving stations, together form a warm counterweight to the seriousness of the cracking white-washed brickwork walls. Floor-to-ceiling, arched windows set in arched recesses, encircle the space allowing in plenty of sunlight and imparting impressive views out over Københavns Havn. Well-sized tables are well-spaced and surrounded by spindly, sixties-styled Scandinavian chairs; most unusually and authentically, each bears a fluffy, white sheepskin. Extravagant excess is eschewed; naked tables are topped sparingly with Royal Copenhagen china, Spiegelau stemware, wild Danish flowers and a thick-cut candle. Away from the dining area, besides the doorway, stands the more contemporary, stainless steel kitchen which, although behind paned glass, is nonetheless easily accessible by eye.

Amuse Bouche 1: Syltet og røget vagtelæg. An oversized brown and tan-speckled porcelain egg was placed at the table. Instructed to consume the contents within just ten seconds of opening the container, one lifts the lid. At once, an aromatic cloud of smoke sluggishly floated up and away, revealing a single, little quail’s egg nestled upon straw bedding. Eaten entire, the small, pale amber ovule, pickled in apple vinegar before smoked over apple wood, quickly burst to imbue the whole mouth with its warm, unctuous yolk whose mild smokiness was tinged with fruity tartness.

Amuse Bouche 2: Rugbrød, kyllingeskind, stenbiderrogn og rygeost. Smørrebrød, the traditional Danish open sandwich, was turned on its head, literally: the ritual rugbrød base became the topping with chicken skin the bottom and hay-smoked cheese blended with dill and lumpfish roe in betwixt the two. Once again, the appearance of this amuse was superb with the matted gold folds of skin and russet gleam of the toasted rye interrupted by bright white cheese interspersed with pinkish rose pearls of roe that mimicked the grains of the bread above it. The smoky, salty, sweet savours of the filling balanced excellently whilst its creaminess, punctuated by the poppy eggs, contrasted against the grainy, brittle rye and super-crispy skin. This last element was the highlight here – deliciously rich, it was a reminder of [my] childhood when one does not needs not think twice about devouring such wicked items like the fatty crust of a roast chicken. Although instantly familiar, like this the skin also tasted brand new. And although a little naughty, it was of course very nice.

Amuse Bouche 3: Radiser, jord og urteemulsion. Planted upon the table, a terracotta garden pot came filled with dark soil from which sprouted large, vibrant leaves. With cutlery withheld, one is informed that everything within is edible. Holding onto one of the leafy tops, a radish was easily extracted, exposing, as it came out, brilliant green cream beneath the earth that still clung to the root. Peppery and almost sweet, these snappy radishes were from Lammefjord and belonged to Søren Wiuff. The foamy herb emulsion that they had been buried in was composed of sour sheep’s yoghurt flavoured with tarragon, chives and chervil; it was an addictive match with the crunchy malt, beer and hazelnut crumble that covered it.

Amuse Bouche 4: Toast, vilde urter, pighvarrogn og eddike. An undulating layer of crisp bread was sprinkled with vinegar powder and dotted with turbot roe cream; each of these spots was pierced with precisely placed wild herbs and their flowers. This little cracker was a lesson in contradiction: delicate and surprisingly light, the flavours it offered were surprisingly strong. The first bite of the wavy wafer unleashed a small mist of vinegar dust that filled the air about the mouth. It was also extremely tart, although not unpleasantly so, before being quickly assuaged by the faintly buttery roe – a Finnish speciality – and herbal, flowery plants that had been freshly foraged.

Brødet: Spelt og Manitoba. A square-shaped felt pouch was brought to the table; its leather ribbons were unravelled. Inside its cloth-lined belly sat two sorts of bread. Both were baked onsite and both were piping hot (as they remained for some time). One was Manitoba sourdough which, made with hard, highly refined wheat, was crunchy and dense. The other, spelt, had nice crust and fluffy middle. Alongside these, a platelet of organic Danish butter was served. Whipped through with skyr – a cheese from the fermented milk of Icelandic cows, a breed traceable to the time of the Vikings – this had great lightness and soft tang.

Entrée 1: Blæksprutte og grønne jordbær; Fløde og dild. Almost translucent, ivory ingot of raw squid, deftly diced into identical, little squares, its contrary corners crowned with a couple of green strawberry slices standing upright against each other whilst a small mound of their granita rests on another, was topped with dill and toasted rye kernels; the shellfish sat in fresh cream laced with dark green dill oil. A picturesque plate already, it also suggested something of Scandinavian springtime: the rolling landscape; the green breaking through snow white; the snow itself…Furthermore, to most interesting effect, this recipe indulged the Danish love of berries and cream. Combining seafood and dairy is uncommon, but the cream worked delightfully well with the tender Danish west coast squid. The milky former enriched the latter whilst unripe strawberries added an exact acidity and the uplifting oil, subtle herbiness.

Entrée 2: Rå rejer og tang; Rabarber og urter. A thin, bright blanket of sea lettuce, beset with beach herbs, cubes of pickled rhubarb and drizzled with the fruit’s juice, concealed underneath small uncooked shrimp from Smögen. Considered Sweden’s finest, these delicately sweet specimens melted in the mouth, their savour countered by the springy, subtly sour rhubarb and barely bitter algae. The surprise was strandsennep or beach mustard, whose blades and blossoms, collected by the chefs from along the seashore, had definite peppery heat.

Entrée 3: Tatar og skovsyre; Aromatisk enebær og estragonemulsion. Tartar of Danish beef, arranged in a neat rectangle and besprinkled with toasted rye breadcrumbs and grated horseradish under wood sorrel and rings of onion, left a trail of ground juniper in its wake; a matching belt of vibrant tarragon emulsion shadowed the beef and its hoofprints. To be consumed without cutlery, one uses the heart-like leaves of wood sorrel to clasp the just-chopped meat, smear it through the tarragon then swab it in specks of juniper.
The initial pleasure came from the presentation. Vivid and colourful, there was also simplicity, freshness and purity on the plate. Roughly cut yet trimly set tartar; cluttered though carefully fixed sorrel; coarse, but deliberate sprinkles and daubs presented rustic precision. Additionally, the leaf-topped tartare over the green row immediately evoked a dynamic image of the animal itself grazing across the field.
The beef, mild yet clean and flavoursome, was enlivened by the lemony spark of the sorrel, spicy horseradish and warmth of the mustard oil from Gotland. Aniseed tarragon and stimulating, woody juniper were both distinct and balanced delicately well; whilst the rye added crunch.
This course considered all the senses, pleasing more than simply the palate and provoking sensations both amusing and intellectual. Eating with one’s hands makes this instantly more than just another dish. Foremost, it is fun; a challenge to social convention and expectation too. However, on a deeper level, it also connects the diner to the food – the textures manifest no longer only in the mouth-feel, but on the tips of one’s fingers; or through the lemon scent that stains their hands, for instance. Moreover, there is the romantic vision roused; one realises and appreciates that this is how our ancestors – and/or how the Vikings – long ago once ate. Raw food with bare hands.

Entrée 4: Knivmusling og peberrodssne; Persille og dild. Myrtle cylinder of parsley jelly, concealing local razor clam, came laid across the bowl, leading from its centre to its cusp; a deep, loose line of horseradish snow skirted its length. Tableside, juice from the clam, mingled with mustard-dill stock, was poured. The plating here was very interesting, in particular, the inescapable likeness to a sewage pipe – razor clams are actually an invasive species in the region, thus this suggestion of waste or undesirability could have been a nod to that fact. The tenderness and sweetness of the clam exceeded expectation whilst the parsley wrapper was pepper cool with slightly gelatinous texture. The icy blend of buttermilk and horseradish (once a common companion to raw shellfish), although cold, was unexpectedly potent with an agreeably creamy consistency. The cool effluent was intense and crisp.

Entrée 5: Friskost og friskblomster; Brøndkarse. Over a bed of fresh cheese, a richly-coloured array of just-picked flowers, interspersed with croutons, was showered; a sauce of watercress and parsley lay in attractive swirls to one side. Both the cheese had been made and the wild blossoms gathered by the chefs themselves that same day. The ethereal, buttermilk-based cheese worked well to showcase the springy assortment of rocket, parsley, nasturtium, mustard and more florae. The watercress, at first dulcet, become stronger and spicier as its savour lingered while the parsley proffered a grassier note.

Entrée 6: Jomfruhummer og söl; Persille og havvand. A warm basalt stone, plucked from a Gotland potato field, was presented. A single, surprisingly sizeable langoustine from Læsø lay on it. Randomly placed, bright green beads about the rock were composed of oyster and parsley emulsion and crowned with rye crumbs; grated Icelandic dulse – söl – left sandy magenta streaks across the surface. It was as if the sea had washed up its most prized prawn upon a stone on the seashore; the roasted seaweed dust and barnacle-like outgrowths redolent of the sea itself aided and abetted the analogy. Once again one uses their hands to enjoy the shellfish, which barely cooked, was scrumptious; luscious, fat and so sweet. It was even possible to feel the little fibres that encircled the plump body snap as the meat was bitten into. The mineral emulsion and briny söl became almost afterthoughts.

Entrée 7: Asparges og skovmærke; Humle og dunhammer. Søren’s white asparagus, chopped to varying lengths then set laid or standing, surrounded sous vide wild duck egg; over all these, fiddlehead ferns, hops and bulrush were strewn and rough rings of woodruff sauce were drizzled. The Lammefjord greens again amazed with the al dente asparagus juicy and tasty, its flavour accentuated by the woodruff and bulrush, to give the dish a surprisingly sweet nature. However, the richness of the unctuous egg had taming effect and proved an excellent balance as did the crisp and subtly bitter hop shoots. Additionally, bulrush and fiddlehead fern – here found as fronds that had been diligently detached from the unfurled, scroll-like head – both share an innate affinity with asparagus which reinforced the vegetable’s distinct essence.

Entrée 8: Aske og porrer; Blåmuslinger og kongekrabbe. Alternating cylindrical couples of jet black and scarlet-swathed white occupied the centre of the plate. Frothy mussel emulsion was spooned out, almost completely covering these, before golden toasted breadcrumbs were shaken overtop. The two tubes were in fact leek stems rolled in hay ash and poached Norwegian king crab thigh-meat. The latter, so succulent with lovely brininess, seemed almost liquid-filled, whilst the former were startlingly delicious. Using ash as a spice is an ancient Nordic tradition mainly applied to herring and it imparted a complex, intense caustic savour like edible smoky soot; the dark coating then quickly dissolved on the tongue, releasing the leek’s mellow flavour. This was a totally new taste sensation. The mussel sauce was strong and acted as salty seasoning whilst the brittle breadcrumbs bestowed crunch.

Plat Principal 1: Pighvar og vegetabilsk stilke; Syltede hyldeblomst. Tranche of roasted North Sea turbot, its skin appetising dark amber and laden with unripe elderberry, caper and shallot garni, was teamed with stems of watercress and leek, all scattered with sprigs of strandtrehage and strandsennep; celeriac purée and a thin sauce made from capers completed the recipe. The turbot’s breeding season lasts from April to August, during which time, the fish stores more fat in preparation for procreation. A side-effect of this it that its meat is even more mouth-watering than normal and this specimen was indeed rich and toothsome with some of that elusive, excellent melting fattiness to it. The berry and caper garnish brought a pleasingly acidic burst whilst the crackly, moist stems had contrary sweet touch. Beach herbs, with their latent heat and citrus, were also welcomed.

Plat Principal 2: Råstegt hummer og salat root; hybenrose og ribs vin. Sautéed Danish blue lobster, blanketed with red currant wine and sat atop lobster jus, was buried amidst roots of salad, shoots of wild beach pea, their little purple flowers and rosehip petals; a streak of lobster coral accompanied. The dish, decorated with different shades of splendid red and lush green, was simply beautiful – and it tasted just as good too. The lissom lobster, very nicely-timed, had juicy, supple flesh and was full of natural sweetness. The tangy rosehip, reinforced by the nearly sugary beach pea, was a splendid bridge between the lovely shellfish and fruity-tart red currant wine. The coral was concentrated and the lettuce, succulent and snappy.

Entremet 1: Læsøløg; Løgkarse og ramsløg. Læsø’s renown is not limited to its langoustines; this time, its onions took centre-stage. Onion compote, carpeted over with prast ost and encircled with onion slices – half of which were soaked in beer, the other half pickled – was peppered with chive flowers, chickweed, ramson stalks and onion cress; tableside, onion bouillon with thyme and tapioca was served. This preparation was both an ode to onions and its relations whilst the beer-cheese-onion combination insinuated classic pub snack (cheese and onion crisps with a pint of beer). The compote had relish; its savoury, slightly strong skin of a Swedish mature cheese skin akin to cheddar, a natural companion; whilst the warm, pungent, pearly bouillon was fairly intense and gently melted the prast ost, becoming syrupy as it did so. Ramson and chive contributed hints of garlic and the two sets of onion were both crisp, with one rather malty and the other salty-sharp.

Entremet 2: Marv og syltede grøntsager; Krydderurter og bouillon. Crudités of various vegetables, pickled in six varieties of vinegar, were arranged in curls and bouquets studded and bestrewn with such herbs as mustard, rocket, leek flowers and pea shoots as well as small rounds of poached bone marrow, all mizzled with a little oxtail stock. Although amounting to only a small cluster upon the plate, this course abounded with colour, vivacity and curiosity. Each bite was fresh, crunchy and subtly tart, but each was different too thanks to the mixture of marinades. The vibrant clutch, dense and solid, also invited one to delve in and thus dig up peppery blossoms or anise leaves that they had not yet already discovered. Shimmering, soft slices of marrow also hiding amongst these tendered some richness whilst the bouillon beneath was deep and delectable. There was a deft balance between sweet and sour here, which also worked to cleanse the palate after the previous onions.

A leather-bound, reindeer horn-handled puukko knife, handmade in Lapland, was placed upon the table. Rustic yet carefully crafted, even the noma knife has become somewhat iconic.

Plat Principal 3: Moskusokse og mælkeskind; Spæde hvidløg og ramsløg. From Greenland’s west coast, a mahogany haunch of musk ox, resting in gamboge jus suffused with ramson, was teamed with alabaster folds of milk skin and grilled baby garlic and cucumber whilst dressed with capers and mini, mauve garlic flowers. The meaty fillet was well-marbled, tender and flavoursome. Its sticky, concentrated sauce was delightful, the ramson linking nicely with the young garlic. The milky skin, literally the skimmed off coating that forms on the surface when cooking milk, was reminiscent of yuba and slightly tart-sweet; this was interesting both texturally and taste wise.

Dessert 1: Birkesaft og birkesirup; Sødskærm og honning. Broken birch slates of meringue, overlaying birch sorbet and jelly made from mead and honey, were embedded with bright, baby sprigs of Spanish chervil. This was instantly resonant: the coarse-cut meringues, matching the gray plate, impersonated the stony earth; the sorbet resembled the sap and roots; whilst the herbs were little saplings breaking through and growing forth. The sorbet was mildly sugary and clean; jelly of mellifluous wine and honey collected from a beehive only a few miles away, was stronger; whilst the Spanish chervil like liquorice. The meringues, made using the water in which birch bark had been bathed, were excellent – light, grainy and not at all cloying.

Dessert 2: Rødbede og skovsyre; Creme fraiche og syltet hybenrose. A circle sat in the dish’s centre, split into two halves. On one side, there were compact maroon crystals of beet and pickled hip rose granité; on the other, pastel green sorrel mousse was crowned with pale hip rose tuile topped with the grated fruit. Crispy, crunchy and smooth; sweet, sharp and earthy – this was more complex than its simple appearance suggested. The subtle savours were also very well poised.

Dessert 3: Valnødde pulver og is; Tørret fløde og tørrede bær. Walnut ice cream came covered in three crude strips of cream powder, walnut dust and dried blackberries. This was another dessert that seemed more straightforward than it really was. Tasting the three toppings together proved extremely astringent, quickly absorbing away all the moisture from the mouth and leaving just fruity-sour essence before the soft, moussy walnut ice cream quickly supplied gentle succour. Building on the natural relation between walnuts and blackberries, this worked to delicious effect.

Petit Fours: Flødebolle med rødbedeskum. Chocolate covered marshmallow treats can be found across Europe in varying national guises, but their widely acknowledged origin is Denmark (and it remains the largest producer of these today – apparently, the average Dane eats fifty a year). Petit fours entailed this traditional dainty, with a twist. Served on a cold stone, as the flødebolle began to melt as soon as it was touched, thin, fine quality chocolate case and malt cracker base bordered fluffy, mild and yummy, pink beetroot mousse.

Alongside this menu, Ulf served a champagne-heavy flight of wines...

I have been very lucky in my dining life so far – not only have I rarely been on the receiving end of substandard service, but I have been subjected to some of the kindest imaginable. Bearing that in mind, the treatment on offer here is some of the very finest that I have seen. I really was impressed by the quality of care and genuine consideration conveyed by all those at noma.

Interestingly, Redzepi encourages his chefs to serve and explain many of the dishes themselves. Not only is this a pleasantly unexpected twist, but it also undeniably adds another layer of openness and intimacy to the restaurant experience. Additionally, given that many in the kitchen are actually British – ‘they are battle-hardened. They are good, strong. Ready for anything,’ Redzepi says – speaking with them was interesting and entertaining.

It was fascinating to watch the front-of-house staff at work. One would expect the introduction of chefs into the dining room to complicate, possibly even disrupt them. But not so. Instead, it was continuously calm and co-ordinated with servers gracefully and confidently wending their way between tables and chairs. They were always relaxed and always made time for the guest. I conversed with many over the course of the meal and all were very affable, engaging and thoughtful – having spoken to Kim, Ulf and Laura most, I single them out especially. Together, they are led by Lau – simply the consummate maître d'hôtel – who is earnestness, charm and niceness personified. Everyone seemed to really enjoy what they were doing and it showed in the little details. For instance, it was a delight to note that not only did the staff smile at diners, but they smiled at each other too. There is a warmth and avidity shared by all – and it is contagious.

Over lunch I was also able to meet and talk a little with René Redzepi. His boyish mien and unassuming nature automatically engendered rapport and admiration. The more we spoke, the more I was overwhelmed by his generous and good spirit. Clearly impassioned and clearly relishing his work, I was certainly stirred by his enthusiasm.

The meal itself was just stunning. The amuses were arguably the most engaging I have ever been served – satisfying taste, intellect and emotion individually and collectively. From the courses that followed, it is difficult to select either my favourites or those I liked least. If pushed, I would pick rå rejer og tang; rabarber og urter and friskost og friskblomster; brøndkarse as two that were less memorable than the rest, but again, these were only relatively weaker courses rather than flawed or weak in themselves. Those that I found the most appetising included blæksprutte og grønne jordbær, the classic tatar og skovsyre, asparges og skovmærke (the best asparagus-egg dish I have ever eaten), aske og porrer, råstegt hummer og salat root and from the excellent desserts, valnødde pulver og is.

The first four offerings from the kitchen were delicious and revealing. Starting with the vagtelæg, presented in its Matryoshka-esque ceramic casket that played the shell to the already peeled quail egg, so much was shown with a single, bite-size morsel. Simple yet intelligent and delectable, there was also an element of intrigue, mystery and maybe even magic from the swirling, steaming smoke which, whilst adding animation, almost convinces the diner that the egg is still cooking. Furthermore, essentially Nordic – these eggs are regularly consumed here; pickling and smoking are both basic Scandinavian preparation methods; and apples, staples of the diet – this was a fitting opener. The second course was nostalgic, indulgent and my favourite. Once again, working with (stereo)typically regional ingredients, this was a witty reinvention of something common and customary. Different characteristics of the cooking became evident with the next treat, radiser, jord og urteemulsion. Here, the highest quality raw materials were showcased in amusing, whimsical fashion. The presentation, original, clever but mostly convincing, created a sense of adventure and implied a return to nature; the playfulness patent here may have been nurtured whilst Redzepi worked under his most influential mentor, Adrià. In addition, as it so happens, this particular recipe has also been inspirational to other talented chefs, such as David Kinch and Heston Blumenthal. Amuses ended on a delicate note with another item just as reminiscent of the outdoors – a curvy cracker carrying what seemed frost-kissed wild herbs, but which were actually dusted in malty vinegar.

The tatar og skovsyre: aromatisk enebær og estragonemulsion has become somewhat of a noma signature. It is understandable why. As Redzepi tells it, ‘when [we] first opened, this dish almost seemed a provocation. The Copenhagen restaurant scene really was dominated by these old, fussy French places. And then along comes this restaurant where they want you to eat raw beef with your hands like you're some Viking.’ The effect of this course is two-fold – it relaxes those unaccustomed to fine dining, whilst teasing amusing those that are. And it does this brilliantly: one really cannot help but laugh whilst feeding themselves finger-fuls of tartar. The dramatic aesthetic, gamesome expression and sensory satisfaction have all already been alluded to earlier, but there is also an inescapable awareness that one is eating something distinctly Nordic. The locally-sourced ingredients, all of ancient regional relevance – juniper and tarragon being both especially bonded to the territory – served naturally with minor manipulation, suggest a specific place as well as a specific time. This was a rare transcendental dish.

The issue of aesthetic previously touched upon is of special importance. Whether from the rich colours, the minimalist arrangement of elements evocative with imagery and meaning or the eloquent use of empty space on the plate, there is something almost austere here – a noble austerity – that encapsulates the severity, but also the purity of the Nordic terroir. It is as if Redzepi, having tamed the savage, but strikingly beautiful North, has distilled it into his dishes.

Noma is inevitably exciting as it affords one the opportunity to discover unique ingredients such as strandtrehage, strandsennep and musk ox; and taste uncommon techniques like pickling, smoking and spicing with ash. It is an introduction to Nordic cuisine – a new cuisine to many. However, beyond the novelty, there is a fundamental superiority in the creativity and cooking. Not a single misstep in execution was manifest today with thoughtful dishes, cleverly designed and delivered with deliberate care.

But the adventure here does not end with trying new products or methods – one hallmark of noma’s cuisine is that each course is in itself an exploration. As one eats, they uncover different, dynamic and fresh flavours and textures. This is just one trait that characterises Redzepi’s distinctive cooking, though; to gain a good understanding of the others, one need only read that Manifesto he helped author. Some additional qualities that stood out from my lunch were the light saucing of plates, preference for raw foods, precise use of acidity and willingness to mingle modern and ancient cookery. Butter, cream, stocks and wine, standard in most sauces, were shunned in favour of beers, ales, fruit juices and homemade vinegars. The latter have become essential tools, also applied as seasoning (limiting the use of salt) and to produce that sweet and sour profile that is so very Nordic. Elderberries, unripe strawberries, capers and such are included to offer uplifting and bright acidic notes whilst the prevalence of raw ingredients only aids the natural and feral sense of style.

Noma was not always a success; René Redzepi and his partners’ ambitions to create a restaurant solely focused on Nordic cuisine were at first ridiculed whilst the business model proved difficult to implement with sourcing from across the Northern Atlantic much more challenging than expected. In spite of everything though, they persevered, remained resolute in their aims and maintained a strict obedience to them whilst personally scouting out new produce and establishing stable supply lines across the region. Today, few would question how far they have come or what they have achieved.

Possibly forged during those times of struggle, there is a sense of purpose so strong and dedication to it so certain that it suffuses all that noma is. Consequently, one’s meal at noma is about more than only food. When someone first enters, they are immediately confronted by a décor that although contrary to what one might expect to find at a fine-dining restaurant, is incontestably in keeping with the Nordic ideology. This is then reinforced by the compelling details that are woven into one’s dining, such as the felt bread-holder or the hunting knife that arrives with the main course. However, it is really the people that make being here so special and truly an experience. The staff, as said already, are terrifically keen and interested, but there is the added interaction with the chefs too. Breaking down any imaginary boundaries between customer and kitchen, there is also something very emotive and effective about this approach. Chefs, as they proudly present them before the diner, describe their dishes with the natural affection that the maker has for what he has made – and rightly so. After all, what they are achieving with these is worthy indeed: with each plate, they are giving back Nordic cooking its identity.

The consequences of this are not only felt by noma’s guests, but are spread across Copenhagen. Once derided, now the restaurant is congratulated by critics and colleagues. It is a mutual fondness. There is a tremendous sense of camaraderie between the city’s chefs – not only are they genuine friends, routinely cooking for each other and organising charity events together, but they even share suppliers. When one discovers a new ingredient/source, he tells the rest; for example, Lammefjord has been referred to as noma’s garden yet everyone uses Søren’s vegetables. Noma may be Copenhagen’s catalyst and René Redzepi might have set the bar high, but others are rising to the challenge. This is not news per se yet the quality and consistency across restaurants is still (superbly) startling. Eating around the capital, this fraternity and impetus is truly tangible, inspirational and indeed infectious.

Parallels have been drawn between Copenhagen and San Sebastián, where in the seventies local chefs created nueva cocina vasca, a cuisine that was motivated by nouvelle cuisine, but remained solidly Basque in character. There too existed this same sense of solidarity and unity with chefs working together – traditional txokos were just one illustration of this in practice. However, recently, the spotlight has swung from Donostia onto other regions; principal amongst these being California and Copenhagen. Even Adrià has conceded that ‘if Spain was the new France in culinary terms, then Nordic must surely be the new Spain.’ This shift is exemplified by a movement from innovation-based cuisine to ingredient-based ones. And it is the latter of the two, which I believe, to surely be the more sustainable.

On a final note, for someone who lives in London (like I do), noma presents hope. Some of Britain’s chefs have already noticed what is happening across the North Sea – Stephen Harris claims that ‘René makes me feel like a total lightweight. He's in a different league’; Marcus Wareing describes his meal there as ‘brilliant’, saying it ‘captured Redzepi's country and his immediate surroundings perfectly’; Jason Atherton believes that ‘every now and then a chef comes along and makes a difference and René’s one of them.’ However, what is really exciting is the thought that eventually, the British chefs working in Copenhagen may decide to come home – after all, Great Britain’s climate and environment is not vastly different to Denmark’s and much of its natural flora and fauna have long been overlooked. Redzepi appears to feel the same way: ‘if the world is going to come to its senses, then we must all develop our own awareness and consciousness of our own terroir. This can happen everywhere, we all have our own resources. England is the same. If we can do it here, it can be done anywhere.’ Implementing the ideas they have learned abroad, these returning chefs might even ignite their own renaissance over here…

If my praise was not sufficiently purple, be left in no doubt, this was one of the greatest dining experiences I have been fortunate enough to enjoy. As I floated walked out of noma, I knew I had already been won over by the charming staff, René Redzepi’s delicious cooking and by the potential of Nordic cuisine.

René Redzepi is a magician without tricks. There are few others capable of producing dishes so powerful, poignant and so provocative that they are able to leave one at a loss for words (or at least unable to utter anything but a whimper or whispered wow).

Often, as the memories fade, meals are remembered only by a moment or two. My meal at noma was a meal made of such moments. The moment when the smoke drifted out of the speckled egg shell; the moment that I clumsily clutched my beef and smeared it across my plate; quickly followed by the moment I found myself hunched over my warm pebble, using both my hands to pull apart a huge langoustine. And more, until finally, the moment at lunch’s end when I noticed crumbs of malty-hazelnut earth still caught under my finger nails and giggled to myself – that…well, that was the moment I found my hygge.

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foodsnob@hotmail.com

food.snob in Europe

Søllerød Kro, Copenhagen , Denmark

Hi,
These are my thoughts on my meal last June.
For full commentary and photography: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/06/16/sollerod-kro-copenhagen/

Søllerød is a village on the northern cusp of Copenhagen. Although small, it boasts a serious history. Its medieval church dates back to 1100 AD whilst a number of its eighteenth and nineteenth century country-houses can claim to have once lodged illustrious local and international artists and poets alike – including the country’s most-loved, Hans Christian Andersen – who regularly called on this quaint community. One such eminent address, for example, is the Mothsgaarden, wherein Edward Grieg composed his Magnus opus and one of Scandinavia’s most celebrated piano pieces, Piano Concerto in A minor, Op. 16, during his 1868 stay.

Besides its famous visitors, famous church and famous houses, this village also possesses a famous coaching-inn. Søllerød Kro traces its origins to 1677 when the local vicar was given permission to open a place where parishioners and those passing through could stay. Today, three hundred years on, it remains as it did then, nestled in between the same church, wood and village pond, but within, now resides a gourmet restaurant.

For some twenty years, Søllerød Kro has been a dining destination in Denmark. During the nineties, the establishment also held a Michelin star as its kitchen played host to a score of notable chefs, including Søren Gericke, Michel Michaud, Francis Cardenau, Jan Petersen and Englishman Paul Cunningham (currently running his own restaurant, the Paul). However, in 1999 that star was lost.

That same year, the restaurant appointed Jan Restorff to manage the front of house. Originally from the Faeroe Islands, Jan was born into hospitality with his parents running the Hotel Hafnia Tórshavn that his grandfather had first opened. Once he had completed school, in 1988 the young man left for Denmark to undertake an apprenticeship at Glostrup Park Hotel. This was where his interest in wine was ignited by the cellar-master there who took him under his care and instructed him in oenology. By 1990 Jan had moved on to the SAS Royal Hotel in the capital during which spell he entered the Sommelier Society of Denmark (1991). Here he remained until joining Søllerød Kro where he not only supervises the FOH, but also the wine cellar with its 1700-strong bin – the largest in the land.

In 2002, Jakob de Neergaard became the restaurant’s head chef. This Allerød native had grown up in a family where good food was important – his childhood memories are filled with recollections of the ‘homemade jams, gherkins, compotes, pickled and fresh vegetables, herring and eggs from the neighbouring farms’ that his grandparents would prepare whilst he stayed at their Ørby cottage. It was also as a youth that family trips to south-eastern France, especially the Pyrenees, instilled within him a love of the region and its flavours that would be influential later in life. His passion for the kitchen became apparent very early and he interned at Restaurant Nokken in Rungsted Havn whilst still only at school. Responsible for chopping parsley, he recalls the experience fondly: ‘I think I was awakened by the smell of parsley!’ Once his studies ended at sixteen, he apprenticed at Hotel Marina in Vedbaek then Kong Hans under Daniel Letz. In 1993, Jakob left Denmark, joining the navy as chef to an admiral; the role lasted a year and included six months in Greenland. After this, he moved to Belgium, working first at ‘t Convent then Bruneau in Brussels, which he credits with introducing him to truffles. 1996 saw him reaffirm his affinity with France whist in Provence at Le Prieuré. A year on and he had made it to Paris and Taillevent. The Ritz followed, then Alain Ducasse. Finally, after a stint at the Danish Embassy, he returned to Denmark after six years away. Upon his arrival, he was made head chef at Theodore’s Restaurant in 1999 ahead of two years spent at Jacobsen.

Together, the pair has taken Søllerød Kro from strength to strength, amassing a host of individual and collective awards along the way. In 2007, they also won back that lost Michelin star.

The inn itself is approached via a path that winds around a picturesque pond surrounded by tall trees. Previously greens and oranges dominated the building, but after its 2007 renovation, the exterior is immaculate white, punctuated by dark rimmed windows and crowned with mossy green thatching. The building is bordered by neatly trimmed hedging and an alabaster mast carrying bright red Danish flag. Entering through its gate, one is in the inner courtyard that features a new fountain and doubles as an alfresco summer dining setting.

Inside, a couple of antechambers lead onto the first dining area – the entire space being composed of a number of interlocking rooms. Ceilings are fairly low-lying, but the outside walls are all lined with wide windows that create an open impression. Much of the panelling and beams are the originals, but the present colour scheme comprises light shades of pastel green with gold piping. Furnishings are wood; fresh lilies are plentiful; and wine bottles and other oenological effects fill out the décor. Considerable tables, fringed by soft, comfy armchairs, are generously spaced further enhancing the spacious feel. Bright white linens cover tabletops that are laid with silver candleholders, salt and pepper shakers and the restaurant’s tailor-made cutlery.

I opted for the Prestige Menu, but allowed Jan the freedom to tinker with it.

Lunch began with an aperitif - JL Vergnon Champagne Brut Blanc de Blancs Grand Cru. Light, but robust and effervescent, this had plenty of acidity and was rich in lemony hints.

Amuse Bouche 1: Grøn gazpacho – Sorbet på oliven – Sne. A snow white, smooth scoop of olive oil sorbet, sitting atop its ice, had pastel fern gazpacho of green melon and cucumber poured around it at the table. The frosty Italian olive oil had herby, peppery kick and contrasted nicely against the mildly cool, velvety soup.

Les Pains: Wheat sourdough; and Beer-honey roll. A brace of homemade mini buns were brought out warm. The lighter, a cake-like wheat and apple pain au levain, had open, moist crumb and subtle sweet acidity. The darker, made with Danish (Baltic) Porter beer and acacia honey, was denser with crisper crust; the floral, gentle honey and toffee, malty beer made this reminiscent of soda bread. Both varieties were excellent. Hundred-year-old Pamplie’s salted butter from Poitou-Charentes and an unsalted organic local version mixed with whipped sour cream accompanied.

Entrée 1: Rossini caviar – Fjordrejer – Grønne asparges. The initial entrée’s advent was designed to dazzle. Resting within a shimmering silver vessel, a tin of caviar d’Aquitaine – custom created for Søllerød Kro by Rossini – came with a small mother-of-pearl spoon. This was a cheeky ruse: the all-embracing crust of glimmering ebony beads strewn with bright specks of shrimp coral, actually secreted lower layers of creamy fjord prawns and green asparagus. Admittedly, the taste of farmed sturgeon eggs was less pronounced and on close inspection proved less than perfectly fresh, but they did manage to at least season the other ingredients. The minute prawns, fished from the Northern Atlantic, are a local delicacy; the asparagus played off their notable sweetness, whilst its own elemental note struck a chord with the caviar.

Entrée 2: Kammusling – Østers – Peberrod. A plate was presented peppered with halves of roasted Danish scallop, quarters of local new potatoes, Brittany oysters, wafers of radish, cress and salicorne, over which oven-dried leek powder, dill oil and horseradish emulsion were sprinkled. The lovely scallops, just cooked through, were succulent, sea-sweet and matched by the marenne d’Olréon that had subtle, but increasing savour. The potatoes added substance; sea herbs, saltiness; whilst the combination of cress, horseradish and radish provided spice and bite, which the touch of mellow leek, aromatic dill and watery length of sous vide cucumber alleviated.

Entrée 3: Ristet jomfruhummer – Grønne asparges – Pink grape. A roasted twosome of langoustines from Læsø, laid alongside a spear of green asparagus, were scattered over with the same vegetable’s shavings, sprigs of chervil and chopped supremes of pink grapefruit as well as splashes of coral butter sauce. These langoustines - from the small, but fruitful Danish island of Læsø, north of Copenhagen, where the jomfruhummer festival is held annually to celebrate them - were simply delicious. Firm yet moist, their sweetness seeped out as they melted in the mouth. A few drops of lemon confit and the grapefruit offered some acidity to cut the richness of the coral and enliven the sweet and tender asparagus. This was another noteworthy ingredient, coming from Lammefjord in Jutland. Upon these reclaimed sea-beds, arguably the best farmer in Denmark, Søren Wiuff, has been growing and harvesting by hand asparagus since taking over his father’s farm in the early eighties. His vegetables are much sought-after by the majority of the country’s top restaurants.

Pol Roger’s Vintage Champagne Brut Extra Cuvée de Réserve 1999 was full-bodied with shades of caramel and fruit and had long, sweet finish. Incidentally, ‘this was Winston Churchill’s brand of choice,’ Jan whispered as he poured –the Englishman himself did say about it, ‘in victory, deserve it. In defeat, need it!’

Plat Principal 1: Hummer – Portulak – Knoldselleri. Danish black lobster tail, arresting Venetian red and laying with its sundered pinkish claw, rested atop garlic purée grated over with coral whilst garnished with purslane and celeriac ribbon; tableside, burned oil and lobster vinaigrette were tendered. Included last, but tasted first, the burned oil-broth had intense sharpness and smokiness giving the dish great complexity. The lissom lobster itself was lovely with delicate savour, emphasised well by the celeriac. Some crunchiness came from the raw ribbon and pourpier with also a littlie salty-sourness from the latter.

Plat Principal 2: Pighvar – Morkler – Hvide asparges. Two golden crusted tranches of turbot, pan-roasted and partnered with bisected stems of white asparagus and morels, were bathed in a ladled bouillon whose colour mirrored that of the fish. The turbot had serious flavour and great, crisp surface; morels had soaked up plenty of the excellent, rich juice; and lemon balm brought an uplifting tang. The real star here though was the asparagus, also from Lammefjord, which was so sweet, supple and possibly the best example of this vegetable that I have ever eaten.

Plat Principal 3: Foie gras – Trøffel – Dyrekød. First-of-the-season local venison tenderloin, cooked sous vide and bedecked with breadcrumbs, chive and its pretty purple blossoms, was served with a couple of cubes of foie gras, ‘green-white’ asparagus, salsosa and flakes of pickled winter truffle. Atop these, truffle-infused jus was spooned out before fresh summer truffle was grated. This dish was a lovely vision: the vibrant colours, especially of the chive flowers, giving the almost masculine recipe a feminine quality. The nicely rested, tender meat had strong gaminess while its onion-like crumb coating was an agreeable touch. Similar to agretti, crisp salsola – which, when it dries, turns to tumbleweed – had tanginess that countered Søren’s sweet asparagus. Pickled truffle was at first disappointingly tame, but soon became rather deep and yet clean. The light jus was pleasingly flavoursome.

Pre-dessert: Gulerød - havtorn. A frothy, but thick foam of sea buckthorn almost completely covered carrot brunoise embedded in carrot sorbet. Dense on touch, the mousse was light on the tongue and effervescently acidic sour. In contrast, the carrot combo beneath was crunchy, cold and sweet. This would have been excellent, if not for a slightly cloying aftertaste.

Dessert 1: Citron med skovsyre og hvid chokolade. Large scoops of lemon sorbet, medium spheres of its mousse and small splashes of white chocolate laced with its rind, were littered with wood sorrel, crushed blanched almonds, tuile biscuit circles and scrapings of lemon skin. The temperature contrast between the cold sorbet and crème and warm chocolate was a pleasant surprise. Both the cooler elements also had very good texture and acid sweetness which was complemented by the lemony sorrel – an intuitive match.

Dessert 2: Hindbær, fløde og hasselnød. A bowl brimming with baby Breton sablés, hazelnuts and their chocolate praline purée, fresh raspberries, their sugar tuiles, pâtes de fruits, all around a quenelle of their sorbet, was filled with cool Danish cream at the table. A classic combination in Denmark, this dessert was delicious. The sorbet was excellent in both taste and consistency; sablés were thick and toothsome having absorbed the delectable double cream; and the nutella-like chocolate dissolved instantly in the mouth.

Dessert 3: Jordbær, fløde og mandler. A cluster of almond-vanilla cream pipings, boules of nearly-jelly, whipped strawberry mousse, brunoise and chunks of the actual fruit all topped with its sorbet, were intermingled with chips of almond, biscuit diamonds and baby mint. The mousses were most interesting – they were as if spherificated but still full within (an effect possibly achieved with a little gelatine). The mint had welcome cooling action whilst the almond crème was especially flavourful.

Dessert 4: Rabarber, hyldeblomst og vanilje. An elderflower jelly carpet came coated with small cubes of sandkage, elderberry caviar and flowers, wood sorrel, meringues, baked bricks of rhubarb, its sorbet and its cream. There was an excellent harmony between the sour and sweet here. The consistency in quality of the different sorbets was again maintained, whilst the blocks of rhubarb, gummy and grainy, proved particularly enjoyable as did the sandkage that was reminiscent of shortbread. The zingy elderberry caviar was another nice addition.

Dessert 5: Felchlin-chokoladedesser. Upon a streak of chocolate sat a train of chocolaty components – meringues painted with it, its whipped jellied cream, mousse, sorbet, a tuile of it encircling its ganache over biscuit and topped with lemon cannelloni, and its eggs as well as those of lemon, some lemon balm and broken bites of sachertorte. This Viennese cake was crunchy and nutty; the mousse, dense and rich; whipped choc jelly, cold and tasty; and meringues, delicate. However, overall, this was the weakest dessert; the different parts just seemed to fail to gel as successfully as they did with the other afters.

Dessert 6: Cru Sauvage Bolivia-chokolade og Macadamianødder. A bar, superimposed with gold leaf, choc streamers and sorbet, was enrobed with glossy dark chocolate and encased a thick layer of ganache over a compact base of macadamia nuts and cream; Tahitian vanilla white chocolate ice cream accompanied. The Bolivian wild chocolate by Felchlin – so called as its beans are hand harvested from naturally growing criollo cocoa crops – was very good with citrus hints and minimal bitterness. Its mousse had substance yet was smooth whilst its nutty segment was crunchy and scrumptious. Tahitian vanilla had more fruitiness that other varieties and linked well with this chocolate.

Petit Fours: A. A two-tier sterling serving tray carried truffles of fruity-strong Armagnac, good hazelnut, subtle coffee bean, milky-smoky cappuccino, milky choc and tangy passion fruit. Alongside these were also a crisp and mild lemon macaron and fantastic Tonka financier with aromatic sweetness and delicious nearly-pasty texture that resembled those of Eric Kayser – incidentally the best I have ever had.

Service at Søllerød Kro is superb and Jan Restorff is the consummate host. Considerate, attentive and a self-confessed epicurean, he was always willing and also keen to engage me in conversation – and given his own impressive restaurant-touring, this was interesting indeed. I was able to observe him entertaining other tables too and noticed how at each he found a topic, whether it be food or wine, with which to relate to his guests. Jan was well assisted by the capable Henrik, who was also friendly, diligent and very patient. In addition, it is a tranquil, nearly isolated setting within which one can engross themselves in the experience and allow the staff to indulge and spoil them as they do.

After my meal, I enjoyed a conversation with chef Jakob as well. He came across as just as genial, thoughtful, warm-hearted and just as great a foodie himself as Jan. His enthusiasm and interest were charming to see.

The fresh amuse was a fitting start to this warm June day’s lunch. Bread was excellent and deserves its own mention. The first course of caviar, discounting its shortcoming, offered a sharp insight into the cuisine – a point that will be expounded later. The quality of the subsequent savouries was consistently high, making it very difficult to single out one dish that I would firmly consider my favourite. For example, the burnt oil in the hummer or the pighvar’s white asparagus were both very memorable, whilst there was something actually very captivating about the dyrekød. Desserts sustained the high standard, but were distinctly different in delivery – being a lot busier and making a point of using the same ingredient in multiple ways. Of these, only the Felchlin-chokoladedesser was disappointing, failing to come off as well as the other sweets, whilst it was the Hindbær, fløde og hasselnød, followed by the Cru Sauvage Bolivia-chokolade og Macadamianødder, that I liked most.

It is worth contemplating again the initial course, Søllerød Kro’s signature Rossini caviar. At once sophisticated and attention-catching, it is actually rather simple. Composed with essentially three ingredients sitting in discrete layers, the dish depends on the careful harmony of each component with the others. This is a common characteristic of chef Jakob’s cuisine – crystal clear flavours working in unison. Another of his merits is the balance achieved between different savours, like salty and sweet here. As can be said about all his food, this was also easy-to-eat, unexpectedly light and made with the best that Denmark has to offer. That the caviar was not at its freshest was unavoidably detrimental to its enjoyment though and meant that this was not as good as it could have been. As an aside, Søllerød Kro happens to sell more caviar than any other restaurant in Northern Europe at around forty kilograms per year.

Another dish that had particular impact was the dyrekød. First, the presentation was special: dark and golden hues interrupted by bright greens and conspicuous purple. Then there was its serving – the white-gloved waiter grating truffle overtop was a sumptuous stroke. The uncomplicated recipe itself, comprising only a limited number of elements, relied on excellent execution, but also delicate and unusual nuances such as the pickling of the truffle and chive-crumb coating. What was a quite traditional plate with heavy, bold flavours became something graceful and refined – a great summertime course. In fact, this dish embodied what contemporary classic cooking ought to be.

Contrary to these almost minimalist savouries were the multiplex sweets. These, though still centred around two or three ingredients, were filled out with numerous interpretations of the same component. However, even though more complicated, they depended on the same principles as the earlier courses, namely a sense of balance and first-class raw materials. The former fact was expressed by local, garden-fresh fruits and fine chocolate, whilst the former was keenly evident in all but one dessert.

The meal proffered a perceptive understanding of the cuisine at Søllerød Kro. Set within a classical framework, dishes are defined with the choicest Danish ingredients and designed in line with Mediterranean values. Chef Jakob, who refers to Louis XV in Monaco as ‘absolutely the greatest total experience of pure taste [and] in short, perfection,’ and whose own culinary education was carried out in traditional kitchens, has not ignored the lessons learned in them nor does he stray too far from his own tastes. Each recipe is distinctly embedded in this approach, but interpreted with local produce – Danish black lobster, Porter beer, vegetables from lammefjord. Thus these plates are recognisable, but brand new. It is an immensely refreshing approach to classic haute cuisine that really does renew ones appetite for it.

One sweeping generalisation of Mediterranean cooking that can be made is its focus on preparing and serving excellent, fresh materials nearly minimally. It was whilst he worked at le Prieuré in Provence that chef Jakob first found his fondness for this region and its attitudes: ‘summer 1996 in Villeneuve-lez-Avignon taught me respect for vegetables, there they prepared seafood from the Mediterranean Sea as austere, simple but elegant.’ Today, these precepts are patent on his own plates. Colourful, animated at the table with the addition of saucing and with a discernable preference for preserving the natural form of ingredients, the chef pursues an appetising and clear aesthetic. Fussiness is eschewed in favour of deceptively simple dishes almost deconstructed in their arrangement.

The aforementioned superior produce left a considerable impression. Given Denmark’s position, bounded as it is by the Baltic and North Sea’s cold waters, terrific seafood was expected, but local delicacies such as those tiny fjord prawns and feted Læsø langoustines still delighted. The real surprise however, and I appreciate I am repeating myself now, was Søren Wiuff’s vegetables from Lammefjord; these were just incredible.

Dining here is a tremendously satisfying experience. It is clearly the objective of both Jan and Jakob to not only please their guests’ palate, but to also pamper them. This is achieved through the luxury ingredients that litter the menu, the generosity of the house and the great affability of all its staff.

Not far from the city, but far enough to be secluded, this retreat is an idyllic getaway. Once within its grounds, one is cut off from the world and allowed to relax. And one inevitably does.

Søllerød Kro can be concisely summed up simply as lovely. Really lovely.

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foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk

food.snob in International

Victor’s Gourmet-Restaurant Schloss Berg, Perl-Nennig, Germany - Christian Bau

Hello,
Here are my thoughts on my meal here last April.
For full commentary and photography please click here: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/04/19/victor%e2%80%99s-gourmet-restaurant-schloss-berg-perl-nennig/

In one of Germany’s most westerly corners, where France, Luxembourg and the federal republic collide, resides a Renaissance castle amidst the Mosel vineyards. Dating back originally to the twelfth century, Schloss berg in little Nennig, a village literally leaning against Luxembourg’s border, is more schloß than it is berg – the latter generally being medieval, defensive structures whilst schloßes were later-built luxuries inspired by fairy tales and the like.

Today, this building, completely restored after the second world war, is no longer some prince’s pleasure palace, but instead part of Victor’s Residenz-Hotel Schloss Berg. The lodgings themselves are housed in a Mediterranean-style villa close by, but within the castle itself, Germany’s youngest-ever three-star chef has sovereign rule. Here, Christian Bau reigns in the kitchen whilst his wife, Yıldız, runs the dining room.

The pair first met whilst Bau was only just an apprentice at Hotel Götz Sonne-Eintracht in Achern. Born in the Black Forest, this position was the Offenburger’s first although it was actually his second stint at this restaurant: at fourteen he had completed a six-week internship here. Finding cooking a release, he returned two years later to begin his training proper. Three years on, having gained a classical groundwork, he left for the hotel-restaurant Talmühle in Sasbachwalden. For a year, he worked under Gutbert Fallert and learned the essentials of haute cuisine prior to twelve months completing his compulsory military service - in the officers’ mess of course. Subsequently, he passed 1992 at Le Canard in his hometown before moving onto the kitchen that would influence him most – Schwarzwaldstube at hotel Traube Tonbach in Baiersbronn. Bau, quickly becoming sous chef there, spent five years with iconic German chef Harald Wohlfahrt, considered by many as the country’s finest. During this period, Christian and Yıldız – nine years after following each other from restaurant to restaurant (except for the latter’s brief return to Hotel Götz Sonne-Eintracht and spell at Alde Gott whilst the former was in the army) – married in 1996. The very next year, the couple had their big break: visiting a close friend near Nennig whilst on holiday, they met the owners of Victor’s who, coincidentally happened to be eager to add a gourmet restaurant to their existing hotel and casino. They approached Bau to manage it. He agreed and the new establishment was effectively built for him. The owners gave the new chef complete control over operations and their faith was immediately vindicated by Michelin who awarded him his first star that first year. A second followed the following year. Praise and prizes came from local and international publications before Bau won his third in 2005.

The old castle rests adjacent a formal knot garden, itself of some renown. Its immaculate ivory walls and turrets, crowned with ebony mansard roof and sprinkled with golden window sills, give it a striking silhouette against its verdant, rolling environs. Entering the small, walled, cobbled courtyard that surrounds the schloß, the restaurant is reached after ascending the red carpeted steps before the front door. Guests can take nibbles upon chesterfield furnishings in the atrium inside before moving into the thirty-four seat dining area or private room in the former chapel. The interior was fully refurbished in only January this year. The new, more contemporary décor boasts slate grey walls, wood floor and decorative wooden ceiling. The room is long and narrow with the inside lined with drinks cabinets and the outer with large windows, fringed with pastel olive green curtains, that allow the sunlight to flood in. Spacious tables are well-spaced, their tops covered in white linen over cream. They are set with crockery created by Stephanie Hering of Hering Berlin (credits include Per Se, Ryugin, the Fat Duck, Guy Savoy…) as well as one of her playful porcelain figurines and two lipstick red vases replete with white roses. Custom-made chairs are able to swivel, allowing the diner to get up from the table without moving his seat out. In the far corner, there is a glass-cased fireplace whilst arresting abstract oils in navy, red and white punctuate the walls.

Souvenir menus in one’s language of choice are prepared in advance and await the guest at the table…

Amuse Bouche 1: Kroepoek, Salpicon of oyster and swordfish, green apple foam; tomato, pesto and olive tartlet; yellowfin tuna, avocado cream and olive tapenade; soup of orange, olive oil and basil; roll of avocado/chorizo cream. Airy prawn cracker, filled with meaty swordfish and mineral oyster, was topped with sweet-acidic apple mousse. Thick, fluffy tart was layered with semi-dried slivers of tangy tomato and flavoursome pesto. Toothsome kroepoek, smeared with subtle, buttery avocado, was covered with clean, firm ahi and drop of deep, veggy tapenade. Subsequently served, small shot of fruity orange was finished with herby basil and grassy olive oil spume; and brittle, little crisp rolls were crammed with either chorizo or avocado.

Amuse Bouche 2: Cornet of smoked eel cream, beef tartare and Imperial Oscietra caviar from Iran. Delicate cornetto, loaded with cream of eel and brimming with a boule of beef tartare, came crowned with Iranian Imperial Oscietra. The nutty, briny caviar cut through the tasty, fresh meat and rich, smoky fish deliciously well.

Amuse Bouche 3: Chilled tomato gazpacho with olive oil, buffalo mozzarella, calamarini. Spherificated buffalo mozzarella and baby basil blades floated in clear tomato consommé and Calabrian olive oil within which sat a scoop of tomato sherbet and calamarini. Zesty tomato, buttery Southern Italian oil, minty-sweet herb and explosively milky bonbons were a classic combination. The baby squid were tender whilst the olive ciabatta tuile, crunchy.

Amuse Bouche 4: Goose liver, black truffle and parmesan mousse. Bubbly, alabaster coat concealed an indulgent surprise. Distinctly cheesy-sharp parmesan hid silky smooth, warmed goose liver flan, liberally peppered with black truffle. This was a delightful treat full of intense yet not overpowering savour.

Amuse Bouche 5: Raviolo of smoked salmon with oyster jelly, cucumber and salmon; sea vegetables and char roe. Brunoise of Giraudaud oyster and cucumber, encased in the shellfish’s jelly, came sheathed in a skin of thin smoked salmon with a crest of char roe; pourpier, passe-pierre, green apple julienne, spots of samphire purée and segments of asparagus were precisely scattered in a diagonal across the plate with apple foam resting to one side of the raviolo. The briny-sweet caviar contrasted with the subtly woody salmon whilst the creamy gelée within held elemental oyster and succulent cucumber. The fresh greens added juicy crispness and fruity froth, a little tartness.

Die Brote: Focaccia with rosemary and thyme; baguette; dark rye; rye with sunflowerseed; sourdough; sesame roll; pumpkin roll; and poppy seed roll. First, following what seems to be German fine-dining custom, a crusty, soft slice of warm focaccia with rosemary and thyme was served. Then, removing the napkin that lay atop a wooden tray in the table’s centre, a treasure chest of assorted breads was unveiled – the recipes for which Bau collaborated with a local baker to create. Baguette was well-seasoned; pumpkin roll, fluffy; and rye, firm with nutty sunflower seeds. Sourdough lacked acidity, but was spongy; poppy roll was aromatic and earthy; and sesame, just decent. More Calabrian olive oil was offered alongside Échiré butter from Deux-Sèvres.

Entrée 1: Taschenkrebs & Melone: Mariniert & gebacken / 2 x Wassermelone / Dashigelee. A tian of marinated crab tartare, overlaid with bright yet lucent dashi jelly, scattered with shiso and spiked with triangular seaweed tuile, sat within a vibrant mere of watermelon water and besides the fruit’s sorbet. Arranged about the tower, grilled melon diamonds, individual drops of Japanese mayo, pesto and kalamansi plus a rough ring of its powder, formed a colourful frame. The tender, lacy white meat of the Cromer crab was excellent; its slight sweetness emphasised by the watermelon. The light, but flavourful dashi was an effective counterpoint as was the barely bitter shiso. Mayonnaise, made with mirin (sweet rice wine) and a little sake, had moussy, spicy warmth whilst the kalamansi – a tangerine/kumquat cross much like a lime – had been allowed to age (and turn orange), becoming sweetly sour.
Separately, a second rendition of crab came mixed with shiso, wrapped in kadayif pastry before being deep-fried. Crusty and clean, the little vermicelli-like threads around the bundle had been impressively cooked; the shellfish inside melted in the mouth. More of the mayo supplied pleasant piquancy.

Entrée 2: Gänseleber aus dem Elsass; Grüner pfeffer / Gelee & Knusper vom Grünen Tee / Mangofrucht. A ‘gateau’ composed of two small circles of goose liver separated by crushed green pepper, overlain with a film of green tea jelly, capped with mini mango cube and set with semi-circles of green tea ‘crunch’, was accompanied by goose liver ice cream covering mango compote; more of the fruit diced and drips of cherry coulis decorated the dish whilst another smaller one carried a toasted disc of buttery brioche. The Alsatian liver was of superior standard. In its initial interpretation, it was smooth, delicate and balanced very nicely the grassy-sweet chips and jelly as well as the gently pungent pepper. The pacojet-produced second portion was cool and velvety with its stronger savour juxtaposed splendidly against the resinous mango.

Entrée 3: Blue Fin Tuna: Tataki / Gartengurke / japanisches Gemüse / Ponzu. Three overlapping slices of seared blue fin tuna, daubed with dashi jelly and shiso cress, rested atop a compact slab of cured cucumber along with two effervescent pompoms of ponzu. A duo of auxiliary dishes delivered vegetable and abalone salad, lightly mizzled with kimizu; and tuna tataki in chilled cucumber and tapioca soup, topped with green apple-sake-wasabi ice cream.
The vibrant trio were instantly appealing.
The principal plate proffered first-rate tuna, firm, sinew-less and robust in taste. The textural comparison of the cucumber brunoise beneath was very agreeable as was the strength of the soy-citrus froth.
The tenderness of the slowly-cooked abalone strips and perkiness of the kimizu – almost a Japanese hollandaise comprising rice wine vinegar, sugar, soy, dashi and karashi (mustard with horseradish) mixed with egg yolks – stood out amidst these crunchy, pickled greens that included carrot, daikon, negi and Japanese potato.
The last bowl was quite something to behold – the bright pastel quenelle gracefully poised over darker green, adorned with a single, rich purple, baby shiso leaf. The pearly tapioca and cool, tart ice cream were enjoyable, but unfortunately, overall this was just a somewhat discordant dish.

Entrée 4: Coquille Saint-Jacques: Gegrillt / ‘Meereswasser’ Tapioka / Karottenchutney / Schaum & Aroma von Raz el Hanout. A considerably-sized scallop was brought bisected, its bottom half sitting on ‘seawater’ tapioca and carrying a eye-catching spoonful of carrot chutney whilst the top, showing off its golden-caramelised surface, sat between ras el hanout spume and roasted quinoa; opposite, a tick of herby, rice vinegar hollandaise that also smothered the ends of some small asparagus, added embellishment as did another dabble of the spicy foam and frilly pea tendrils. The grilled shellfish, excellently-timed and evenly cooked, was very tasty. Its mild sweetness, accentuated by the tart carrot, also proved a great foil for the Moroccan mystery blend of hot spices. The briny tapioca of kelp, enoki and oyster water added a little saltiness and interesting consistency as did the nutty seeds. The chervil, coriander, mint and mirin mousseline was sharp and creamy.

Plat Principal 1: Steinbutt aus der Bretagne: Sot-l’y-laisse mit Hoi Sin glasiert / Kräutersalat / Anchoisaromaten / Krustentierbéarnaise. A thick cut of roasted Brittany turbot, superimposed upon sautéed leeks and surmounted by mesclun, was teamed with a skewered pair of hoisin-glazed chicken oysters set in anchovy froth; at the table, a béarnaise of crayfish, langoustine and lobster was ladled either side of the plate. The fish, firm and crisply-coated, was cooked well, however, I must admit I do prefer my turbot to have an unctuous, fatty texture that is rare to find. Let this not detract from the standard of the fish though, which was indeed full of flavour. Crunchy leeks were mellow and sweet; anchovy, sapid and salty; whilst the sauce, ethereal, zingy and sated with the delicious crustacean’s savour. The highlights though were the sot-l’y-laisse. Found buried between the backbone and thigh, under the pope’s nose, these underappreciated morsels – essentially unused muscle – are succulently rich and confit-like. Here, they came with spicy-sweet barbecue-esque coating.

Plat Principal 2: Blauer Hummer / in Butter pochiert / Spitzmorcheln / Dicke Bohnen / Vin Jaune. Butter-poached blue lobster overlaid with vin jaune beurre blanc, bordered by broad beans, morels and fried polenta disc imbedded with sprig of chervil, came sitting on a bed of spinach, drizzled in the shellfish’s jus glacé and bounded on both sides by two vibrant whips of pea purée. The lobster, softly cooked, was supple, meaty and delicious. Its sweetness was amplified by the shucked beans, peas, lush jus and wonderfully complex vin jaune. The mushrooms were superb and the best morels I had eaten this season. Polenta offered a touch of aniseed spice whilst the wilted spinach underneath, some substance. Each ingredient here was distinct yet all the flavours literally dissolved into one another.

Plat Principal 3: Bresse-Ente von Mièral: Ravioli von der Kuele / 2 x Sellerie mit Orangenaroma / Entenjus mit Tamarinde & Café. A muscular fillet of Challans duck breast from Bresse, prepared viennoise, was partnered by a raviolo of the bird’s thigh, in addition to a small slab of celery purée covered with its leaf and sprinkled with orange rind; at the table, duck jus enriched with tamarind and coffee was poured. Supplied by Jean-Claude Mieral whose family have been rearing birds in the poultry capital of Eastern France for over one hundred years, the steak-like duck was appetising and tender whilst the well-made, light pasta was filled with savoury shredded meat. Velvety sauce, nearly syrup, was given enticing and intriguing intricacy by the lovely balance of sour-sweet tamarind and bitter, roasted coffee; the thin breadcrumb skin of the bird absorbed this to great effect, turning together into a delectable paste. Celery was a refreshing and cleaning savour against stronger others with the orange, of which only a hint was present, providing a nice, citrus uplift.

Plat Principal 4: Golden Label-Beef ‘Japan-Style’: vom Holzkohlegrill / Auberginencrème / Gemüsetempura. Two gorgeous cuts of waygu beef, their brims char-grilled umber whilst middles remained a range of luscious reds between amaranth and crimson, were accompanied by a comet of smoked asparagus with miso and a tableside trickling of jus rôti. In a bowl besides, Japanese vegetable tempura was served. The American-raised, but pure waygu (not mixed with Angus) A10 beef was delicious. Smoky from the charcoal it was cooked with, the meat melted on the tongue to also release buttery beefiness. The creamy, sweet aubergine augmented the charred taste while miso controlled the richness.
The notably greaseless and still moist greens – asparagus, broccoli, baby leek, crosnes, enoki – were all fried very ably, however for me, they really were rather extraneous: the solitary and simple plate of beef and aubergine by itself was sufficient to suffice as the climatic main course.

Pre-dessert: Weiße Schokolade / Zitronengras / Pomelo. Before the actual afters, a pleasant space dust-studded white chocolate lollipop, containing spicy lemongrass and citrus-sweet pomelo ice cream, was served.

Dessert 1: Rhabarber: Kompott mit Streuseln / Mascarpone / Ingwereiscrème. Rhubarb compote tart, strewn over with streusel; blood orange croustillant brimming with mascarpone cream and rounded off with sugared ginger baton; and a rhubarb crisp ladling ginger ice cream comprised the first dessert. The warm tartlet’s grainy, juicy filling was countered by the toothsome crumbs atop. Mild mascarpone cream and foam were nicely teamed with sweet, brittle tuile, but also awfully by a capsule of ginger that emitted harsh, alcoholic syrup that was far too overpowering. The best of the bunch was the toothsome, piquant ice cream and crackly, sharp rhubarb.

Dessert 2: Interpretation >Sauerer< Zitrusfrüchte. Varied renditions of sour citrus fruits filled three plates: the biggest bearing kalamansi jelly topped with confit shards of pomelo and grapefruit, lemon tartlet and yuzu sorbet atop gelée of its skin; a bowl of Amalfi lemon ice cream over blood orange-vanilla salad; and grapefruit mousse with its fruit mixed with pomelo. Thick, smooth kalamansi was lime-sour whilst its sablé biscuit base, crunchy; syrupy-tart lemon had decent baked crust; and yuzu was pleasingly acidic. The ice cream of sfusato Amalfitan – queen of lemons – was deeply flavoured whilst the marinated orange, fleshy and juicy. Airy grapefruit mousse came with sugary mint and plump citric segments.

Dessert 3: Valrhona Schokoladen ‘Erde’ / Maracujacrème / Knusper. A mound of crushed dark chocolate and coffee, littered with little bricks of passion fruit jelly, was encased in a large glass sphere. It was the most modern presentation of a dish yet and resembled some sort of intergalactic-take on a biosphere. The earth of Valrhona Guanaja was quite bitter and lingered on the palate. Maracuja had kick and played on the faint fruity note in the chocolate whilst coffee added smokiness.

Petit Fours: Rose and orange marshmallow; milk chocolate almonds; lemon tartlet; cherry marzipan; Peach Melba; almond and apricot jelly; blueberry cake. A platter was presented with very light and spongy, but slightly dry blueberry cake; flavoursome almond-apricot gelée; moist deconstructed Peach Melba brochette; nutty, fruity marzipan chocolate; and tangy, crusty lemon wedge. Another salver served had chocolate-covered almonds with their skins interesting left on as well as one cup of rose and another of orange marshmallow tubes that were both very good.

Mignardises: Valrhona chocolate truffles – Salted butter caramel; Baileys and white chocolate; rose milk chocolate; dark chocolate; white chocolate with passion fruit and coconut; thirty-year old balsamic; olive oil; coffee; saffron and verbena. A final sweet token came in the form of Valrhona chocolate truffles. Dark choc, saffron and verbena were particularly memorable

Service was professional yet very personable. Led by Yıldız Bau, the staff – all females – were attentive, friendly and admirably knowledgeable. Sommelier Britta Jäger proved extremely patient and genial whilst Frau Bau herself was very enthusiastic, considerate and gracious. The atmosphere in the room was terrific. The serveuses and the surroundings all came together to create a very certain sense of festivity and event, which is precisely what I believe and expect dining at this level ought to feel like.

At the start of the meal, we were bestowed with a nice array of canapés in the restaurant’s anteroom before a couple more (substantial) amuses once seated at the table, both of which (the goose liver and raviolo of smoked salmon) were technically and tastefully adept. Lunch proper began with taschenkrebs & melone – Bau likes to include a crab course in his menus and this delightful and attractive dish showed why. The ensuing two plates were both good, but it was the coquille Saint-Jacques that next stood out. This was a cleverly thought-out recipe executed very well. Steinbutt aus der Bretagne was hard to fault and, even though my contrary preferences regarding this fish, I still enjoyed the inclusion of the seldom-seen sot-l’y-laisse very much. Blauer hummer was simply delicious: (some of my favourite and) quality ingredients cooked consummately and balanced brilliantly. Subsequent servings of Bresse-ente von Mièral and golden label-beef ‘Japan-style’, each very appealing and showing much skill, maintained the momentum. When it came to sweets however, I thought the savouries simply better, but of the three desserts, it was the interpretation >sauerer< zitrusfrüchte that I liked most. Petit fours and mignardises were also of high standard.

The timing of this visit was not without import. As it so happened, it was around this time that my true tastes vividly revealed themselves, clearer and more concentrated than before. Although gastronomically curious and open-minded, I must confess that my own predilections lie less towards the classics and closer to the styles currently realised best by the New Naturals. Bau is clearly rooted in the former category yet despite that – but maybe more impressive because of it – I still thought this an excellent meal and left inspirited.

What appealed to me most today was the intimate character of the cooking. Meeting Christian Bau ahead of and after the meal – ‘for my taste, good gastronomy begins with a warm welcome… [and] ends with seeing my guests off personally’ – he immediately stuck me as the modest, hard-working yet kind-hearted, keen perfectionist. This came through in the cuisine: intricately constructed courses that were technically faultless whilst vibrant, sometimes unexpected and even joyful. You sensed that the chef was enjoying himself in the kitchen and was proud and eager to share his cooking with you.

As mentioned, Bau’s base is traditional French haute cuisine – something he picked up and practised to great effect under Wohlfahrt at Schwarzwaldstube. He learned about precision and discipline preparing this German legend’s pure and clean classical dishes that betrayed but a whiff of the modern – and such lessons are still evident today. Bau labels his own approach as a light and contemporary interpretation of French cuisine, stating that he wants to renew tradition and that he is from a new generation of chefs cooking for a new generation of customers. With this in mind, and working with complete freedom, his technique has evolved whilst at Victor’s into a simpler, leaner expression that increasingly incorporates more Asian influences.

Beginning with exceptional ingredients – ‘I firmly believe that the best is just good enough’ – dishes are built around a more familiar, refined product supported by a cast of interesting and creative elements. Beurre blancs, hollandaises and béarnaises still abound as reminders of Bau’s roots, but chutneys, hoisin, ponzu and kimizu sauces inform one of his growing partiality. Indeed, embracing different cultures is fundamental to neue deutsche küche and this chef has certainly taken Japanese cookery to heart. He spoke very fondly of his latest visit there at the start of this year and was obviously excited by what he had found. Thus it was not unexpected then to see Oriental touches feature almost throughout our meal – what maybe was surprising was the seamlessness and seemingly effortless way in which these were integrated into dishes. The chef’s uncompromising standards and his genuine affection for the Far East were no doubt responsible for this.

Another appreciated aspect of this lunch was its lightness. Courses were considerable in portion and number, but remained delicate and easy-to-digest. Even given the multiple-plate methods and complex arrangements of this labour-intensive style that abhors shortcuts, there was a deceptive unfussiness in presentation and flavour combinations. Additionally, whilst sauces had relish, they were not decadently applied. On a more minor note, a further apparent trait of the chef was his keenness for combining the humble with the luxury; the eel-beef-caviar cornet possibly being the best example of this.

Having eaten at Vendôme only the day before, it is difficult not to compare Bau and Wissler – two chefs oft spoken of in the same breath as leaders of neue deutsche küche and each similarly assiduous, able and ambitious individuals. For me, the difference between the two restaurants was patently clear and may be summarised in a single sentence: at Vendôme it seemed like an army of cooks had prepared the food; at Victor’s, it felt as if a single artisan was at work in the kitchen.

Bau believes ‘high-end gastronomy has a lot to do with personality’ – and I wholeheartedly agree. He allows and wants his to shine through and it does. The cooking is serious, but it is bright, caringly created and intermingled with subtle, individual nuances. Similar things can be said about the setting, which was elegant, but warmed with whimsy. There was a quaint charm here with an honest generosity that infused the entire experience.

The already detailed air of celebration and occasion, expressed and emphasised most by Herr and Frau Bau themselves, really made the meal memorable. Furthermore, greeted, treated and then finally seen off by these two doting hosts, one is reminded of a small family restaurant. This in itself is equally winsome and endearing.

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food.snob in Europe

Vendôme, Bergisch Gladbach, Germany

Hello,
These are my thoughts on my meal here last April.
Please click here for full commentary and photography: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/04/18/vendome-bergisch-gladbach/

Vendôme is the capital of Loir-et-Cher in northwest France. In the sixteenth century, the encompassing county was made a duchy and bestowed upon César, the illegitimate son of then king, Henri IV. César – thus the duc de Vendôme – had his private residence in Paris, at what has become the Place Vendôme.

To discover then that the restaurant boasting so French a name as this really resides in Germany – in Westphalia on the outskirts of Köln to be exact – may be a surprise. However, it is a fact that Germanic fine dining is firmly founded on classical cuisine française – a convention started with the restoration of formal court dining when the nation’s Emperor and Empress, King Wilhelm and Queen Augusta of Prussia, hired legendary French chefs and co-collaborators on the culinary magnum opus, la Cuisine Classique, Urbain Dubois and Émile Bernard. This custom was then compounded over the next century with young Teutonic chefs moving to France to learn to cook the French way in French kitchens.

The connection between the Place and the restaurant is twofold. In the latter stands a famous column that fashioned from one hundred or so of the enemy’s cannon from the battle of Austerlitz commemorates their captor, Napoleon Bonaparte – and, as it happens, not long after this victory, it was this French emperor who founded the Kingdom of Westphalia, wherein Vendôme now exists.

In a final twist, there is a touch of irony in that within this restaurant nominally celebrating Germany’s gastronomic acquiescence to France works one of the most progressive of the country’s chefs and a leader of a new school - neue deutsche küche – that seeks to break away from this neighbourly reliance and refocus and remember traditional German cuisine.

This chef is Joachim Wissler. Born in Nürtingen, he is a native of Baden-Württemberg – land of gaisburger marsch (beef stew); geschnetzeltes (veal in cream sauce); rostbraten (braised beef) and linsen mit saiten (sausages and lentil stew). At only ten years old, he began filling in for his parents at their inn cooking noodles and ravioli, before undertaking an apprenticeship at the legendary kurhotel Traube Tonbach at seventeen. Once he completed his chef assistant’s examination in 1983, he spent the next four years working his way around the Schwarzwald (Black Forest) at such establishments as Weißen Rössle and Brenner’s Parkhotel. He finally made it out the woods in 1991 when he became chef de cuisine at Marcobrunn at Schloss Reinhartshausen in Erbach. Here, Wissler started making his mark, winning several national honours before his first Michelin star in 1995, immediately followed by his second a year on. In 2000, German tycoon Thomas Althoff opened the five-star Grandhotel Schloß Bensberg and recruited the chef to run its luxury kitchen. In just a single year, Wissler had secured another star; within two, he had earned the title ‘Restaurant of the Year’ in the national press. A year later and he was crowned ‘Chef of the Year’ by the international Gault Millau and was also awarded another second star; one year more and he finally had his third.

The aforementioned movement in German haute cuisine was coined neue deutsche küche by Jürgen Dollase, arguably the country’s leading food critic and the man who has also labelled Wissler as the ‘best in my country and who has the most advanced ideas’. The chef himself briefly summarises this new approach thus: ‘the idea of combining nature’s best products in the form of small successive dishes is not the novel feature. However, the ‘how’ and ‘what’ are the aspects that truly characterise this new step. In it more attention is also placed on some of the treasures of our own neglected cuisine.’ A man of simpler tastes – as a last meal, he would want sourdough, butter and homemade sausages – his greatest wish would be a return to the roots of German food culture.

At the end of the seventeenth century, Rhineland Prince Jan Wellem, moved from Düsseldorf south to Bensberg to be close to his favoured hunting ground of the Königsforst. His (second) wife, Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici, was rather taken with the area, reminiscent as it was of her Tuscan homeland, therefore he commissioned here the construction of a beautiful baroque castle – the second largest north of the Alps – modelled on Vienna’s Schönbrunn Palace. The property sits perched on the hills above Köln itself, its central axis deliberately in line with the city’s historic cathedral. Its glory days long gone, the schloss served as a hospital, cadet institute, barracks and school, before being purchased and restored by the Althoff hotel collection in 2000.

The actual restaurant occupies the kavaliershäuschen or knights’ house adjacent to the principal building. The interior was refurbished in 2007. Formerly florid and elaborate, it is now open, natural and comfortable. The dining room is split into two – a narrow first room lined with tables and banquettes; and then, loosely portioned off by black string curtains, a second larger one in the centre of which stands a sleek serving station of contemporary design with very narrow base and wide, oval surface. Walls are mainly light travertine granite broken up by tall, latticed white-silled windows. Upon the inner side of the initial space a wide mirror is hung, whilst there is a portal into the kitchen on another. The main area is bordered with zebrano wood sideboards and floor-to-ceiling, back-lit stained glass imprinted with green-grey images of Paris’ Place Vendôme. There is room for about forty with well-spread tables skirted by swivel chairs of Reseda green suede. Thick tablecloths are subtle salmon and sparsely set with a single red rose in a slender vase, stemware and KPM porcelain, which traces its royal heritage to Frederick the Great of Prussia; other accessories such as Robbe & Berking silver are hidden until needed.

The menu chosen was the ‘Große Entdeckungsreise’ or Big Expedition’ – a twenty-five course selection of dishes.

Amuse Bouche 1: Smoked eel, cumin foam, pointed cabbage, dried fig; praline of goat’s cheese with watercress; braised poularde with papaya in pastry; baked polenta, marinated mackerel, seaweed and curry mayo. A quartet of little nibbles were delivered, each very different and each to be eaten differently. Sat in a small spoon, moist morsel of mackerel rested upon crunchy baked polenta; and in a bite-sized bowl, smoky eel’s richness was nicely matched with sweet fig and spicy cumin. Taken with one’s fingers, pieces of fattened chicken, wrapped in crisp pastry were mildly sweetened with papaya; and cool, creamy goat’s cheese semi-sphere, enlivened with peppery watercress, was impaled upon a skewer.

Les Pains: Focaccia; buckwheat; saffron & ginger; brown; spelt; cumin; tomato & basil; rye with sea salt; red lentil roll; and black olive puff pastry. Before the bread basket was brought round, a single sliver of warm focaccia was proffered along with a cube of salty butter from Alsatian maître affineur, Bernard Anthony – a gentleman better known for his cheese. Unfortunately, the beurre was a tad bland. The selection of rolls and mini loafs was quite immense. Best was the red lentil with crunchy crust, soft middle and nice seasoning, but this ran out early never to return; other decent examples were the tomato and basil with good savour and spelt that was slightly sweet and quite absorbent. Worst were the especially dry buckwheat and black olive puff pastry whilst the remainders were forgettable.

Amuse Bouche 2: Knäckebrot Krabben | Muscheln | Frankfurter grüne Sauce. Mussels, crab and crevettes grisse, sprinkled with coral, cress, almonds and Frankfurt-style green sauce, covered crispy cracker. The shellfish were succulent and flavoursome with the small gray shrimp standing out. Frankfurter grüne Sauce is, simply put, the local interpretation of salsa verde and comprises around seven fresh herbs (including dill, lovage, lemon balm), eggs, vinegar and olive oil. Dabbled about the biscuit, this was minty and peppery-sweet.

Amuse Bouche 3: Blätterwald Gemüsekrokant | Ziegenjoghurt - Dip. A ‘deciduous forest’ was formed with ‘vegetable brittle’ of seaweed and spinach (dark), beetroot (red) and cauliflower, celery, leek and artichoke and accompanied by goat’s cheese yoghurt. The seaweed was salty and crunchy whilst the spinach slightly bitter. Artichoke grew in force as it was eaten; the leek was sweeter; and cauliflower, distinct. The common complaint with these chips was their sticky texture (meaning they frequently became caught in one’s teeth) and their almost too-sugary taste. The dip was creamy and decent, but could have done with more sourness.

Amuse Bouche 4: Coralle Parmesan | Foie Gras | Basilikum - Pistou. Nappy reef of parmesan ‘coral’ topped with tomato salt and the cheese’s spume; quenelle of foie d’oie garnished with ancient amaranth grains; and puddle of pistou were presented with parmesan candyfloss sprinkled with raspberry coulis, separately. The texture of the tasty cheese-cloth was most interesting – firm as fabric yet soft, melting in the mouth. Smooth, silky goose foie was nicely complemented with crunchy, malty-sweet grains. Provençal pistou of crushed basil, garlic, parmesan and olive oil – basically pesto without the pine nuts – was fresh and herby. Sharp balsamic strew the plate whilst truffled tapenade dotted it. The floss was sugary and fruity. Although parmesan was an almost continuous chord, there was little to link each component to the others making this a somewhat discordant course.

Amuse Bouche 5: Auster Grüner Apfel und Sauerkraut | d’Aquitainekaviar. Adjacent to apple-wasabi foam and resting amidst sauerkraut crystals, two skinny strips of Granny Smith, joined at either end, the meeting points marked with mâche leaves, encased a single Gillardeau oyster set besides a small scoop of Aquitaine caviar, inset with lettuce sprigs that imitated bull horns. Crisp, juicy and mildly acidic, the apple was an excellent addition to the sweetish, nearly nutty, fleshy oyster – from the Gillardeau family who have been farming some of France’s finest oysters for over a century. French shellfish was coupled with French caviar, whose brininess and minor nuttiness brought out the savours of the other ingredients agreeably. Hazelnut-like, crisp lambs’ lettuce struck a similar note whilst the transparent pearls of sour cabbage and spicy-sweet wasabi brought lovely balance.

Entrée 1: Langoustine Sushi gegrillt | Tonic und Ingwer. Adorned with the fanned-out tail-end of its shell, a sizeable grilled langoustine, crowned with pressed piping and sprinklings of its coral, came laid over basmati rice purée punctuated with green almonds; along with a small piece of asparagus and seaweed, it lay as if arising from a pool of tonic water and ginger ale laced with verbena, rose petal water and spring onion. The fragrant, creamy rice with succulent, faintly tangy almonds (only available a few weeks of the year thus considered a delicacy) matched well and, coupled with the hot prawn, justified its grilled sushi label. The langoustine itself however was awful: although appetising in size and appearance, it was in fact mushy and cottony. A shame considering the complex and punchy sauce, which was additionally an extension of the Indian theme whilst a play on the cocktail, gin and tonic, this drink having been first drunk on the subcontinent whilst it was under British rule – soldiers would mix gin with their medicinal (malaria-averting) Indian tonic water. Ginger is also a popular spice in the country.
Two folded-over flakes of amber dashi ‘paper’, sandwiching bright shiso cress, were intensely flavoured and verging on bitter.

Entrée 2: Octopus Sepia | Tintenfisch Marsh Mellow. A cuttlefish salad of seaweeds, roasted rings of spring onion and cucumber shavings, dressed with peanut vinaigrette, thickened with creamed white beans, had miso mayonnaise added to it at the table; a separate small tile carried a spiked tempura marshmallow of sepia, sitting in breadcrumbs, and saddled with cress, cuttlefish and seaweed crème. The mayo, made with a darker miso, was slightly harsh and not particularly pleasant, but the tender seafood slices and crisp, fresh vegetables were; the candied, crunchy peanuts a pleasing touch. The viscid dressing, almost gel-like due to some xanthum gum, was most interesting – its consistency, somewhat gooey, reminded one of an octopus’ slimy skin. The caramelised marshmallow, dipped in toothsome crumbs, was very good with delightful fluffiness and strong squid ink savour.

Entrée 3: Leipziger Allerlei Bachkrebse am Waldrand. Off-centre, a dimple in the dish, dotted with morel jus, was filled with white asparagus foam, over and around which were scattered oven-baked breadcrumbs, sugar peas, cold whole morels, mustard seeds and stone crayfish overlaid with julienne white asparagus. This symbolic recipe is said to have been invented in Leipzig after the Napoleonic wars when locals made popular this humble vegetable dish to discourage those seeking a wealthy populace (explicitly beggars and tax-collectors) from staying in the city. Its classic components were incorporated here in an arrangement designed to remind one of a woodland scene: any reminding was due more to the shades of brown, pink, white and, naturally, green than anything else – however, there is little else more evocative of the forest than a morel. Stone crayfish, indigenous to Germany, were firm yet succulent. Rather symbolic here and nicknamed white gold, the sweetness of the white asparagus or spargel, married well with that of the shellfish and peas. On the other hand, the mushrooms, initially sautéed, were oddly allowed to cool before being served.
Brought in a twisted demitasse with this was a bouillon of shellfish infused with Madeira, port, cognac and tomato. Warm, bubbly, creamy, thick and very rich, this was a real treat.

Entrée 4: süsses Wasser Seeforelle | Meerrettichkren | Saiblingskaviar. A fillet of smoked lake trout from Bavaria, coated in bright char caviar and its fried skin, was presented with a pair of sphericated horseradish and apple. Tableside, first a sauce of bay leaf, chive and cucumber was poured over, before a little rape seed oil. The visual impact was immediate: vivid, vibrant hues of yellow, orange and gold surrounding those of gentle pink and white. The fish was light and lean with delicate, smoky-sweetness; whilst the skin atop seriously flavoured and crispy. Explosively creamy roe effectively seasoned the trout. The faintly apple bubbles were refreshing and the oil, quite soft.

Entrée 5: salziges Wasser Rochen | Kurkuma - Koriandernage | Reisgnocchi. Grilled skate wing, charred amber and sprinkled with golden caramelised peas, was partnered with soy sprouts covered in coriander and basmati rice gnocci sitting in curcuma-coriander-coconut milk sauce. The initial appearance was reminiscent of raie au beurre noisette, but a subtle Indian imitation of this classic French creation with snow-white gnocci resembling potatoes; the dark yellow sauce, beurre noisette; and peas, capers. The tasty skate, in intricate, meaty ripples, was coupled with crispy-sticky peas. The aromatic, delicate dumplings were set in an exotic strong, spicy, bitter-citrus bath, to which curcuma, a type of turmeric, added warmth and muskiness as well as colour.

Entrée 6: Weinberg Schnecke umhüllt. A pair of pristine porcelain ladles lay in their custom-made tray; each bore a blotchy olive-brown spherification of snail jus, enclosing snail stew, sitting with parsley purée in morel emulsion and dusted with their powder. Cracked glass caramel-vinegar paper atop offered an unpleasant sour-sweetness that gave way to earthy mushroom. The sphere itself had grassy, deep flavour and crumbly texture. Parsley tempered some of the overall strength.

Entrée 7: Thun Fish & chips | Pommes frites nicoise. A German rendition of a traditional British dish featured a French twist. Fish meant seared tuna belly implanted with its bone and garnished with capers, tomato and rosemary; it came upon a plate, just encroaching dill-tomato powder and next to a crystallised black olive that emitted an upstanding sugar tuile train. Chips were rather regular and lay along the cusp of a tall bowl of crème of tomato, white beans and vadouvan. Unfortunately, the deconstructed Niçoise proved an entente discordante. The saccharine olive was rather pleasant, but the rest was not. Bean purée had rather crude with a disagreeable dulled harshness; chips were soggy and a little oily; but the worst offender was the toro. This was simply greasy and slimy.

Entrée 8: Kabeljau vom Kopf bis zur Flosse. Cod, head to tail – or in Wissler’s words, head to flipper – comprised belly fillet bordered on either side by grilled tongues; radish, chive, peas and their shoots dressed the fish whilst sugar snap pea sauce was served at the table. The nearly raw tummy was almost crunchy and very tasty whilst the firm yet unctuous tongues, a delicacy in Spain, Norway and Newfoundland, were even better. The greens added peppery sweet crunch, which the smooth sauce intensified.

Plat principal 1: marmorierter Mascarponeravioli | Périgordtrüffel | Brachpilz. A base of field mushroom soup, concealed by white tomato froth and mascarpone, was lidded with a lucent square of tomato jelly; poised atop this, Périgord truffle tapenade was studded with a sprig of chive and Madeira marinated truffle julienne. A ring of balsamic vinegar was drizzled on tableside. The familiar fragrance of pasta wafted from the plate. The thin, subtly tangy skin of this dismantled raviolo offered little resistance as the spoon pierced it. Above, the balsamic brought sweet sting, whilst beneath, mild mushroom ragout was warm and juicy, enriched with the mascarpone. Regrettably, the truffle, not surprisingly, had no savour at all.

Plat principal 2: Bretonische Seezunge Klaffmuschel | Morchel | Spargel. Pan-fried Dover sole, glazed with breadcrumbs, was underlaid with morels and overlaid with their emulsion; around the fish, lay clams, their purée and white asparagus over all of which lemon hollandaise with tarragon and peas was spread. The fish itself was excellent, buttery sweet and firm, with a little browning; the spongy, saturated mushrooms went well with the nutty asparagus; and crumbs were an excellent crunchy touch. Hollandaise had faint lemony tartness whilst the clam sauce was thick and speckled with carrot. Creamy clams added brininess.

Plat principal 3: Sauerbraten vom Ochsen “sous vide” | Holzofenbrot - sandwich. Marinated in red wine, vinegar and spices, ox meat, slowly cooked sous vide then adorned with a caramelised diadem of sunflower seeds, was plated with pureed stielmus that had been parted with a dribble of jus roti; coin of bone marrow; and oven-baked sandwich of sauerbraten jelly. A German national dish prepared with modern methods, this was an accomplished demonstration of how to merge the contemporary with the classic, well. The succulent, rich meat that came apart fibre by fibre was delicious; although the nutty seeds atop tended towards sticky. Juicy, minced meat and sour vinegar gravy in between pumpernickel toast was also very good, if a touch greasy. Stielmus, a seasonal green native to the Ruhr and similar to turnip tops, had some bitterness that countered the buttery marrow and beefy jus, which may as well have been labelled red wine syrup.

Fromage: Fontina Auberginentatar | eingelegte makrele. Cream of Fontina, embedded with aubergine paste upon which was placed a little fillet of mackerel mounted with its roe filled the bottom of a bowl along whose wide rim foccacia tuile and tomato paper rested; mossy pastel green herb oil was poured in at the table. Fontina, an Italian cow’s milk, was very mild – suggesting it was possibly a version produced outside of Italy (maybe Denmark) – with good consistency. Its combination with the tasty, meaty mackerel, although unusual, worked agreeably whilst the subtly smoky aubergine tartar varied the texture.

Dessert 1: Haut kross von der Milch. Mascarpone crème came inserted with milk skin, sprinkled with amaranth grains and mizzled with cajeta quemada. This syrupy caramel is in essence Mexican dulce de leche and combined nicely with the sweet-sour cream and barely bitter milk skin crisp.

Dessert 2: Käsekuchen Eis | Mürbteig - Krokant. Atop an apricot plinth, cheesecake ice cream was soused in apricot sauce and grated over with almonds and pistachios. A classic German dessert, the cheesecake refreshé was soft and tart in contrast to the sticky sweetness of the fruit.

Dessert 3: Schnee ball gefüllt. On one extended plate, a yoghurt ‘snow’ ball stuffed with rhubarb crème and encircled with sugar tuile, left behind a trail of mini meringues sitting on rhubarb confit and candy ‘bombs’. The intense dairy coat and cold tart centre contrasted well; the pastries were airy; whilst the fruit was crunchy sweet.
A supporting bowl bore fibrous, sour rhubarb compote and crispy rhubarb paper separated by spicy, aromatic ginger ice cream.

Dessert 4: Crème catalan tarte Tatin - Sorbet. Complex, creamy custard of milk skin and spices was layered with delicate caramel and interesting tarte tatin sorbet; balanced overtop was a bow of burned milk and cube of apricot gelée.

Dessert 5: Macaron Fourme d’Ambert | Himbeersorbet. A macaron of blue Auvergne cow’s milk cheese, filled with raspberry jelly and sorbet and trickled over with lemon cream, worked surprisingly pleasantly, its tart crackly crust giving way to creamy macaroon and intense fruit.

Dessert 6: Schaum kuss beschwipst. ‘Tipsy foam kiss’ translated as a teacake of dark chocolate, encrusted with caramelised Demerara sugar, covering ginger and bubbly rum mousse.

Dessert 7: Magnum Vendôme am Stiel. The restaurant’s custom magnum lolly of bitter Valrhona Guanaja 70% chocolate and icy coconut ice cream was quite decent.

Dessert 8: Mohr im Hemd Zartbitterschokolade | Eierlikör. Another dessert originally named before political correctness became popular (schaum kuss was once neger kuss and mohrenkopf), this Austrian treat traditionally looks like a Kugelhulf of nutty chocolate and whipped cream, but here, warm chocolaty sponge is smothered with crème of advocaat over a base of crunchy streusel and under tasty tuile topped with gold leaf. The moist, strong cake was nicely complemented by the creamy, rich cream that was essentially eggnog liquor.

At this point, to allow the staff to ready the dining room for dinner, we were escorted through the courtyard and main building to the hotel lounge to partake in our petit fours and coffees.

Petit Fours: Schokoladenpraline, Fruchtgelee, exotischer Weißwurzel. Earl gray, champagne, coconut and nougat pralines were all decent. Cigarettes of flaky pastry were piped through with Nutella-like milk chocolate. Passion fruit and papaya marshmallows were sweet and fluffy whilst tart rhubarb and elderflower jellies were toothsome.

Vendôme’s young staff are led by Italian maître d'hôtel, Miguel Angel Calero Novillo and are very good. Swift, stealthy and alert, they looked after us well. Miguel was an excellent host – courteous, talkative and attentive – whilst special mention is also reserved for the deserving Joanna. Carrying out dual jobs of serveuse and sommelier consummately, she was charming, patient and delightful. I did however have one complaint regarding service. At the very end of our (long) meal, we were a little hurried and had to take coffee in the bar. This meant a considerable and winding walk to find said bar wherein we were charged additionally for drinks. I felt that given that they were aware the menu did comprise twenty-five courses and that we had arrived at the start of lunch service, they ought to have been prepared. It is a minor point though and I did leave very satisfied with our treatment.

The first amuse showed that the kitchen meant business – four tasty, very dissimilar morsels that clearly involved some effort to make. The success of the successive appetisers though was varying: the blätterwald and coralle were forgettable, the knäckebrot just decent, but the auster, accomplished. The same has to be said for the entrées, my thoughts on which were again divided between delectable (kabeljau), terrible (thun) and everything in between. My opinion of the main plates was high and consistently so with the Sauerbraten being especially delicious. The fromage was something out-of-the-ordinary and enjoyable too. Desserts were also at a steadily good standard – the crème Catalan possibly being the pick of the bunch – whilst petit fours were unmemorable.

Wissler is considered a leader of the neue deutsche küche movement and it is clear to see why. Universal, innovative, sensory, consisting of an extended series of dishes and drawing on local, global, luxury and lowly ingredients, this cuisine more than meets this school’s entry requirements.

One aspect of the cooking that stood out was the incorporation of classic and classical German recipes and produce. Wissler is inspired by not only his current surroundings of Westphalia and his own Baden-Württemberg, but also by all the regional cooking of Germany; he also calls upon the country’s more esoteric ingredients. Early on, Frankfurter grüne Sauce featured from the west, Leipziger allerlei from the east, succeeded by schnecke (a Swabian delicacy) and Bavarian seeforelle from the south, before the state speciality of sauerbraten. Interspersed throughout were humble Germanic household foodstuffs such as sauerkraut, knäckebrot and meerrettichkren. Käsekuchen, schaum kuss and mohr im hemd extended this theme through to desserts. German chefs have long followed French footsteps in the kitchen and focused on extravagant materials – Wissler was one of the first among his compatriots to shift the spotlight back onto local food. For this he has won much praise and rightly so; personally, it being my first experience of German fine-dining, I very much appreciated the insight this approach offered.

For Wissler however, this does not suffice; he is determined to put his own touch on these established dishes. Using Teutonic tradition as a base, he rebuilds recipes using the most modern of techniques. Thus the common schneckensuppe of the chef’s south-western home had been transformed into a single spherificated mouthful or the also popular maultaschen was remembered with marmorierter Mascarponeravioli. As mentioned, the sauerbraten was a most delicious demonstration of this with the sous vide ox meat. The chef certainly seems a fan of molecular cuisine – there is even a nod to Alinea at the start of the meal with Vendôme’s menu set out similarly and maybe even with the saiblingskaviar that was made popular by the Chicago restaurant a few years ago.

Embracing Germany’s own cuisine is one aspect of the neue deutsche küche, embracing those of other countries is another. This Wissler certainly does, again putting his spin upon them. France was not completely forgotten, referenced with England in the thun and Spain with kabeljau. The chef did not limit himself to Europe though, incorporating ideas from South America – cajeta quemada – and Asia too – langoustine and salziges Wasser.

Another prominent principle of Wissler’s style seems to be a strong aesthetic. Enticing colours are standard, successfully making everything more appealing. At the table, vivid sauces and bright, light oils are added. Some courses were also suggestive – the Leipziger allerlei attempted to resemble a forest by the shore; langoustine evoked the ingredient in its element; and even the pureed stielmus split with jus emulated the baby red chard besides it. The chef also appeared to be partial to presenting dishes on multiple plates and to using more creative crockery.

Wissler holds a certain affection for modern Spanish cuisine – a fact hinted at today through the molecular touches, tableside drizzling, some ingredients as well as the extended tasting menu formula that was followed. Although the former were executed and employed, at the very least, decently, it was in the latter aspect that lunch struggled. Either courses too many in number or servings too substantial in size meant that the meal was both very filling and contributed to our being rushed at its end. The cooking was indeed intricate and labour-intensive – to produce so many dishes, each with so many components, was impressive, especially by a kitchen of some fifteen chefs – however, the consistency of quality throughout was less than consummate. The errors with the langoustine and thun come immediately to mind.

On the one hand, I am sure there are some who will argue that if one orders a twenty-five course lunch, they ought to expect a lot of food and if one course or even two are off, it is only trivial in the greater scheme of things; but on the other, I am certain that a chef ought not to offer such an option, should they not be able to accomplish it faultlessly.

If anything, it seemed that Wissler was trying too hard. Every dish, each calling for an immense effort to deliver, was loaded with elaborate elements with some even partnered with additional plates. One of my main objections was with these secondary sides – in no instance did one augment its principal. That being said though, the bouillon that was brought with Leipziger allerlei was delicious; so much so that this could even have been served solo. A last point on this was the repetitive sauce pouring. I do appreciate this practice – attaching theatre to the experience, adding animation to a dish, enhancing aromas and introducing new ones – however its constant use (once two were poured during a single course) become simply monotonous.

Vendôme was enjoyable, but not impeccable. Wissler is a fine chef with clearly a lot of talent – his dishes showed great imagination, thought and technical ability – but this meal, in my opinion, could have been improved with a little refinement of maybe just filtering. I think he should be applauded for his part in the evolution and expansion of German fine dining, but there seemed some rough edges still to be ironed out. Neue deutsche küche is neue by nature though and it is something that is developing – with time, things are bound to improve.

But today, it just seemed that somewhere within my good meal there was an even better one.

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Oud Sluis, the Netherlands

Hello,
These are my thoughts on my meal here last April.
Please click here for full commentary and photographs: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/04/16/oud-sluis-sluis/

Some might be surprised to read that over four hundred years ago, the southern provinces of the Netherlands, along with all Belgium and Luxembourg, were under Spanish rule for nigh onto a century and a half. Indeed, although not a historic amount of time, it was long enough to leave a mark on the tiny town of Sluis, which rests on the south-western rim of Holland, snuggling the Belgian border.

The subtle Spanish stamp that remains can be seen in some of the ongoing onomatolgy of the area; Josés, Marcos and Marias still litter the telephone book. One named in the same vein is native Sergio Herman and he is chef-patron of the three Michelin starred Oud Sluis.

This restaurant, or at least the building, has been in Herman’s family for three generations. It first belonged to his mother’s father, who ran it as a café and barbershop. In the sixties, Herman’s parents, Ronnie and An, took the business over and transformed it into a simple seafood restaurant, Roem Van Holland. Sat beside the Oosterschelde estuary, where those Spaniards once harboured their galleys, Ronnie had direct access to some of Europe’s finest shellfish. Soon enough, he – and his mussel dishes – had gained local fame.

Although young Sergio may have been raised in his father’s restaurant, as a youth, it was not cooking, but football, late nights and ladies that he concerned himself with. That was until Ronnie decided what his son needed was discipline. Thus he sent him to nearby Bruges, where he attended the international culinary school Ter Groene Poorte.
After completing his studies, he had a brief stint at Kaatje Bij de Sluis in Blokzijl before joining celebrated Dutch chef Cas Spijkers as an unpaid intern at De Swaen near Eindhoven. In 1990, a year spent here and having done a stage at El Bulli, his father, falling ill, asked that he return to the family restaurant. Initially the two worked side by side, but slowly his parents allowed him more and more responsibility until three years later, when he was given full control albeit with his parents in the background – his father managing the herb garden and mother doing the dishes.

Herman decided that to go forward a new direction was needed, thus he abandoned the mussel-pan in favour of a more ‘gastronomic’ approach. The chef cites an early visit to Pierre Gagnaire as the moment true creativity was revealed to him, however, it is the molecular cooking of Heston Blumenthal and more so, the Adria brothers (with whom he has stayed in contact) that inspired him most. He also possesses a genuine interest in exotic cuisines, although it is the food of Spain that he is fondest of. ‘Oud Sluis is one large culinary experiment,’ he states, ‘we love the magic of special herbs and spices. Our chefs apply the ‘culinary entertainment’ concept and skilfully play with various textures, different temperatures and surprising presentations. A lot of time and energy is spent in the quest for originality.’ Herman’s approach worked; in 1995, shortly after he started managing the restaurant, Michelin awarded him his first star. The second came in 1999 and the third finally in 2005.

Oud Sluis, almost ironically given that it specialises in seafood, sits in the Beestenmarkt or meat-market, a small square in the centre of this town. The restaurant’s building, once a farmhouse then later a merchant’s home, remains simple and unassuming today. The façade is brilliant alabaster and the terracotta tiled roof, a patchwork of copper and moss. An antique, dark green water pump stands before a great tree that grows only a couple of yards from the front entrance. The perimeter is lined with neatly trimmed square-shaped bushes in addition to the iconic, heavy-set stone post, chiselled with Oud Sluis Restaurant and carrying a red plaque that offers more information.

Within, forty covers are split betwixt two rooms with a smaller one to the left as one enters and larger one to the right. The interior and kitchen have both recently been refurbished; ‘het wordt sexy chic’ according to Herman, ‘the dining area is a big area. The atmosphere I describe as sexy chic with a lot of black colour, a bit of a living room style with special seats of Spanish designers.’ The main space is modern yet comfortable with white woods along the outside wall and light ones panelling those inside. The roof is exposed beam and a wooden column, set in the centre, holds up the middle bar that bears the inscription, ‘Aiensiendoet gedenchen diet dendoit de maegarencken’. French blinds and long cream curtains limit the light let in; ceiling spotlights add brightness. Furnishings are sleek and jet black. Tables are decently spaced and twice-clothed with heavy white linen over drooping beige. They are well-sized, but quite cluttered with a couple of candles, yellow rose in oval vase, stemware, oversized bread plates, promotional literature, olive oil, salt and pepper grinders and their separate raw granules. Crockery is from several makers including Bernaudaud, JL Coquet and Piet Stockmans whilst sundry eating utensils are George Jensen’s. A single blue and white painting that portrays what could well be a swordfish eating its own tail is all that is hung upon the walls. Besides it, there is also a wide yet narrow viewing window into the kitchen – or, Herman proving all habits die hard, maybe into the dining room: ‘the kitchen staff always want to know if any young women are coming in. If there are, the front of house staff seat them at tables three, five and six. That way we in the kitchen get to enjoy the view as well.’

Amuse Bouche 1: Chips de legumes, crème de laitue et sauce BBQ. Three chips came sailing in on a wavy porcelain platter and partnered with herby lettuce-barbecue dip. Lacy, light copper Jerusalem artichoke crisp, splashed with varak – (tasteless) edible silver foil decoration from India popular on special occasions – and vodka diagonals, was almost sticky with increasingly strong savour; peppered beetroot tuile was crackly-thin; and dried sweet potato seasoned with herbs and salt, spicy and pleasantly textured. The sauce, of earthier lettuce and smoky-sweet BBQ, was creamy and well-judged with each ingredient distinct.

Le Pain: Pain au levain. The bread is baked by baker Alex Croquet from Wattignies, just outside of Lille. And it is excellent – toothsome, crunchy, warm and with generous, soft crumb. It is no surprise that Monsieur Croquet, who abhors additives, chemical fertilisers, even tap water, grinds his cereals the old-fashioned way on a millstone and is rumoured to be so protective over his yeast culture that he carries it with him on his travels, is acclaimed by many as France’s best boulanger (Gagnaire and Ducasse are fans). If there remains uncertainty surrounding his superiority, there certainly does not regarding the butter; it is Bordier’s beurre de barrate demi-sel.

Amuse Bouche 2: Sandwich de saumon en gelée de moutarde et d’aneth. The next amuse was distinctly Nordic in nature: a small, upright cube was composed of wafer-thin, seeded rye crackers encasing equally-sized squares of house-cured Scottish salmon and dill-mustard jelly, garnished with sour cream drops implanted with tiny dill sprigs. Brittle upon bite, then creamy and smooth, this was quite delectable. The ingredients were a classic combination, but balanced nicely with good, clean salmon set against spicy-sweet mustard and off-set by tangy cream.

Amuse Bouche 3: Couteau mariné au codium. Almost akin to two boats buoyant upon calm, cornflower blue ocean, a brace of razor clam shells bore codium mousse, salicorne and zostera and the clam itself diced, all sitting in Spanish olive oil. The majestic blue, bright mossy and myrtle greens, mocha beige and golden emerald Arbequina oil made this dish a rather pretty sight. Briny sweet clam was slightly rubbery whilst the samphire salty and herby. Seaweed purée tasted earthy and Catalonian oil added nutty fruitiness. Each element had individual and contrasting flavour that together, though not clashing, failed to synchronise easily.

Amuse Bouche 4: Boulgour a la crème de carottes, salicorne et coques; Maquereau, legerement mariné et artichaut surgelée. A tilted bowl was brought with baked and toasted bulgur, chubby cockles, purslane and salicorne with creams of both as well as of carrot; at the same time, marinated mackerel atop artichoke crème and dotted with lime jelly arrived alongside a cracker topped with beetroot-dusted scoopful of ‘deep-frozen’ artichoke. The curvature of the reflective bowl distorted and inflated the colourful contents interestingly if slightly at the price of practicality, but beyond this, the briny escabeche cockles complemented the saltier samphire and snappy pourpier. Carrot tendered its sweetness and the variations of cracked wheat varied the consistency agreeably. Intense lime jelly cut through the oily yet subtle mackerel as the artichoke cream lifted both. The additional artichoke mousse was rather cold and earthy.

Amuse Bouche 5: Tomate, basilic, anchois et olives; Huitre, vinaigrette au kaffir et yaourt Thailandais. A second double-dish presentation comprised peeled tomato with anchovy cream and various structures of basil and olive on a shiny metallic plate, its edges curled towards the ceiling; and a transparent (fish-) bowl, its base filled with Thai yoghurt embedded with Zeeland oyster over which lay assorted toasted grains with green and purple shiso, mizzled with kaffir lime vinaigrette. The first melange was very Mediterranean and another very traditional teaming, although there was a twist in the multiple forms that the basil (snow, leaf, mousse) and olive (cake, tuile, tapenade, gel, raw) came in. This complexity, initially intriguing, became meaningless after discovering it tasted rather dulled. The second portion was better. Kaffir lime added exotic acidity to the local oyster that had a hint of sea sweetness to it. The bivalve and yoghurt was an unusual pairing, but worked nicely. Grains were again used to add some crunch.

Entrée 1: Saint Jacques marinées, ficoïde glaciale, bergamote, fenouil et vinaigre de chardonnay. Olive oil and soy sauce marinated scallop was sliced thrice, each piece carrying a pale green disc of fennel crème crowned with a darker spot of ficoïde glaciale cream, a little of its leaf and tiny tuile circle. At one end of the wide bowl, scallop tartare topped shredded spring onion and fennel whilst, on the other, two smears of fennel (lighter) and ficoïde glaciale (darker) mousse scaled the side of the plate; olive oil, chardonnay vinegar jelly stabbed with baby bergamot leaf, the bergamot’s maroon blossom and its powder were all sprinkled throughout. The pureed ficoïde had salty tang that was countered by the anise-sweetness of the fennel. Slices of this same vegetable, along with the mild onion and brittle tuiles, supplied crackly texture. The minty-citrus of the bergamot shone through very strongly here, followed by the bright, fruity-tart chardonnay. Unfortunately, the sweetness of the scallop was lost.

Entrée 2: Langoustine légèrement fumée et marinée, betterave rouge et radis. Radish – shoots, slices, carved tops, leaves – beetroot – raw, gelée, meringue, microgreens, powder – and cress – seeds, sprigs – salad was served strewn across the spacious circumference on one half of the plate; as these greens encircled a small lake of beet and truffle oils, on their cusp was set a smoked langoustine on its back whilst a cannelloni of langoustine tartare wrapped in beet jelly was nestled amidst them. Fat and sweet, the shellfish was a superb specimen; cooked just right, one could feel its stringy encircling tendons snap upon bite. Its tartare was decent, although did not have as much or as pleasing savour as the cooked. Much worse, the raw beetroot and radish were actually disagreeable; they had become so dry that they were astringent. Additionally, the truffle was not at all sapid and the dish, as a whole, somewhat under-seasoned.

Entrée 3: Crumble de foie d’oie. A nugget of goose liver terrine coated with crispy rice, more of these grains, hazelnut sawdust and crushed Pedro Ximinez meringue covered a concealed sub-layer of this same sherry’s granité and green apple ice cream; atop the crumble, nitrogen-frozen pearls of foie d’oie were scattered whilst larger meringue flakes and tuiles studded it. As if having shot up from some soil, the upstanding pea tendrils added life and a natural context to the aspect. The larger foie fragment was silky and intense, its granular crust a contrast; the smaller beads disappeared on the tongue, leaving behind the same, clear flavour. Pedro Ximinez, a dark, sweet dessert sherry, was indeed potent. The buried apple was cool, sweetly-tart and rather useful in tempering the overlaying components, some of which were, when tried individually, just too strong to enjoy. Taken altogether though, these proved surprisingly pleasant.

Entrée 4: Huître de Zélande au concombre, artichaut et pourpier, vinaigrette de fleur de sureau; croquante. A threesome of skinny cucumber slices and two miniature mounds of artichoke mousse were arranged around a poached Zeeland oyster smeared in sabayon; pourpier blades, cucumber cream dots and elderflower vinaigrette dressed the dish. Gigas by name, gigas by nature, the warm pacific oyster from the Oosterschelde was juicy and plump. Its subtle elemental-fruitiness was a good match with citrus elderflower whilst the lemony sabayon had real zing. Like the succulent purslane, cucumber was very refreshing and a very fine addition.
A second side-plate was presented with a ‘crunchy’ oyster. Its shell, sculpted from the oyster’s juice, encased diced bivalve, apple and fennel drizzled with elderflower and was finished off with nitro-boules of oyster crème. Crackly, moist, acidic and mineral, this was a tasty morsel.

Plat principal 1: Asperges blanches de Zélande, jaune d’oeuf légèrement fumée, crème de morilles et macaron à la bière, homard et jus de Bernardus et citron vert. Smoked sous-vide egg yolk with caviar crest of Italian Oscietra, morels, Bernardus whitbier macaron with lobster tartare middle and slow-cooked Zeeland lobster propping up Zeeland white asparagus all came clustered in the centre of an oval dish sitting in a sauce of mushroom, whitbier and lime. Black truffle dotted one side of the plate, but was utterly vapid. The huge yolk was thick and toothsome, however, the caviar, farmed in northern Italy, was absolutely horrid – salty and fishy. In contrast, the white asparagus was nutty sweet and the morels, flavoursome, if not particularly large. The hollandaise sauce, a nod to the country within which we were, was spicy and tasty; sadly though, the macaron, which was sitting in this, had become soggy because of it. Disregarding that fact, it was light yet concentrated. Bernardus whitbier is a Belgian abbey wheat-beer from Watou, allegedly made with water that fell at the time of Joan of Arc; like with other Belgian whitbier (as opposed to German Weißbiere) various exotic spices had been added including orange, lemon and coriander. This citrus element was in concord with the lime of the sauce. The local lobster, also from the Oosterschelde, is a distinct variety of the European family which has developed in this isolated estuary; it was difficult to distinguish it here though.

Plat principal 2: Couscous épicé au crabe, crambe maritime et zostère, vinaigrette de ‘fingerlime’ et jus de crabe et épices. Stems of seagrass, sea kale swirled around them, sprouted out from a clutch of cracked wheat scattered with Cromer crab and fingerlime; adjacent stood a column of more crabmeat bound within green sea kale leaf. Tableside, a spiced crab broth was poured overtop, which was thick, rich and rather lovely. Salty-sweet seagrass was crisp, whilst the kale’s blades resembled cabbage though the stems were milder – both had faint nuttiness that married well with the crunchy wheat. The fingerlime, essentially bushfood, is an Australian fruit filled with small, sour, effervescent caviar-like capsules. This was acidic and delicious. Regrettably, the flavour of the crabmeat was unable to be found.

Plat principal 3: Agneau de Lozère, barbecue aux tomates et assortiment de courgettes, burrata, basilic frais et roquette, jus d’agneau épicé. Spread with pesto and seated upon polenta, double-cut, French cutlet and braised shoulder of Lozère lamb, with various varieties of tomato, basil, rocket and courgette, formed a circular ring around a puddle of olive oil into which the meat’s jus roti was ladled at the table. Initially, the appearance of the not-inconsiderable lamb chop pleased. Lamentably, looks are not always what they seem: the outside was cooked too much, the inside cooked too little and the uncrisped fat left limp and oily. It was decidedly sorrowful. The out-of-season tomatoes (red zebra, Coeur de boeuf, Roman jaune), courgettes and patty pan did not fare much better bar one of the structures of courgette spaghetti that was texturally appealing at least.
As this dish was nearly done, before the crockery cleared, the serveur delivered a small demitasse containing burrata doused in a little olive oil and covered with a thin, cloudy disc of clarified tomato jelly. The cheese was decent, but again the tomato was unnoticeable. What was more worrying was the timing of its arrival. At first, I accepted that it may have been intentionally served late, possibly as a sort of palate cleanser – after all, dairy does often accompany meat in some cultures to aid its digestion. Since this meal however, I have learned that it ought to have came together with the lamb. They had simply forgotten to plate it.

Dessert 1: ‘Chocolate Rocks’, galangal, menthe et citron vert. Two rolling mountains of mint and vanilla custard, overlaid with chocolate mousse then completely carpeted with choc dusting, were separated by lime ice cream atop sablé biscuit, besprinkled with cocoa powder; galangal gel, mint leaves, broken meringue and more cocoa littered the plate. The chocolate mousse (Valrhona guanaja 70%) had deep, dark savour with velvety, almost ethereal lightness; the concealed custard mellowed the choc above whilst providing substance. Spicy galangal was a very good touch, sizzling on the tongue. Meringue crumbs were sugary and the ice cream faintly tart.

Dessert 2: ‘Blanc pur’, riz, coco et cheese-cake, mangue épicée. Four ring-shaped meringues formed an ascending staircase, sprayed with lactic acid dust and set atop a smear of cheesecake cream; the first rung was rice pudding crème, the following, coconut macaron and lime emulsion, mango jus locked in a white chocolate sphere and finally, coconut sorbet with crumble and sugar tuile. The rice pudding had agreeable graininess; the second step, creamy sweetness; and eating the third, spicy mango exploded from its choc bubble. The cool sorbet was only average. Lactic acid added an interesting sour note to the dessert, although the cheesecake itself was insipid.

Dessert 3: ’Trois herbes’, basilic, citron-mélisse, verveine, fleur d’oranger transparente et poudre d’amande. A trinity of cold quenelles – dark lemon balm granité, lighter basil cream, pastel verbena sorbet – each delineated by their original leaves, were decorated with a shiny sugar blade and copper strands, almond biscuit branches, soil-like golden granola and drops of orange blossom water. The lemony, herby scoops each had slightly different, distinctive taste and texture, whilst the additional elements contributed crunch and snap. The fragrant and citrus-sweet fleur d’oranger stood out especially. The arrangement here was clearly meant to be light-hearted and whimsical, but it left a markedly gimmicky impact – the elements appeared plastic and simplistic, even though much work had obviously been required to produce this little course.

Petit Fours 1: Chocolat blanc et fruit de la passion. A rocky sphere of white chocolate, powdered with icing sugar, held crystallised passion fruit within. After a firm bite, the thick and creamy choc gave way to icy fruit, which had a solid tart kick to it.

Petit Fours 2: Abricot et lait de soja; et tuile de rhubarbe. Upon a sweet cracker, apricot crème sat with soy milk ice cream, one studded with gold leaf (whose semblance to some sort of archaic medicine-man on bended knee I could not ignore), the other with sugar tuiles. The soy had rich, milky creaminess which provided an adequate foil to the apricot’s sugary confit-like savour.
The long rhubarb sugar stick had an awkward sourness that was quickly replaced by sugary sweetness.

Migniardises: Gelée de cassis; crème de pistache; duo; boule de café; sandwich de chocolate avec tonka; chocolat de cabernet sauvignon; et meringue de citron vert. A wooden box brought several elaborate sweet samples on black and white slabs. Jammy, tart blackcurrant cylinder was topped with baby meringues of raspberry and tart yoghurt; pistachio tyre was appetising yet its elderflower jelly drops were not; and white and dark chocolate sandwich had strange jellied consistency. Dry spuma of coffee came with weak vanilla cream; crunchy chocolate cake had aromatic tonka and nutty base; and floral verbena meringue, lime zing. Dominique Personne of the Chocolate Line in Bruges (an old friend of Herman’s since hospitality school) supplies both Oud Sluis and other local three-star Hof Van Cleve with a signature piece. Here it is the ‘Oud Sluis caramel’; a chocolate truffle with cabernet sauvignon vinegar – its domed shell was nicely crisp, its base filled with pine nuts, but the liquid centre far too harsh.

It was an fascinating experience with the staff today. There may have been indigenous cultural issues at play I was unaware of, but the serveurs – all gentlemen, all fairly young – were distinctly glum. The service was indeed professional, efficient and thorough, but it was confusing too. Words were friendly, engaging and inquisitive, but faces were grim, smiles conspicuously absent. To the contrary, the mood in the restaurant was much livelier and sociable; an adjacent table of older Dutch ladies who lunch were even keen to start a conversation, asking our opinion of the food.

Sadly, my opinion was not a high one. Lunch started well. A series of five amuses bouche, more if you count each component plate separately, was generous, curious and, especially in the cases of the sandwich de saumon, boulgour a la crème de carottes, and huitre, vinaigrette au kaffir, tasty. Saint Jacques, crumble de foie d’oie and huître de Zélande were decent as well, but not faultless. The langoustine dish amidst these was disappointing given the shellfish’s quality whilst the asperges blanches de Zélande was really just wrong. The agneau de Lozère was just as bad, but the difference between them was that the lamb could have been a good dish with better cooking and served in season whilst the asparagus and lobster was poorly thought through – the dreadful caviar, the poor lobster-egg combo. It is difficult to judge which of these two was worse. It was actually the course in between them that I enjoyed most, the couscous épicé au crabe. This was spicy, warm and bursting with flavour. Desserts were again not of great standard; for all their complexity, they were just not particularly memorable. Petit fours and mignardises finished the meal in the manner that it commenced – pleasantly and liberally bestowed.

The amount of time, energy and effort that was incontestably and commendably expended on every dish, from appetisers to mains to petit fours, was satisfying to see. From the first plate presented – chips de legumes – it was clear that this was a serious kitchen keen to impress: three crisps, each made of a different vegetable and by a different method; furthermore, something unexpected was also included with the eye-catching varak. Everything followed in this same spirit, each course meticulously, painstakingly prepared. During only the amuses, bulgur was toasted and cooked; then five forms of olive were paired with three of basil; and almost all the entrées and plats principal showed off their principal ingredient two ways – scallop (carpaccio/tartare); langoustine (smoked/tartare); foie d’oie (terrine/frozen); and the list repeats like this until the lamb (braised/roasted).

Another interesting element of Herman’s cooking is the juxtaposition of something local with something exotic. This is a typical Belgian tendency (Sluis is considered the most Flemish of Dutch towns…) and has its roots in the historic influx of foreign goods that arrived in these countries from their former colonies. ‘In Belgium and France, there is such a heavy food culture. In Holland, it's different. Since we have no culture for food, we are free,’ feels the chef. Therefore, he draws on what was once Holland’s own empire – much of modern-day Indonesia. From that region, there were native ingredients like kaffir lime, galangal and mango. Such products were married with Zeeland’s own produce in recipes that included oyster with yaourt Thailandais, Cromer crab with fingerlime and so on. The chef’s affection for Spain was also felt through the Arbequina olive oil, escabeche cockles, Pedro Ximinez and fleur d’oranger; although Italy’s incidence was just as strong. All the same, one of the real highlights was being able to taste the area’s own bounty, so their firm presence was appreciated and the chef’s determination to use them, encouraging.

Lunch was also light. Herman, by and large, eschews traditional sauces, stocks and the application of butter in favour of olive oils and acidity. This lifts the meal and makes it easier to relish the many morsels presented.

Of course, not all was well. Unfortunately, there is also an inevitable downside to such intensively laboured-over dishes – the odds of an error occurring, of sloppiness creeping in, are increased while maintaining the bar becomes only harder. The kitchen employs around thirty-five chefs, which is one cook per customer, but such are the recipes here, that this may not be sufficient. The cooking was, on the whole, faultless, except for two errors in execution that ruined those two particular dishes. With the langoustine légèrement fumée, the raw radish and beetroot slices were so acetic that they overwhelmed the fine prawn. They seemed to have dried out waiting, maybe, to be plated, but I am certain something additional must have been added to taint them thus. The agneau de Lozère, on the other hand, was blighted by blunder: the cuisson, frightfully careless and plating, slapdash. Admittedly, the absence of the burrata was but a minor oversight, which could have been overlooked had it not compounded an already dire dish. It may be argued though that there was some minor merit in their attempted reconciliation of this slip. A smaller flaw in the asperges blanches de Zélande was that the macaron, because it sat amidst the sauces, became sodden. This was in fact only fixed after my visit with the macaroon then delivered in a separate side-dish instead.

The issue with the langoustine – the auxiliary elements savours’ subsuming those of the chief ingredient – seemed a prominent one. The same trouble was also seen with the saint Jacques, homard and crabe. Regarding the first and last, at least these were sill satisfying as they were, but surely one would expect them to have been even better had they been delivered with better balance; otherwise why include those components if they were not to be allowed or able to express themselves. One other feature common to many courses was the almost compulsory inclusion of something crunchy, which sometimes came over more desperate than well-intentioned. This complaint was exacerbated by the fact that this ‘something crunchy’ was often some sort of grain variant or, even more consistently, circular toasted tuiles – it was far too repetitive, agitating actually. There is a more trivial remark to be made regarding the amuses too – although rather decent, these had not largely changed since January, five months prior. For somewhere that prides itself on being exciting and dynamic, this did not fit that formula. On a final note, I was disappointed by the desserts; shiny, plastic and sugary, they simply seemed almost toy-like and not in a charming, whimsical way. All these were not problems of execution, but of design.

I have tried to justify the mediocre quality of the meal – and only because friends have written unanimously well of their own experiences here – but I have been unable to. There were some signs of hope in the good ingredients, hard working kitchen and enticing combinations, however there was also imprecision in construction and implementation, all coupled with the rather sombre mood within which the food was served. In an attempt at their defence, I mention that Oud Sluis had only recently reopened after their Easter holiday. Could there have been some rustiness leftover from their rest or perhaps post-break blues? It is immaterial: the restaurant was open and I was charged full price. There has been mention in Dutch press of Herman wishing to expand his business, with Antwerp and Amsterdam thrown about as possible destinations for a second venture – ‘it is important for me to grow a little bit – to have new challenges, so I remain sharp.’ There has even been talk of him relocating altogether to Ibiza, although it is ‘nothing more’ than talk, he attests.

Whatever the cause behind this seeming lack of focus, what was worthy noting was that literally a couple of days later, Herman and his maître d'hôtel were leaving for London. They would be dining at Hakkasan and Fat Duck, but the real reason for their excursion was the announcement presentation of San Pellegrino’s ‘Worlds 50 Best Restaurants’. Unbeknownst to anyone there (I presume…), we were dining at the twenty-ninth best restaurant in the world.

www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com
foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk

food.snob in International

Ubuntu, Napa Report

Hi All,
thank you for the comments.
As is hopefully clear from all my mumblings, I certainly enjoyed my meal and am definitely very eager to return.
Not all the dishes were stunners, yes. But the best ones, were perfect. I can still taste them now, months later.
I only hope others experience similar meals...

@rworange: I personally would rather click on the link. That way one can read the text as was intended by the writer - with formatting, photos to break up the text, etc. However, I have indeed come to appreciate others don't care or don't mind or really just don't like links. Therefore, because at the end of the day I would rather share what I wrote than earn another click (it's not as if I am earning something with every extra eyeball :P...), I decided some time ago to just copy and paste.

@robinez: Not to counter your statement, but I think it refers to the fact that at the end of the day, each individual is not alone in the world; their actions impact others. I interpret it best in examples such as...if you use more petrol/litter/waste paper...you are impacting everyone in some way...or conversely, instead of throwing out your old clothes, give them to charity. Maybe my explanation is not as coherent as I would like...lol
Nevertheless, thank you (whisper - you might be the only one).

www.foodsnobblog.wordpress.com
foodsnob@hotmail.co.uk
:P

food.snob in San Francisco Bay Area

Ubuntu, Napa Report

Hello, these are my thoughts from dinner there last April.
For full commentary and photography, please see: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/04/12/ubuntu-napa/

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?

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food.snob in San Francisco Bay Area

Manresa, Los Gatos

You are very welcome indeed.
I enjoyed it immensely and to be honest, I was delighted with what I found in California. The standard is really very good and it is clearly somewhere on the way up. Very exciting eating there.
I cannot wait to return to the West Coast!

food.snob in San Francisco Bay Area

Manresa, Los Gatos

Hello Again,
We returned the next night too.
Please click here for my full review with photography: http://foodsnobblog.wordpress.com/2009/04/12/manresa-the-return-los-gatos/

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.

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Lyon for 3 nights-where to eat

Of course. But don't hold your breath... ;)

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