A Life Worth Eating

“Waste makes waist,” I told Adam.  The wine was running freely and so were my thoughts.  He looked inspired, and by inspired I mean confused.  But I explained: the whole “portion control” fad has gone too far.  I feared the evil empire of moderation had somehow gotten to him, too.  We don’t tear pages out of books to read better or leave sports games at halftime to more fully appreciate them.  Why should food be any different?  And frankly, leaving pork belly as succulent as the piece we were served at Providence lonely and uneaten on the plate says a lot about a man’s character.  I mean, yeah we had just finished lunch at Pizzeria Mozza an hour before this.  And maybe those two pizzas (each) had been a little filling.  But where was Adam’s integrity?  I thought the man had values.

I tried to help, though.  Really, I did.  Mozza is only 6 blocks away from Providence. So to digest (or whatever normal people do between meals) after that late lunch, I suggested we walk over to set up a reservation in person. I explained our situation to the host: Adam had a plane to catch later on, but we (and by we, I mean I) wanted the longest menu that Chef Michael Cimarusti could dream up that night. If we came in, say, right when they opened the doors for service that evening, could they just make sure to fill the next several hours with as much good food and wine as possible?

The host was a nice guy, and this scenario is probably not one he sees every day, so I tried not to take offense when he suggested that the 5-course prix fixe could easily have us in and out in under 2 hours. Nor did I put any stock in his warning that we would be the only people in the restaurant if we came in early. This was LA, after all.  Maybe he assumed our focus during dinner might actually be someplace other than the 12 inch circle of porcelain in front of us. Still unsure if our goal had been properly conveyed but not wanting to belabor it much more, we made the 5:30 reservation and came back at the appointed hour.

Never much for pre-dinner cocktails, we started instead with champagne — Nicolas Feuillatte Brut. To my slight chagrin, they still brought us menus. We stubbornly didn’t open them, but the waiter began to explain, “So, a bit about the menu: You can order a la carte, or a 5-course tasting, or the 9-course…” But what we would really like, if possible, is the chef’s menu, I said.   Adam then asked the waiter what that experience is like, and he replied, simply, “Intense.” Adam looked terrified.  I looked like I’d just received news of a job promotion or a new grandchild.

Our first bites were cocktails of the edible variety – greyhound, mojito, gin and tonic. Served in cute little El Bulli spoons, the spherified greyhound had the slightly bitter pucker effect of grapefruit and the mojito held a refreshing burst of fresh mint and a lingering rum flavor.  The gin and tonic was in a little block of sugar-coated gelée, and with a squeeze of fresh lime juice it also kick-started our taste buds for what was to come.

The bread guy approached the table and I knew right way that we would be friends. Only friends bring you warm bacon brioche, chive rolls, and focaccia along with soft butter and coarse sea salt. The butter wasn’t life-changing, but I’ve turned into a butter snob as of late, so don’t listen to me. But the bread was really great. I understand that me putting butter on the bacon brioche is a bit excessive. But, mmmm… sweet, sweet excess.  I had probably 3 or 4 rounds of each type of bread during the course of the meal, as Adam looked on in horror amazement.

A long slate tile held our next three dishes, the first of which was kanpachi, fresh wasabi, umeboshi, yuzu.  The raw kanpachi was of exceptional quality.  Maybe not can-we-please-pause-for-a-moment-of-silence quality like Urasawa’s, but still really nice.  I loved the salty, sweet, sour, and cold pickled plum granita as a backdrop for the fish, and the wasabi and yuzu sang loud hot and sour notes on the finish.  Really a nice combination of flavors and texture.

The simply titled uni egg/caviar was a cool, smooth sea urchin panna cotta dotted with bright green chive oil and a gel made from soy sauce, gilded with a dollop of Ossetra caviar.  When you dug to the bottom of the eggshell, little tongues of sea urchin roe were waiting beneath like treasures on the ocean floor.  Granted, I don’t have any pictures of that part.  I just don’t have that kind of discipline.  But this dish was delicious.

I saved the strongest flavors — hog island oyster, chorizo gelée, lime, cilantro — for last.  The salty combination of the oyster, the gelée, and little bits of diced chorizo was just a bit overwhelming.  But pork and mollusks do play together pretty nicely, I must say.  The punch of acidity from the lime helped brighten things up.  I also enjoyed the texture of this dish, with the viscous gelée giving way to the pleasantly chewy oyster and chorizo.

Next came a compelling rendition of tuna tartare — turnip, crispy soba, red jalapeño, green onions.  Aside from the very fresh and flavorful fish, for me it was the “crispy soba” that made this dish.  These little granules of puffed buckwheat had the texture of puffed rice, but with a much nuttier flavor that was truly addictive.  Every bite brought me back to my Rice Krispies days as the soba snapped, crackled and popped in my mouth while I chewed through the tender chunks of tuna.  But the sweet veil of daikon and the peppery (but not spicy) slivers of jalapeño were enough to remind me that this was no breakfast cereal.

A single, plump diver scallop — summer truffle vinaigrette, baby artichokes, juliet tomatoes was beautifully cooked.  It was caramelized and crisp on the top, but ultra-soft and nearly raw on the inside.  The summer truffles didn’t lend much aroma, but earthiness of the warm vinaigrette made a delicious duo with the naturally sweet scallop.  The artichokes and the sweet little tomatoes were also intensely flavorful.  This for me was a dish that worked on all levels.

Next up was more beautifully cooked fish: turbot — burdock, shiso, lemon.  I had no idea what burdock was before this, but I feel a lot healthier now that I’ve read about its medicinal properties.  After biting into this fish, I also felt a lot humbler knowing that the cooks at Providence can cook fish a hell of a lot better than I can.  Just like the scallop before it, the turbot tiptoed the line between raw and cooked.  Turbot is a relatively firm-fleshed fish, but we were able to cut through this one like warm butter.  The burdock, shiso and lemon lent slight sweetness and refreshing acidity to the subtly flavored fish.

Adam’s appetite had long since been faltering, and he had already pushed a few half-finished plates my way (which, it goes without saying, I finished dutifully).  Frankly, I was worried.  But when he did the same with the pork belly — kyoho grapes, pickled ramps, mizuna, I think I cried tears of joy.  For me this was clearly the best dish we’d had up to this point, and I was glad to help a friend in need by finishing every last bit of it.  The pork belly was so tender that it was almost creamy.  Hell, it was almost spreadable.  Like foie gras, like sea urchin, like butter.  I considered rubbing a bit on my face like lotion, but then I got distracted by the crispy skin.  Two crispy tiles of it were laid on top of the dish for a salty, brittle contrast.  The sweetness of the grapes, the acidic punch from the pickled ramps, and the rich fattiness of the pork belly was an intoxicatingly savory combination.  I could’ve easily eaten two of these.  Oh wait, I did.

I have yet to mention that the assistant sommelier, Diane De Luca, was just great — delightful to interact with and incredibly knowledgeable.  To pair with the next dish, she poured a glass of Kanchiku junmai daiginjo sake that I thought was very well-chosen.  Definitely on the dry side, and frankly not something I would have enjoyed drinking on its own, the sake felt viscous and almost syrupy on the palate.  Yet it had none of the sweetness I usually associate with that mouthfeel in wine, and instead had just a tiny bit of residual sugar that barely shined through against the bracing minerality.

I was worried that the previous meat course meant that we were reaching the end of the savory portion of the meal, but much to my delight we went back to more fish: black sea bass — matsutake mushrooms, sake, rosemary.  I bent down toward the plate, eyes closed, and as always I let my nose do the tasting first. The rosemary and the matsutakes (not called pine mushrooms for nothing) filled the air with the aroma of the forest floor — earthy, rich, and piney.  The sake foam was warm and buttery.  I heard a quiet little crunch as my knife broke through the crispy skin to get to the delicate flesh below.  A bite.  And a smile.

Diane began to describe the Girlan 2005 Gewürztraminer Aimé DOC she was pouring for our next course, but suddenly conversation stopped.  Eyes turned toward the entrance of the dining room.  Donato Poto — GM, co-owner, and maitre d’ — had just entered, wheeling a huge cast iron dish full of salt toward our table.  We could hear the quiet sizzle as he prepared our salt roasted santa barbara spot prawns – rosemary, lemon, olive oil…

I had specifically mentioned this spot prawn preparation earlier, and they happily obliged my request to work this into our tasting.  This dish was depressing on two levels.  One, it tasted so damn good that I was somehow able to justify the $11 per prawn supplement.  And two, after this dish and the kuruma ebi at Urasawa the night before, I feared that eating shrimp outside of these two restaurants ever again could be a futile and pointless activity.  Mr. Poto shook the salt off and split the prawns down the middle.  Then they were given nothing but a liberal dose of Castelas extra virgin olive oil from Provence and wedges of lemon.  I’m not even sure shrimp shells are digestible, to be honest, but I couldn’t have cared less.  From head to tail, these prawns were delicious.

Next up was freshwater japanese eel — crushed potato with truffle, sweetbreads, eel jus.  This dish had one foot on land and one in the water.  Or rather, both feet splashing around somewhere in between.  The eel was paired with earthy flavors — potatoes and truffles — while the sweetbreads were sauced with the eel jus and coupled with fava beans.  I thought both combinations worked pretty well.  With the backdrop of the potatoes and the truffle sauce, the eel seemed almost meaty.  And the sweetbreads, meanwhile, almost seemed light, a rare achievement with this very rich, fatty piece of offal.   

Diane came by again with Craggy Range 2005 Te Kahu, a merlot blend from New Zealand, to go with the lamb, shoulder and saddle — grilled green apple eggplant, cuisse de poulet shallots, compote of tomato, black olive.  The great fish cookery we had seen so far didn’t preclude them from turning out some great meat, too.  The herb-crusted lamb saddle was roasted to a beautiful rosy pink.  A small puck of deep-fried shoulder confit had a crispy exterior that gave way to tender strands of meat on the inside.  The meat in combination with the eggplant, tomato, and shallot was wonderful, making me forget all about the fact that, in general, I’m not the biggest fan of black olives.

It was about time for Adam to go, but he’s a smart man — he waited until after the cheese selection. After the server’s explanation of every cheese on the cart, we chose four: La Peral, a cow’s milk blue from Spain; Sally Jackson “Sheep” from Washington; Le Maréchal, a raw cow’s milk cheese from Switzerland; and Selles sur Cher (P. Jacquin) a French goat cheese.  I wasn’t really feeling Sally Jackson, though I enjoyed all the rest.  The show-stealer was La Peral.  Granted, on the plate it looked like a wet brown paper bag with blue crayons in it.  But it sure did taste good.  It had this kind of pungent hit up front, but finished with a wonderful lingering creaminess.  The accoutrements, aside from the way-too-strong black olive marmalade, were also quite nice.  

Adam had to leave, but a reliever was ready in the bullpen.  A friend of mine with whom I had driven to LA had come to meet me at the restaurant for our ride home.  ”Hey, great timing!  Why not enjoy a few desserts before the long drive back?”, I urged her.  ”To give us some, uh, energy.  Yeah, that’s it…”  Hell, I wasn’t going to let a lonely midnight ride up I-5 come between me and dessert.  You must be kidding.

The pre-dessert (a lovely concept, no?) was raisin, pear, ras el hanout, hazelnut.  With the huge flavors packed into this mini-mug, pastry chef Adrian Vasquez certainly grabbed my attention and would not let go of it until the end of the meal.  I alternated between sipping the spiced pear soup and just breathing in its intoxicating aroma.  The crispy hazelnut tuile and pear-raisin sorbet, meanwhile, were like an open-faced ice cream sandwich, emitting a cold, staccato crunch every time I sunk my teeth into it.  With just these few mouthfuls of food, Chef Vasquez had me at hello.

Moving from North Africa to southeast Asia, our next dessert was mango, litchi-pandan sorbet, coconut soup with thai flavors.  It’s powerful when a chef can play with food in a way that plays with your memory.  This dessert brought me back to Bangkok earlier this year.  The soup showcased the delicious sweetness of coconut milk but kept it in check with the assertively peppery, anise flavor of Thai basil.  Somewhere between taste and smell, I sensed a subtle similarity between the flavor of the sorbet and the sweet aroma of jasmine rice (which, come to find out, shares the same aroma compound as pandan).  Several little tapioca balls were chewy and squishy buoys in the soup, adding yet another texture to complement the diced fresh mango and a few shreds of fresh coconut.  The combination of everything together was sweet, spicy and herbal all at once. 

That was followed with sous-vide jonalicious apple, barley ice cream, pine nut purée, north star dried cherries.  These apple wedges were sweet, tart, and juicy.  Just tender enough to dig a fork into, they stood up well to the slow-cooking without disintegrating like other varieties might have.  The pine nut purée was smooth and salty, the barley ice cream cold and nutty, and the dried cherry sweet but not cloying.  Like the prior desserts, every voice sang well together but none too loud as to overpower the others.

Inspired by Turkish coffee, the pastry chef’s next offering was milk chocolate, banana, coffee-urfa.  You may have seen this twisted chocolate ganache featured in such restaurants as wd~50 or Alinea. An idea originated, as far as I know, by Alex Stupak, you have to admit it is pretty cool looking.  Fortunately, it tastes good, too, and Adrian Vasquez gave it some nice friends to play with.  The pudding-like milk chocolate got some extra sweetness from the banana slices, but a strong peppery kick in the back of the throat came from the urfa.  Taken separately, these two very different flavor elements would have pushed too far one way or the other, but together I really enjoyed them.

I thought we were done, but happily I was wrong: burnt caramel ice cream, chocolate, gingerbread, pears was still to come. The caramel base of the ice cream was taken to that magical point where sugar reveals not one flavor but thousands all at once.  Bitter, sweet, rich, deep, complex — it was all of these and more.  The gingerbread crumbs beneath it added spice and texture to the mix.  On the other side of the plate, a moist cube of gingerbread came with chocolate ganache, little balls of poached pears, and a pear foam.  Another pair of clean plates were sent back to the kitchen. 

One last bite — a white chocolate and kalamansi lollipop.  An explosion of sour liquid hit my tongue when I popped the lollipop into my mouth and bit through the thin white chocolate shell.  A small wedge of candied kalamansi peel was on top of the lollipop, a note of sweetness to balance things out in a similar way the shell did with its lingering flavor of cocoa butter.

Whether you look at that one single bite or all the desserts as a whole, the sweet finish of the meal was a clear indication to me that Adrian Vasquez is truly a special talent.  And certainly Chef Michael Cimarusti and Chef de Cuisine Yu Min Lin had given us a progression of savory courses that was no less compelling.  I can hardly imagine a better weekend of LA eating than what we had just finished — Urasawa one night, and Providence the next.  Paradise for raw fish followed by paradise for cooked.  I will definitely be back to Providence.  Only next time, in addition to the chef’s tasting menu, I think I’ll tack on the full eight-course dessert tasting menu.  And maybe eat only one pizza at Mozza beforehand.  Maybe.

There are few chefs who tell a story without speaking, who can transport diners to a far away place without ever stepping on an airplane, and who can make diners feel at home and comfortable without taking off their shoes. Chef Hiro Urasawa is one of those chefs. And he does it all with a wide smile.

Perched on the second level of the luxurious Two Rodeo shopping center, Urasawa sits above some of the most famous designers in the world: Fendi, Cartier, Tiffany, Prada, Cerruti and Versace to name a few. But unlike the downstairs world of fashion and style, upstairs, flavor rules. But it’s not like the outside world is hidden; in fact, sunlight pours in through the large windows overlooking the most famous shopping street in the United States. Rather, the simplicity of the space combined with Chef Urasawa’s humility, sense of humor, and genuine good nature encourage pretense and entitlement to be left downstairs. Without a doubt, the combination of Chef Urasawa’s personality, skill, and selection of ingredients made this my best sushi meal in the United States.

Shortly after being seated Chef Urasawa introduced himself and asked Aaron and me for our names. While his soft-spoken sister Yoshi was taking our drink order he jotted them down on a piece of paper so he could address us each personally, an endearing gesture that would we certainly wouldn’t have seen at Masa most other sushi restaurants. He asked us if we had dietary restrictions or if there were fish we particularly didn’t like to which we happily explained: we eat everything. No; everything.

A few minutes later we got started with live Hokkaido botan ebi (spot prawn) with yuzu zest, shiso, and shiso flower atop a small bed of sweet daikon radish. While the placement of the small decorative flowers atop this dish may seem random, don’t be fooled — each petal was placed by Chef Urasawa with exacting precision. This was a very sweet dish, particularly because of the fresh shrimp and the shiso. The refreshing watery crunch of the daikon radish combined with the fresh shrimp’s firm chew made for a nice range of textures. I would have enjoyed a slight pinch of salt to lift the flavors of each ingredient a bit, but that would have masked the incredible natural sweetness of the shrimp.   We weren’t sure whether we should consider this dish an amuse bouche, or the first of the thirty three ”courses” that were to come.  But I guess that’s all a matter of who is counting.

While finishing the shrimp, Aaron and I began to hear small rhythmic crunches, like someone was jumping on a pile of leaves. In fact, Chef Urasawa was crunching the bones of a hamo, or king eel, a creature notorious for its abundance of tiny bones that, if improperly cut, can make the fish inedible. The eel was deep fried, marinated in a sweet and sour sauce, garnished with minced shiso and grated carrot, and served cold. The texture was meaty and firm, similar to a thick cut of turbot. The flavor was clean and refreshing; the dish lacked salting of any kind.

The next course exemplified Chef Urasawa’s modesty and devotion to seasonality: a single wedge of misu-nasu, or water eggplant, with what he called “a very special soy sauce.”  Sometimes a perfect vegetable needs neither cooking nor garnish. What an interesting texture this eggplant had: slightly more crunchy than a typical purple eggplant yet not at all starchy. We ate this with our hands which allowed us to feel the smooth, but not slimy, skin. A quick dip into the delicious soy sauce added just the right amount of salt, which worked to balance out the previous two sweeter dishes. I was tempted to ask for some more of this; but unsure of the quantity of food to come, I savored the moment and awaited what was to come.

If heaven came in a bowl, it would likely be the course that came next: a warm edamame custard with chilled Santa Barbara uni and live Botan ebi, topped with a sea of sweet ikura and garnished with miniature chives and gold leaf. Chef Urasawa insisted the gold leaf was good for the stomach, as well as visually beautiful. After the first bite Aaron and I began to laugh. This was the freshest salmon roe we had ever had: where was the salt?! Each bite was a burst of sweet nectar that made eating the sea urchin and shrimp not only incredibly flavorful, but fun! Urasawa explained that he marinates the roe himself. Not sure how he achieves this magical texture; it was as if the ikura would burst at the slighest pressure of the tongue … the “shell” was almost non-existent, like a bubble about to burst in air. The crunchy chives added textural contrast to the smooth custard. Basically, this dish had everything: sweet and salty, warm and cold, crunchy and smooth. This was dish I will likely continue to taste for a long time.

I never thought I could enjoy bouquets as gifts; but I was proven wrong. Sashimi bouquets from Urasawa are welcome anytime. Chef Urasawa served us otoro (fatty tuna) from Boston, kanpachi (yellowtail) from Toyama, and tai (red snapper) from Kyushu. Slices of these three fish sat among a lovingly prepared arrangement of fresh flowers, assorted seaweeds and freshly grated wasabi. This was all placed upon a hand-carved solid block of ice that Chef Urasawa explains he carves himself every morning. Both functional and beautiful, the block of ice resembled a rotating star. The white frosting around the ice made it look like origami from afar yet the temperature told otherwise. Butter-soft tuna was the first bite; the fat gently melted as it warmed in my mouth. The red snapper was surprisingly light. But the highlight was undoubtably the kanpachi, whose texture was in between crunchy and smooth, Aaron put down his chopsticks for a moment (a rare occurrence) and exclaimed “Oh god” — a sure sign of enjoyment.

Chef Urasawa’s dobin mushi came next, a warm therapeutic soup of matsutake mushroom, botan ebi, uni, tai, and ginko nut to contrast the cold sashimi we’d just eaten. This was served in a clay tea kettle with a cup so that all the ingredients, particularly the broth, could be enjoyed a bit at a time. Aaron sat back and waited for me to be the idiot to burn my tongue; this was hot. I was very happy with my bite of the red snapper which somehow neither fell apart nor became firm after sitting in this broth. The ebi’s firmness increased and became similar to a miniature lobster tail. There was also a wedge of yuzu bathing in the broth to add a citrus element to the flavor… a really nice addition to brighten things up. Two cups of the broth was enough for me; but a glance at Aaron’s kettle revealed a light blue pattern at the bottom, only visible when empty. I wish there had been some more gingko nuts… after marinating in the teapot they became chewy, aromatic and delicious.

Next came two small slices of lightly battered tender northern California awabi (abalone). Urasawa explained that he boils the abalone in sake and soy sauce for over six hours before deep frying them — this is how he gets the texture so succulent. The abalone was served on tempura paper with a small wedge of yuzu to cut through the oily mouthfeel. I tried to keep this in my mouth for as long as possible, though the amazing tenderness wasn’t making that easy. It was absolutely delicious — salt, citrus, brine all at the same time — and I didn’t want it to end. I tried to distract Aaron by telling him that his idol favorite chef David Kinch had just walked in; but he wisely ate his abalone before looking. Maybe next time.

Our waitress placed two hot stones in front of us with several cuts of grade A-5 Kobe beef. There was no pedantic instruction on how to use the stone, or a lesson on “how things are done here;” rather, Chef Urasawa’s sister quietly and lovingly cooked each slice for us, lifting it from the hot stuff at just the right time. The room filled with the mouthwatering aroma of smoking fat. The stone was hot enough that it locked in the moisture of the meat while nicely searing the edges. A bite of this meat revealed its true secret: tender enough to you know it is meat yet subtle, melting and juicy enough that you know it has to be Kobe. When I asked Chef Urasawa what makes this Kobe beef so tender compared to others, he explained that, “nice people make good beef.” A statement that not only reflects his contageous positive outlook on cooking but his desire to follow the ingredients from his kitchen all the way back to the source: the rancher is a close friend of his.

Next came a miniature shabu-shabu of ebi (shrimp), hamo (king eel), Kobe beef, foie gras, and hotate gai (scallop). The foie gras was dropped into the hot broth first since it takes the longest to cook through. It’s also the fattiest and the deposited an amazing richness that enhanced the broth.  After the foie went in, the hamo, scallop, shrimp, and fatty beef each took turns jumping into the pool. When ready, each slice of meat and fish was removed from the boiling broth held in a thick paper bowl and placed in a small bath of vinegar, soy sauce ,and scallion to cool. I found the scallop a little bland in flavor but with an interesting texture. The hamo became surprisingly firm when cooked this way, and its rough edges became more pronounced. The foie gras was smooth and silky. The beef was sliced fairly thinly in order to cook quickly, and as such it was not quite so juicy as the previous course. But by now little bubbles of unbelievably flavorful fat popped up around the surface of the broth, and Aaron and I were given spoons to finish every last drop of this liquid gold that had now collected flavors of foie gras, kobe beef, scallop, eel, and shrimp.

To accompany the sushi I ordered a half bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet 1er Cru from Abbaye de Morgeot. This slightly acidic and bright wine left a slight trace of vaseline on the tongue. The wine was light enough so as not to compete against the subtle flavors of sushi to come. A young girl to our right asked Chef Urasawa if it would be possible to leave out the wasabi (Aaron learned his lesson last time). He responded that he would be happy to leave out the wasabi; but suggested that she try it first since it was freshly grated and not so poignant as powdered substitutes. She tasted it and chose to leave it on.  A great chef, and a great role model to future generations, this guy.

Our assortiment of sushi emphasized seasonal fish. In order we had: otoro, kanpachi, grilled otoro, aji, tai, maguro, shima aji, ika, shitake mushroom, kohada, uni, mirugai, abalone from Chiba prefecture, kuruma ebi, grilled pike mackerel from Hokkaido, negitoro, unagi, and tamago. Despite being eighteen courses, the smaller portioning of rice (180 grains/piece, he said) made it all incredibly enjoyable.

The kanpachi made another appearance, thankfully, with its chewy crunch — perhaps this unique, but welcome, texture is a factor of the season. I have only been to two other places in my life that serve ika (squid) like this: Kozue at the Park Hyatt Hotel in Tokyo, and Masa in New York. I’m not sure what makes this consistency so chewy; but it is absolutely my favorite sea creature to eat raw. It could be its ice cold temperature or the knife scores realized by expert chefs such as Chef Urasawa. Whatever it is, it is unlike any other squid I have tasted outside of those two locations.

While we were finishing up the giant clam we saw Chef Urasawa’s brother-in-law beginning to prepare the live kuruma ebi (tiger prawn). And by prepare, I mean behead. I became aware that those shrimp needed to be on my plate ASAP before they die a moment of respect and awareness was in order at this stark reminder of the circle of life. They were lightly brushed with a sauce made from the shrimp brains — no part of the creature was wasted.  And every part was utterly delicious.

The giant collection of Santa Barbara sea urchin roe firmly overflowed the edge of the rice. Our friend dining next to us from Refined Palate summed it up nicely: “can you just inject the uni into my veins?” With only one bite, this was a tease. An utterly delicious tease.  The tamago was also particularly interesting with a subtle sweetness and a texture more like pound cake than egg.  ”The most important test of a sushi chef”, Chef Urasawa told us, is the tamago.  If that’s the case, he passed with flying colors.

Dessert was to follow the sushi, an asian pear gelée with umeboshi (pickled plum) and goji berries. The gelée had a smooth but mildly grainy texture on the tongue that immediately gave it away as pear. This dish was sweet by Japanese standards, but it wasn’t excessive — the sour umeboshi prevented the dish from becoming cloying. The gelée melted in my mouth rather than breaking apart. The mix of sweet and sour was well-balanced, making this simple dessert engaging and pleasurable.

My favorite dessert of the evening came next, black sesame ice cream with red bean paste. It’s hard to describe this dessert as ice cream since the texture was so creamy it almost didn’t want to melt. It was more like an thick, cold, black sesame butter that was so nutty, the fragrance of sesame could be detected from several feet away. A small dollop of red bean paste rested on top adding a coarse contrast to the smooth ice cream. This dish was served with warm matcha green tea, whose subtle bitterness synched in harmony with the sesame’s sweetness. This was one of the finest drink-dessert pairings I had ever had. This was so good, in fact, that it pushed me over the decorum edge: I asked for another round. Unfortunately they had run out, but we were very kindly given some assorted wedges of mochi ice cream and very hot toasted houji tea, instead. The sad realization had come: this was the end of the meal.

Chef Urasawa prepared a meal that can easily stand against some of the finest French and New American dining establishments in the country. However it was only afterwards when I realized just how ridiculous that really is. Chef Urasawa does not have a huge kitchen brigade — this is a one man show. And to prepare such unique and delicious meals (not to mention the worldwide acclaim he receives) without letting it get to his head is truly a special quality of the highest regard. Chef Urasawa responded with a gleaming smile to all of our questions no matter how trite. He encouraged the use of cameras and even held up some fish for us. He somehow got complete strangers talking to each other like close friends after just a few courses. I have never felt so comfortable in a place with this quality of food before.

Comparing Urasawa to Masa is not such an easy task. Objectively, if all external variables are removed, the quality of food is nearly identical. Both Masa and Urasawa serve the freshest most flavorful sushi in the country. However, when considering warmth, comfort, presentation, and enjoyment of the experience of a whole, Urasawa is the clear winner. It was just so enjoyable to eat there.

I anxiously await the next opportunity to return… like, tomorrow.

“Suck it up,” a friend and fellow blogger told me. “I think Coi has the potential to impress us.” Quite a reasonable reaction to my unreasonable hypocrisy. You see, I was just back from a trip to Paris, and suddenly I was Mr. Popular. I’d gotten mail from MasterCard and Citibank on the same day, and they both wanted to know how my trip had gone! Suddenly it seemed everybody wanted to talk to me, and I let it get to my head. These financial… souvenirs made me wonder if perhaps there was a better time to try a restaurant that carries a $120 minimum tariff. Any time I spend that kind of money in the Bay Area, I tend to play it safe and head back to my happy place.

But Chuck was right this time. What did I have to lose? If I’d cross the Atlantic to go to dinner without the slightest consideration of the associated consequences, there’s nothing that should keep me from the same sort of exploration closer to home. And so it was that we found ourselves at Coi last week. We sat down and filled in our ballots for the dishes on the 11-course menu that had an A-or-B choice. We ordered a bottle of 1997 Max Ferdinand Richter Graacher Himmelreich Riesling Spätlese (for a mere 240% of the retail price!). And the parade of plates began.

The first bite was called MILK & HONEY, and it was exactly that. The two ingredients made up a small liquid-filled sphere surrounded by a thin membrane. We were told to first smell the star lily flower, since its honeysuckle-like aroma was a preview of the flavors in the sphere. It was a sweet and creamy beginning to the meal, deftly balanced by just the slightest touch of salt.

Visually, the next course was like a pumped-up version of the first, but the flavor and texture were quite different. The combination of PINK GRAPEFRUIT ginger, tarragon, black pepper was sweet, tart, bitter and slightly spicy. Pink grapefruit gel was topped with a thick foam spiked with ginger and black pepper essential oils. I loved not only the taste of this, but also how it felt in my mouth. The combination of the gel and foam had a textural character that really made the flavors linger. There was also a dab of Coi perfume — no I am not kidding — on the plate. We were told to rub it on our wrists before eating this course, but I didn’t feel like it added much to the experience. That quibble aside, I really enjoyed this.

We were in for a pleasant surprise now, since we had both chosen the other menu option for the next dish. But the waiter smiled when he set the KAMPACHI SASHIMI white soy, yuzu, shichimi togarashi in front of us. The chef would like for us to try the whole menu, he said, so we would be having everything. Sweet. The fish here was fresh and well-seasoned. A small radish on the side was a crunchy, piquant palate cleanser. There was nothing wrong with this simple course, but for me it wasn’t as compelling as the ones that preceded it.

As much as I badmouth my new home state of California, it’s nice to live in a place where Spring actually begins in March. And the next course was a vibrant reminder of that: ASPARAGUS PANNA COTTA coconut milk, makrut lime leaf, cilantro. Under a layer of creamy coconut milk panna cotta was a purée of asparagus juice, blanched asparagus, olive oil, and vegetable stock, all set with gelatin. The shaved ribbons of asparagus and radish on the side tasted as bright and refreshing as the panna cotta. And though the lime leaf and cilantro lifted the flavors of those vegetables, I think an extra hit of acidity in the panna cotta itself would’ve made a nice difference.

The DAIRY FRESH GOAT CHEESE TART beets, dill, caraway was a refreshing spin on a dish that sounded kind of boring on paper. The tart crust was made with dehydrated and ground pumpernickel, ground caraway, and rye flour. A layer of fresh goat cheese inside was topped with goat cheese mousse, so the range of textures was fantastic. Red beet purée and roasted golden beets, fresh dill, and caraway seed all went really nicely with the tart.

The intriguingly titled OCEAN AND EARTH lobster in two textures, sea palm, cauliflower, borage came next. There were small pieces of lobster cooked sous vide with lobster oil, and noodles cut from lobster consommé gel infused with konbu and a little bonito. There were a few types of both raw and cooked seaweed, pickled cauliflower, borage, and a cauliflower-seaweed purée. My favorite part of the dish was the delicious purée, but I wonder if the textures of the lobster wouldn’t have been better appreciated without it. The subtle sweetness of the lobster was given more richness by the dashi-like infusion in the gel, but I’m not sure the cauliflower was enough to hold up the “earth” end of the title here.

The next dish was new to the menu, the waiter said, so he wanted our honest feedback on the CHILLED ENGLISH PEA SOUP creamy ricotta, lemon, nasturtiums. It turned out that my only complaint here was with myself — both for the Puritanic restraint I showed in not asking for a second bowl, and for lacking the healthy curiosity one should always have about whether or not the second bowl could be quite as delicious as the first. The flavor of the soup was exactly like the color — vibrant and green. The housemade ricotta was delicious and the lemon brought a bright top-note to every spoonful. Chuck and I both agreed this was the highlight of the savory portion of the meal.

This was followed by a course I wasn’t as crazy about: WARM SALAD OF SHAVED ARTICHOKES, FAVA BEANS AND LEAVES carolina gold rice, green garlic, baby leeks, mint. I did enjoy the fact that it was served warm, and I liked the texture that the rice lent to the dish. But I guess for me the flavors didn’t really come together how I had expected they would. The taste of the artichoke became a kind of one-note tune, not really changing or developing with the other accompaniments. I should point out that Chuck disagreed with me on this one, so maybe he’s got more of a predilection for artichokes than I do.

I was excited about the HODO SOY YUBA ‘PAPPARDELLE’ chantenay carrots, baby fennel, flowering bok choy, vadouvan. I know that tofu skin may conjure up some scary images for people, but a restaurant in Tokyo I visited a few months ago taught me that it can be a beautiful thing. Long wide ribbons of yuba were floating here in a vadouvan-scented broth, along with pieces of very flavorful baby vegetables. I loved the yuba “noodles”, which had the delicate texture of fresh pasta. And I thought the broth and the vegetables made for a very tasty soup. Chuck disagreed, since he didn’t think the vadouvan flavor really came through. But I think my only complaint with the dish was in the naming. Seeing the word “pappardelle” on the menu had me expecting a plate of pasta; not noodles floating around in a broth. But honestly if that is not nit-picking, I don’t know what is.

If I had wanted traditional pasta before, we got it anyway with the BLACK TRUMPET RAVIOLO celery root, flowering chervil, hazelnut, perigord truffle. I thought for a second about how not too many years ago, before the attempts at Italian cuisine in this country and before even your local neighborhood restaurant had a chef’s tasting menu, most people wouldn’t have known the singular form of “ravioli”. Then I realized I am a food nerd, and I should really get a life. In any case, it turned out the menu description here was like a USDA-approved food label — the ingredients were listed from most to least prominent. The mushrooms in the filling were flavorful, the celery root foam made a nice condiment, and bits of chopped hazelnut brought a very welcome bit of crunch. Unfortunately any truffle flavor or aroma was AWOL, granted it was late April so a look at the calendar could have predicted as much. Overall, another course that was good but not great.

Next we had a cooked fish course: the SAUTEED MADARA manila clams, agretti, red endive, smoked oil. Madara is another name for Pacific cod, and here it was cooked pretty well. The flesh was fork-tender and flaky, though a much crispier skin would have been nice. The fish rested in a small pool of tasty clam broth-based sauce dotted with smoked oil. The salad on the side was acidic, salty and slightly bitter, and I thought it went well with the fish. I don’t think Chuck was too thrilled with this dish, but I found it to be pretty tasty.

Another sure sign of spring was the MORELS slow cooked beck farms partridge egg, spring onions, pea shoots. These mushrooms are among my favorites: spongy in a good way, and a fantastic vehicle for the flavors around them. The morel broth they were served with here was given some extra thickness and richness from the runny egg yolk. A few tiny croûtons scattered around the plate brought some much-needed crunch, and the onions and greens were tender with a subtle natural sweetness. Still, I’m not sure all of this amounted to anything more than the sum of its parts. Don’t get me wrong — it was good, I just wasn’t crazy about it like I thought I might be.

Next we had two different cuts of POZZI FARM LAMB baby turnips, bloomsdale spinach, chicory. There was a slice of loin meat (probably cooked sous vide judging from the uniform pink inside) and a fat chunk of braised shoulder meat. The shoulder meat was really dry and kind of bland, although I thought the chicory sprinkled on it was a nice touch. The loin on the other hand was quite good. Very tender and flavorful, I only wish there had been more of it. I also thought the sautéed spinach, chicory and flame raisins were nice as a sweet counterpoint to the rich lamb jus.

Looking at the menu, I didn’t have a clue what CAVATINA (SOYOUNG SCANLAN) peppercress sprouts was going to be, but it turned out it was a cheese course. Soyoung Scanlan is the cheesemaker at Andante Dairy with a penchant for giving her cheeses musical names like nocturne, minuet, and in this case cavatina. I don’t remember the waiter’s description of this cheese, but if I had to guess I’d say it was goat’s milk. It had a semi-firm paste, an ashed rind, and a slightly tangy flavor. Not life-changing, but pretty good.

Pre-dessert came as a tall shot of ORANGE SODA. A simple housemade soda made with orange juice, sugar, and a little salt. It was topped off with crème fraîche that had bubbled up like an ice cream float, so it was a little difficult to get the drink out without a spoon. But once I did, it was a refreshing transition to the sweeter end of the meal.

The first dessert was a tasty wake-up call. Raised eyebrows and smiling faces were our first reactions to the CARROT CAKE carrot ganache, celery sherbet. This was fabulous — the carrot ganache, the moist cake, the celery sherbet — everything. Just the right level of sweetness, and a surprising show-stealer. This was my favorite course of the meal.

I’m not really a chocolate guy, but the MICHEL CLUIZEL “LOS ANCONES” GANACHE albion strawberries, wild licorice anglaise was great, too. The bittersweet ganache had rich chocolaty flavor that really lingered. The texture was almost like a thick mousse, keeping it from being too heavy. The strawberries tasted like actual strawberries, which is a big complement considering the flavorless watery impostors by the same name that one might find at the local supermarket. The licorice-spiked custard sauce was delicious.

But even those two delectable desserts were almost trumped by the McEVOY OLIVE OIL MILKSHAKE chocolate truffle. A non-custard based vanilla ice cream was blended with sweet buttermilk, vanilla-infused olive oil, and salt. The result was truly fantastic. After each sip was the buttery olive oil was what coated my mouth, rather than the lingering creaminess that you might get from a typical milkshake. The chocolate truffle on the side was nice, too, with a few coarse grains of salt on top to tame the sweetness. I can’t say enough good things about the shake, though, except to say that we asked for a second round posthaste.

The meal, I’ll admit, was a bit disjointed. Many dishes seemed to be on the cusp of something great, but few made the leap over the edge. And I’m not sure there was a unifying sense of direction in what we’d tasted. But honestly, maybe there didn’t need to be one. Chuck had insisted that Chef Daniel Patterson’s food had the potential to be impressive, and in the end, I found myself impressed by its potential. I have a lot of respect for the handful of Bay Area chefs with enough ambition and imagination to eschew being just another Chez Panisse derivative. Coi has the same great ingredients, even listing their provenance on a menu page of their own. But Patterson has the audacity to take these foods and do something beyond putting raw vegetables on a plate and calling it salad, or fresh fruit in a bowl and calling it dessert. His food has flashes of simplicity and flashes of technology, but both suggest a chef concerned not only with extracting flavors, but also with accentuating texture and exposing aroma (he wrote the book on it, in fact). And that suggests to me that Coi is a place well worth revisiting.

Not too long ago, I happened to find myself in Berkeley, CA. If you had asked me what I was doing there, I’d have answered that I was on a little vacation. You see, ostensibly I was visiting to check out the school, but we all know the only things I was excited about were the restaurants this trip gave me an opportunity to explore. It was a dreadfully rainy, dreary, and chilly afternoon, and I decided there was no better way to spend such a day than to have a leisurely lunch at the Chez Panisse Café (a “light” lunch before dinner at Gary Danko). I’d already been to the downstairs restaurant and thoroughly enjoyed it, so I wanted to see how the upstairs experience would compare.

As usual, I was in no particular hurry, and several things on the menu sounded quite good, so I tentatively decided I would do four courses. I asked the waiter if he thought I had ordered too much, because I wanted to act like a person with a normal appetite was a bit concerned about the quantity. I’d ordered fairly light dishes, he thought, so it should be fine. While I waited for my first course to come out, the bread and butter arrived. Delicious Acme Bread and nice, soft room-temperature butter, no less. Very tasty.

Pretty soon, my first course arrived: Pizzetta with spring onion, sorrel, and egg ($12). With a beautiful wood-burning oven, and the phenomenal ingredients that the café has access to, it should come as no surprise that they make a mean pizza. This one was no exception. The almost lemony acidic tang of the sorrel and the bright flavor of the spring onion contrasted nicely with the rich creaminess of the egg as the yolk spread over each piece that I cut. The crust was crisp and nicely charred in places, with a pleasant chewiness and remarkable airiness throughout. Quite delicious.

Next up was a bowl of Wild nettle soup with pounded pine nuts and parmesan ($8). This soup had a vibrant green color, and a flavor no less bright. Toasted pine nuts were coarsely pounded and then spooned on top, along with a drizzle of fruity olive oil and delicious bits of parmesan cheese. This was a very tasty soup, and the perfect companion for the crusty bread I already had on the table.

My third course was Baked Sonoma goat cheese with garden lettuces ($9.50). There is something refreshing about the French tradition of having the salad course near the end of a meal rather than at the beginning, and this course served as both palate cleanser and cheese course in one. The goat cheese was delicious. Lightly breaded before baking, the warm, golden outside gave way to the creamy, pleasantly tangy center. The garden lettuces were dressed with a simple vinaigrette, tart and refreshing, and a nice foil for the cheese’s richness. A very simple dish, but a tasty one.

By this point, I thought about ordering two desserts was getting pretty full. But there is always room for dessert. I chose the Rhubarb tart with muscat sabayon ($9.50). Ah, two of my favorites: rhubarb and sabayon. The former, one of my favorite signs of spring; the latter, France’s answer to one of my favorite Italian desserts. This tart was pleasantly, well, tart. So often paired with sweeter strawberries and overloaded with sugar in pie fillings, it was nice to see more of rhubarb’s natural flavor shine here. The sabayon was light, eggy, and sweet. It was a perfect match for the tart.

“Hey, I could have cooked that meal!”, you ambitious home cooks out there might be saying to yourselves. And the truth is, you probably could. But odds are that you don’t have access to ingredients of this caliber in your local markets. And odds are that you haven’t built up relationships with the very best purveyors and farmers over the past thirty-five years. You certainly aren’t really paying for technical fireworks at Chez Panisse Café. But you are paying partially, as with all famous restaurants, for a name. For a philosophy. For something that was revolutionary back before you or I had even heard of the place. And, beneath it all, you’re paying someone to shop for you. But as long as they keep doing what they do so very well, that’s price is one I am certainly more than willing to pay.

Name three great chefs. The first three that come to mind. Depending on what constitutes your idea of culinary greatness, a fairly standardized list of names might be running through your head right now: Ducasse, Adrià, Robuchon, Bocuse, Alajmo, Keller, Blumenthal, Gagnaire, et al. (Hey, I’ll play along too… Kinch). Easy enough, right?

Now name three truly influential chefs. Not quite so trivial, is it? Influence is a powerful idea; revolution, a loaded word. But neither of these notions is an exaggeration, really, when applied to the work of Alice Waters. Founding Chez Panisse back in 1971, I doubt she or anyone at the time had any idea what was underway. The beginning of this restaurant represented the beginnings of the very idea of “California Cuisine.” It was, in short, an American Food Revolution. Odds are that Waters has even influenced some piece, however small, of how you eat today. This sounds crazy, I know. But I can show you how. Your favorite local restaurants? I’d bet that a good number of the chefs just might have been her disciples at one point before moving on to open places of their own. That public school lunch reform program you are so happy to see your local school district championing? You might have a little program called The Edible Schoolyard to thank. That all-organic farmers’ market you go to every week now? That book you just read condemning the follies of agribusiness? That local Slow Food chapter your city just founded? The fact that your menu told you the name of the farm from which the heirloom tomatoes you ate at that fancy-pants restaurant last night came? I’m telling you, her influence is just about everywhere.

Though it is not, some disappointedly complain, at the restaurant itself. At least, not physically. Downstairs, the chef’s duties these days are split between Jean-Pierre Moullé and David Tanis, each working half of the year and spending the other half in France. Going in for dinner and asking “Is Alice in tonight?” will earn you nothing more than the satisfaction of providing the staff with a good laugh. It should also be noted that the downstairs restaurant and the upstairs café are not one and the same. They are two completely different restaurants, in fact, that just happen to operate under the same roof. Downstairs: fixed menu, fixed price, dinner only. Upstairs: a la carte, lunch and dinner. The choice is yours, and frankly, you can eat quite well in either one. In this write-up, though, I’ll focus on the downstairs restaurant. You can see my thoughts on the café here.

My most recent visit was just a couple of weeks ago. In the days leading up to the Thursday night reservation, my excitement was already growing. I’d seen the menu posted online the previous Sunday, and it sounded incredible. King salmon, heirloom tomatoes, chanterelle mushrooms, figs, sweet corn — these are not items that easily escape my notice. This particular night’s offering was strongly evocative of the season, a Chez Panisse trademark. My parents and I were in for a good meal, it seemed.

Arriving at the restaurant for our 6:30 reservation (there are two seatings nightly), we were shown to our corner table near the beautiful open kitchen. A small dish of delicious Lucques olives was set before us after we had placed our drink orders and looked once again at the night’s menu. Not long after that, two types of Acme Bread were brought out — fresh, crusty and pleasantly chewy.

The first course came out: Slow roasted king salmon with green beans, cucumbers, tomatoes, and fennel. This was utterly tasty, a pure expression of fresh, crisp vegetables. The green beans had the perfect snap. The cucumbers, a refreshing crunch. The tomatoes deliciously straddled the line between sweetness and acidity. The fennel added that licorice-y top note to it all. All that, and I haven’t even mentioned the buttery salmon, so tender it fell apart at the slightest provocation with the side of one’s fork, much less the tines. Nor have I mentioned the wonderful champagne vinaigrette (a vinaigrette may be a simple things to master, but it’s among the most elusive to actually be well-executed in a restaurant), or the chopped bits of hard-cooked egg, adding even another layer of richness to the dish. What can I say? Things had most certainly started off on the right foot.

Next, we moved on to the Chanterelle mushroom soup. The soup had a lovely consistency. Smooth enough that you know it had seen a few trips through the chinois, but still slightly rustic at heart. It was finished with chopped bits of sautéed chanterelle mushroom and a drizzle of fruity olive oil. A dish, undoubtedly, of few ingredients. Yet the care chosen in sourcing them really came through. This kind of flavor clarity is not something that comes easily. These weren’t just any mushrooms.

The main course that evening was Spit-roasted loin of Laughing Stock Farm pork with fig chutney, sweet corn, and fried onion rings. At first you might read the menu and think to yourself, “‘Spit-roasted’? Hah!”. But then you sneak a glance toward the open kitchen and see the meat guy at work. At the spit. (Did I mention the kitchen is beautiful? “Rustic” seems cliché until you realize that is exactly the word this space embodies.) The pork loin was rich, flavorful, and incredibly juicy. The fig chutney provided just the right sweet counterpoint to the meat and its tasty jus. The sweet corn was buttery, with a subtle spice in the background from being sautéed with little bits of hot peppers. The onion rings were crispy and very tasty. A nicely balanced dish overall, definitely.

Dessert was Apple and quince galette with burnt honey ice cream. “Apple pie à la mode,” my Dad happily noted. And a great (French) rendition of that American classic, it was. The tart crust was somehow flaky and crumbly at the same time. The apple and quince slices were cut thick enough to give you something substantial to bite into, yet thin enough to be tender when baked. The caramel overtones of the burnt honey ice cream brought a very pleasant level of richness to the cold sweetness. Later a small dish of petits fours was brought out as well, providing the crowning touch. This was a nice end to what had been a very, very good meal.

And just to show that I don’t consider it merely a fortunate coincidence that I ended up reserving on an evening whose menu sounded particularly good and tasted even better, I’d like to talk about another meal I had there. At the end of August, my father and I enjoyed a menu that was fittingly more suggestive of summer than of autumn, yet no less delicious than the meal I described above.

Instead of the dish of olives, this meal started out with a plate of roasted almonds. Rubbed with a delicious blend of spices that I couldn’t quite discern one by one, these were incredibly addictive. Our plate was quickly emptied. Then came some of their delicious bread and butter, which we nibbled on for a few minutes. Our first course that night was Green bean, shell bean and cherry tomato salad with basil and goat cheese croûton. For years, I thought I would never eat a tomato in a restaurant that would come close to those I’d pluck straight from the vine at home in Texas. Still warm from the sun’s rays, I’d eat them unadorned, unabashedly letting the juice run down my face as I smiled with delight. There is nothing quite like that. Still, these particular tomatoes came close. Awfully close. There were several heirloom varieties, among which I remember Green Zebra and Black Prince. Collectively, they hit every point along the sweet-acidic flavor spectrum, creating a stunningly well-rounded tomato flavor. The shell beans, purple and white, were cooked just to the point of being creamy without being mushy. The green beans were bright and crisp. And the goat cheese croûton was creamy and nicely tangy. Dressed lightly with olive oil, this was really a wonderful salad.

The second course was Fideus pasta with roasted peppers, white shrimp, and aïoli. This is a traditional Spanish preparation in which the noodles are browned in oil before broth is added, creating an extra depth of flavor and allowing you to slowly add liquid until the noodles are cooked to the desired level of doneness. The result of this cooking method, familiar to anyone who has ever prepared risotto, is a lusciously creamy texture. This pasta was, for my tastes, taken to just the right level of doneness, with a slight al dente quality to give it some integrity. The shrimp were plump and juicy, neither over- nor under-cooked. The roasted peppers and the pleasant spicing throughout this dish made it a real pleasure to eat, and the garlicky aïoli just put it over the top. Very nice.