A Life Worth Eating

Fauchon, Pierre Hermé, Taillevent, Jean Paul Hévin, Hédiard, Alain Ducasse.  This list of restaurants and patisseries may seem like a page from a Paris guide book, but it’s not just the French who enjoy French cuisine.  In fact, Tokyo is the city with the largest number of French restaurants outside of Paris.  And if its hungry foie gras-craving citizens are any indication, the Japanese might even demand French food more than the French.  It is no surprise then that Joël Robuchon has set up shop in Tokyo with over five different locations.  And considering he has more restaurants there than France, Japan may even be considered his home base.  Don’t forget: this is where L’Atelier started.  Surprised by that?  I sure was. 

Imagine my curiousity (not to mention my appetite) when I learned of Chef Robuchon’s “Château” in Tokyo.  While I’m a huge admirer of chef Robuchon, unfortunately I’ve only had the opportunity to visit to his L’Atelier restaurants (granted, I have hit the New York, Paris, and Tokyo locations).  Visions of the place that has been called the epitome of French cuisine and elegance in Tokyo began to fill my head. And it seemed like Le Château would be a nice place to take my mother, my guest for the evening, who was visiting me that week.  We fasted that morning in anticipation of an evening full of French food and wine.  It should be noted, however, that this fasting attempt lasted only until noon (I woke up at 11).

As the taxi pulled up to this “mansion” in the middle of Tokyo’s Yebisu shopping district, I wondered why this building looked startlingly pristine.  It actually felt a little out of place — too new, too clean.  Had we entered French-world at Epcot Center?   It took me a little longer than it would probably take the average person to find the correct door to this palace. There were a lot of doors; but most were either locked or were not real doors. After finding the magic door, a young Japanese woman came running up to me: “Yes, hello, can I help you with something?”  Um, yeah, where can I buy lottery tickets around here? What did she think I was here for?  Kind of funny. But maybe I just need to learn how to say, “Hi, where is the foie gras, please?” in Japanese. Instead, I explained I had a reservation and we were graciously led up the white marble staircase to our table.

The dining room ranged between subtly tacky and blatantly tacky. The walls were lined with Swarovski crystal and flanked with sheets of champagne tinted glass, as if to protect the small crystals from the curious hands of diners.  (They sure would look nice on my iPhone.)  It was explained later that the walls represent a champagne glass, with the crystals being the bubbles. I didn’t quite see that, but it was an interesting idea. The dining room was three-quarters full, with only Japanese diners.  For those who come to Japan seeking an “authentic experience” take your pick: 5am sushi at Tsukiji market with foreigners, or haute French food with the locals.  The atmosphere was as un-stuffy as a meal in Japan can be — be polite and you’ll fit right in.  In fact, the over-the-top decor somehow made all the black suits and ties more approachable.  It was like the designer had injected a bit of fun into the room by adding a modern twist to the stale eloquence of many traditional haute French restaurants.  That said, when I started eating, I became a very serious man.

The iridescent menu quickly caught my attention. I saw many of my favorite L’Atelier dishes; but also some really appealing new ones. I quickly searched for my friend, the tasting menu, and asked if I could substitute some of the courses I’d already had with some new ones. No problem. My mother wasn’t nearly as hungry as I was, which at first scared me because I wasn’t sure if the restaurant would do the tasting menu for only one person. But they happily obliged, with my mother ordering à la carte and me ordering, well, everything else (literally).

The amuse bouche arrived – L’Avocat dans une infusion prise aux herbes et une caillebotte a l’huile d’olive. For those who might have forgotten what they ordered, big letters beneath glass cup spelled out: L’AVOCAT. I looked for a trademark logo somewhere, a “Where’s Waldo?” of culinary condescension.   I couldn’t find it… but maybe it was just blocked out by the chef’s bold-faced signature. Marketing aside, the dish had the flavor, aroma, and creaminess of a mouthful of fresh avocado. The only thing it lacked was more salt, something to enhance the subtlety of the buttery fruit and the olive oil.

An impressive bread basket was wheeled over, probably the largest selection of breads I’ve ever seen in a French restaurant.  The loaves came in all colors, shapes, and sizes making for a selection that could please any taste.  Given the quantity of food I’d just ordered I decided to play it safe with only a piece or two of bread: a mini baguette, milk loaf, walnut raisin, oat, whole wheat, and country to start.  My mini-baguette was placed on its own plate with a puddle of olive oil garnished with a single drop of balsamic vinegar.

The next course, Le Caviar Ossiètre, was beautiful.  Three small tapas-sized plates each featured Ossetra caviar.  The first preparation was a small cylinder of fine couscous topped with caviar and a gold leaf.  The couscous provided a subtly flavored starchy vehicle for the salty caviar, much in the same way blinis often do.  I would have preferred half the amount of couscous since the caviar’s salting abilities can only go so far.

The second plate was a miniature version of a favorite dish from L’Atelier NY, un petit oeuf mollet et friand.  This was the same dish I’d enjoyed before, resized to 30%.  At first I suspected that a smaller egg would yield less of the golden yolk, essential to prevent the fried phyllo dough from being too dry.  This was not the case.  In a quail egg that seemed to contain more yolk than white, the egg and fried dough were in perfect balance.  The smoked salmon, something I usually don’t like to see anywhere but on a hot H&H bagel with cream cheese, was more prominent in this dish, but at least it accentuated the brininess of the caviar.

Last was a green asparagus flan topped with a generous dollop of caviar and milk foam.  This dish threw me back to the first time I had asparagus and caviar at Taillevent ten years ago.  But unlike the first time, this dish was served cold.  In this combination of land and sea, the oceanic pearls contrasted against the buttery asparagus custard leaving a rich taste with no greasy mouthfeel.  I think this dish would have been a little more interesting with the added dimension of a temperature contrast, but it definitely did not disappoint.

Each of these small plates could have easily stood on its own.  The fact that they were all served together on a tray of bread-plate sized dishes reminded me that this was indeed a single course.  And a well conceived course as well.  The first plate was slightly sweet and chewy, the second crispy and salty, and the third an earthy custard, all tied together with Ossetra caviar.  Each dish brought out different flavors of the fish roe, and being that the dishes were one bite three to four bites in size, I kept wanting more.  What a fabulous way to begin a meal.  It gave me great pleasure, and slight fear, to realize that this was the first of fifteen courses.

The next course can be summarized in two words: Oh god.  In a similar trio fashion to the previous course, I was presented with three takes of one common theme: Les Crustacès.  The first plate was a lightly cooked lobster tail roasted with lemongrass and served over a vegetable crème.  I generally dislike lemongrass outside of Thai cuisine; but because it was roasted as well, it left behind only a subtle fragrance that breathed life into the vegetable crème.  The lobster was so well cooked that when sliced it seemed to fade into the green abyss rather than stand out like a rock.  The taste of butter was pronounced; but that’s exactly what a lobster tail needs.  Delicious.

Even more impressive was the next plate, which for me was the highlight of the night.  Before reading the description, be warned: this dish involves coffee.  Coffee has a bad rap when it comes outside Colombia a coffee mug.  That’s because it’s a terrible ingredient that should be kept outside the kitchen and left in espresso machines.  But in this dish the chef used coarsely ground very lightly toasted coffee beans that had a spicing effect more like nutmeg and pepper.  I couldn’t believe I was enjoying this.  But what’s not to enjoy with generous firm slabs of fresh Hokkaido sea urchin sitting atop a bed of Joël Robuchon mashed potatoes, sprinkled with the aforementioned coffee?  The urchin was so fresh that it actually contrasted against the texture of the mashed potatoes.  Another spectacular combination of earth and sea.

The third part of this dish was a miniature version of la langoustine truffée a l’étuvée de chou vert that I had in both Tokyo and Paris.  It was my favorite dish from the Paris L’Atelier, and to see this as an auxiliary part of a larger dish was even more incredible.  The ultra thin pasta shell melted into the succulent langoustine with a single cut of my knife.  The fragrance of the truffles brought out the scent of the cabbage.  Too bad there was only one.

Again, this was all part of a single dish, all small plates served on one tray.  For each component of a single dish to be so successful says a lot about chef Robuchon’s uncanny ability to match textures, flavors, colors, and temperatures together in such interesting ways.  By the end of the second course, I knew this was going to be one of the best meals I’d ever had.

La Châtaigne en fin Velouté sur une Royale de Foie Gras avec un Lait Fumé was a slightly modified version of a similar dish from New York.  And like this dish, it was satisfying.  The nutty warmth of the chestnut velouté combined with the refreshing yet smokey crème fraîche was strong enough of a combination to stand on its own.  So the slab of foie gras with shaved black truffle was simply gratuitous, yet much appreciated.  The first bite into the lightly cooked duck liver sent a chill down my spine as contrasting elements of temperature, texture, and savoriness swirled together into a harmony of flavor.  I opened my eyes and the plate was somehow spotless.  Who could’ve done such a thing?  Guess the hunger monster struck again.

While not part of the menu tasting, I was given an opportunity to try La Daurade servie avec une crème et huile de citronelle et des poireaux étuvées.  The lemongrass oil brought an almost floral flavor to a creamy dish.  But, like a basket of potpourri, I thought this would be better smelled than eaten.  The flavors were dull, and the strength and fragrance of the lemongrass overpowered the sweet butter and the subtle flavor of the leeks.  Aaron may have liked this dish more than I, as he enjoyed it in New York; but this was just not for me.

In a very colorful assortment of poached pear and gorgonzola cheese, Le Gorgonzola en royale avec une vierge de poire et de tomate à la sauge was certainly the most colorful dish of the night.  Displayed in a rainbow tinted cocktail glass, the dish certainly caught my eye.  And my nose.  Despite being burried beneath layers of pear and citrus fruit, the smell of warm gorgonzola cheese percolated through.  The slight acidity of the fruit helped to cut through the heavy mouthfeel of the warm cheese.  This dish was beautiful both to the eye and the palate.

Unfortunately, I was struck down from cloud nine with the next course.  The weakest of the night, L’Avoine startled my palate into defense with what could have been a terrible sign of things to come.  Thankfully, this dish was an exception.  The cream of oatmeal took on a sticky consistency much like okra seeds, without the flavor of oat coming through.  This mire of grain would string down into the bowl with each scoop like a watery goo.  Nestled in the oatmeal were cubes of cured ham which added an element of smokiness; but unfortunately, the off-putting texture of the oatmeal distracted me from this and the other subtle flavors of other ingredients coming through.  The dish was also particularly thin which made the oatmeal cool off very quickly.  I decided to cut my losses.  This was the only course where the returned plate had evidence of use.

Wild Salmon in a lightly smoked flower and ginger broth made up the next course, Le saumon Sauvage d’Ecosse.  The salmon was very lightly cooked revealing the raw firmness of the lean slice of fish.  Salmon can be very fatty.  But perhaps in the wild, when swimming up waterfalls to escape big-appetite hunters like myself bears, they develop a few muscles. The lean cut, while cooked, still had a slightly buttery mouthfeel while balanced out the slight acidity of the ginger broth.  I’m not sure if Robuchon would have served this dish outside of Japan, as the flavors were reminiscent of dobin mushi, a traditional Japanese broth served in Kaiseki meals.

Le Bar cuit sur le peau aux épices avec une sauce venutée was a filet of sea bass crowned with its crispy skin, locking in both flavor and moisture.  Again, one of the few cooked fish I’d had this trip.  But while this was cooked, the Japanese affinity for raw fish certainly came through: the fish was so soft and slightly undercooked.  The only purpose of my knife was to guide more fish through the fruity sauce onto my fork.  The sauce sweetened the fish but thankfully the sea salt prevented it from getting too sweet.  The result was a complex yin-yang of sweet and savory.  This meaty fish served as a delightful segue into the heavier courses to come.

The only meat course of the night was next, Le Bœuf grillé, cristalline au poivre, matsutake en tempura et raifort à la moutarde.  Looking at this plate demonstrates how chef Robuchon deftly inspires the imagination of diners by connecting the plate not only to the garden; but to imagination.  This perfectly rectangular slice of sirloin is flurried with autumn leaves, fragrant thyme, and colorful flowers.  My father, a steak-lover, would have certainly felt emasculated: no baked potato and hunting rifle here.  The beautiful pepper-flavored crystal leaning against this ultra-lean slice of meat broke off into crispy, slightly spicy pieces with each bite.  Very creative and tasty, indeed.  

My mother’s food finally arrived.  I taste-tested it (twice) to make sure it contained no harmful ingredients.  Safety first, I say.  Pumpkin gnocchi with mimolette cheese, a slab of foie gras à la plancha, and shaved black alba truffles.  Mimolette is usually recognizable on the cheese cart by its deep orange color.  I was surprised to see that the gnocchi here was not that color.  But how could something with pumpkin, truffle, and foie gras not be delicious, right?  I spoke too soon.  The smell was dominated by the cheese and the truffles, aside from the texture, were indetectable.  They sure looked pretty, though.  These caterpillar-shaped pastas sat in a small pool of what appeared to be pure oil.  Definitely not the best course of the night, and I felt guilty that my mother’s single course had been so lackluster.  

Living with my host family in Paris, I learned that the French tend to enjoy salads after the main course to ease the transition into the finality of dessert.  This was confirmed with the next course, Les Racines Maraîchères mitonnées à l’huile d’Aragan.  This light salad of root vegetables helped to cut through any remnants of the flavor of the previous course.

It turns out that my mother was not the only one visiting me from New York this week as Le Yuzu Vert, an old L’Atelier NY standby, came next. This is essentially small shot glass of green yuzu granité with a lemon verbena gelée and a thin layer of cachaça, the national drink of Brazil. It was light, clean, and refreshing — a nearly perfect decrescendo from salty to sweet.  This dish was served ice cold which further strengthened its refreshing power. I was now recharged and ready for more.

Still quite hungry I asked to look at the regular dessert menu for possible additions.  I’m glad I did, because there it was: Le Sucre.  I’d heard that the pastry chef from New York’s L’Atelier had recently moved back to Tokyo.  Looks like he moved to Le Château.  Once my favorite dessert in New York, Le Sucre was something special, but unfortunately fleeting as it had been unavailable for the past year.  What a perfect opportunity to relive the memories.  At this point my mother could only shake her head in disapproval of my gluttony.  But then it came.  It was like seeing an old friend with a new haircut. Le Sucre, despite the repositioning of garnishings, was still clearly identifiable by it’s perfectly symmetrical, shiny little sphere of happiness.  

The flawless skin of this jewel was begging to be touched.  Mistake.  I was also very curious how heavy this sphere was.  An even worse mistake.  After lifting it about two inches above the plate, plop.  The extremely thin shell gave way and the pressure of my fingers started a chain-reaction of fractures which, in less than a second, shattered this beautiful creation into a multicolored rasberry and vanilla pudding.  Like a little kid who had an accident, I looked around the room to make sure nobody saw.  No such luck.  The two waiters and their French-Japanese translator ran into the kitchen to prevent an outburst of laughter.  My mother, however, was not so courteous.  Oh well.

The pleasant sound of the cheese cart wheeling over could be heard from tables away.  At least by me.  The cart featured nearly all imported French cheeses.  My mother selected a few that appealed to her palate: bleu d’auvergne, comté, and a fresh goat cheese whose name escapes me now.  

Then came my dessert, La Châtaigne en soupe parfumée au chum brun avec des billes de chocolat fondant et une glace au lait.  I really love chesnut.  Just not with chocolate.  In fact, I would say that I generally do not enjoy chocolate for dessert unless it comes with peanut butter and crystals of sea salt.  After brushing the chocolate to the side, I was very happy.  The whole chestnut was topped with a nicely balanced ball of milk ice cream, hands down the best part of this dessert when combined with the chestnut.  Slightly salty, texturally diverse, and both hot and cold, this course was wonderfully balanced.

Next came my mother’s dessert, Le Kaki frais avec une glace et une gelée au citron et une feuille de melisse cristallisée.  This was perhaps the most interesting of the desserts, a simple case of east meets west.  The thick wedge of persimmon dominated this plate keeping the flavor light and fruity.  Each bite left behind the trademark of persimmon, a thin film-like residue on the roof of the mouth.  The lemon helped to sharpen the acidity of the fruit brightening its flavor and freshening my mouth at the same time.  The crystallized lemon balm “leaf” added a textural contrast as little chips of wafer mixed with the lemon foam and made their way into my mouth.

After this epic meal with my mother, I was subjected to maternal interrogation psychoanalysis pertaining to the quantity of food I’d just eaten.  “I don’t understand how anybody can eat this much.”  “What kind of a person are you?”  “Is this how you eat in Paris?”  Although the last question prompted a response, thankfully a staff member saved the evening by bringing a rather large tray of macarons and a collection of petits fours.  The staff member placed the tray of macarons on the table, which I thought meant that they were all destined for my mother and me.  Perhaps this was a cultural understanding, as the woman waited for me to select one or two.  I feigned confusion, and the tray was kindly left on the table.  Besides, it was getting late and we were the last people in the restaurant.  Who else wanted macarons? (Aaron doesn’t count.)  

There were eight different colors.  I could not let such a diverse selection go to waste.  Too full to even inhale the delicious scent of the macarons, my mother glared at me disapprovingly and finished her glass of wine.  The highlight among these after-dinner treats was concord grape and mascarpone macaron.  Absolute freshness, a slightly crispy ultra-thin shell, soft interior, and a not-too-sweet grape filling meant this cookie was destined for success.  We were also given a parting gift of fresh brioche and raisin bread to inhale right then and there save for tomorrow morning’s breakfast.  A nice way to end a fantastic meal, if you ask me.

With French food of this quality to bolster the already great Japanese cuisine in the city, it begs the question: why leave Tokyo?  Fact is, many Japanese don’t.  I was disheartend a few days ago to hear from a Japanese friend that his biggest complaint about New York was the food.  While I strongly disagreed with that statement, I could see where he was coming from. Tokyo can reproduce the finest food in the world, even when it is thousands of miles away from the source. So why leave the country when you can go down the street?  But therein lies the problem: reproduction.  Like a photocopy taken out of context this food, while delicious, lacked the soul and emotion of its source.  Its execution was so flawless and streamlined, at times, it appeared robotic.  And perhaps that’s Joël Robuchon’s finest talent: perfecting dishes to a level that they can be reproduced at such a high level, at any corner of the globe.  That’s certainly no easy task.

In some ways, as Aaron interestingly points out, this menu was like “L’Atelier’s greatest hits,” containing the best dishes from those various locations.  This is the commercialized uniqueness that one can find in L’Atelier and now, as I’ve learned, at Le Château.  But just because many of these dishes are available elsewhere does not take away from their objective flavor: most of these dishes are still jaw-dropping.  It’s a guaranteed meal of consummate skill and flavor.  Just be aware that there after having gone to other Joël Robuchon restaurants, there will be noticable similarities.  But then again, that isn’t such a bad thing.

I had only been in Tokyo a week, but my practice of the Japanese art of kuiadore was progressing quite nicely. By eating my way to financial ruin and an irreversibly larded midsection over the past several years, I had actually been getting a head start on connecting with this culture before I even arrived. Or at least that’s what I told myself as I tried to justify walking around with this ridiculous piece of paper in my hand. Let me explain…

It was my last night in Tokyo, and I was on my own for dinner. Both of my friends had already left, and our collective knowledge of Japanese had gone with them. Beyond food words, I know essentially nothing (for me this is a trend across several languages, English included). So I asked a staff member at the hotel to write out a simple message for me on a sheet of paper — Please give me the longest menu this restaurant offers. Thank you.

To observe this woman using all the willpower she had to stifle her laughter is to understand how much the Japanese value politeness. But she indulged me nonetheless, and soon I was on my way to Tofuya Ukai. Adam had actually been before on a previous trip and so his endorsement echoed the praise I had already been reading, so I was quite excited for my dinner in the shadow of the nearby Tokyo Tower.

I arrived to find three set menu options priced at ¥8400, ¥10500, and ¥12600. (Word to the wise: lunch prices are about half that.) My disappointment was palpable when I was given an English menu and an English-speaking waitress came to take my order — I couldn’t use my paper now! In any case, I got the “Yuki” set menu (the largest, natch), which featured beef as the main course. But I was intrigued by the fish main course on the middle “Tsuki” menu also, so I asked if it would be possible to work that in as well. Her surprise (disgust?) when I made that request reminded me how easy is it to feel like you’ve just offended someone in Japan. After running downstairs to get permission, she hesitatingly said they could do it for an additional ¥1800, an offer I happily accepted.

Things started off with some steamed shredded turnip, yam, tofu and mushroom. This was served in a soy-based broth and dotted with wasabi. With a firmness almost like a mushroom, this was the first of many textural incarnations of tofu that I would see that night. The other flavor accents here were sweet, salty and hot all at once, each interacting in a different way with the subtle flavor of the tofu.

Next was deep fried tofu with miso and scallion, and tamago topped with shredded turnip. The texture of the fried tofu was spongy, but in a good way — a very good way. It was also crisp on the outside and tender within. An added plus was that it was served very hot, which really activated the aromas of the miso and scallion. The Japanese-style omelette, meanwhile, displayed a restrained balance between sugar, soy sauce, and mirin. And a skilled cook must have prepared it, as the result was a custardy smooth texture and a taste that skewed neither too sweet nor too salty.

My waitress claimed my sashimi course would be more “special” since, along with the main course, it offered the only distinction among the differently priced menus. But unfortunately they brought a dreadfully mundane trio of ebi (shrimp), maguro (lean tuna), and karei (flounder). I liked the presentation on a bed of ice, but it only intensified the ghastly mental image of cocktail shrimp I got every time I looked at this (unfortunately) cooked shrimp. I’d just had live kuruma ebi (tiger prawn) a few days prior to this so I wept a little inside as I found this tough and flavorless by comparison. I found consolation in the crunchy and tasty shrimp head, although the maguro was mediocre and the flounder, forgettable.

Next up was a fish dumpling with shredded scallop (I think) served in a hot broth. “Dumpling” seems almost a misnomer for something that graces your tongue with such lightness. I really hope there is a poetic Japanese term for these things. The texture was a cross between soufflé and custard, and the flavor was just slightly sweet. Think exceptional quenelles de brochet with a Japanese sensibility. The fish broth just tasted so pure and I really liked drinking it as a soup for a clean finish.

The next dish held three separate presentations: soft buckwheat tofu topped with uni; boiled abalone served with seaweed; and the gracefully translated “rape and milt in bitter-orange juice”. You can top all sorts of things with good, fresh sea urchin roe to create something successful, but I thought the nutty buckwheat tofu matched with it particularly well. The softness of the tofu also mimicked the creamy uni, creating nice textural continuity. The abalone had the firmness characteristic of that tasty mollusk but it was neither tough nor chewy. In another display of culinary minimalism, its flavor shined brightly and simply. But, oh, about that milt! You might know it as shirako (meaning “white children” in Japanese), but let’s call a spade a spade — it’s fish semen. And it was the single most delicious thing I ate during this trip to Tokyo. One would expect that being presented with bodily fluids meant for ingestion would arouse a certain level of inquisitiveness, but I’m actually still unsure to which species of fish I owed this pleasure. Though I failed to ask who the — shall we say — benefactor had been, that ignorance tasted blissfully good. Smooth with a mouth-coating creaminess, the milt’s flavor was delicate and subtly sweet. Meanwhile, the slight bitterness of the orange juice and broccoli rabe contrasted the natural flavor of the shirako beautifully. I just loved this dish.

The waitress then brought a huge bowl holding a sea of warm soy milk and an island of silken tofu. She proceeded to set this on the table and carefully ladle it into a smaller bowl. This seasoned soy milk was just delicious. Its warmth unleashed a satisfying aroma almost reminiscent of cinnamon. The taste was sweet and nutty in a way that reminded me of the almond milk I enjoyed in Sicily. The unadorned block of tofu was bland, but dressed with kombu and soy sauce its taste was enhanced. And its texture was totally deserving of the “silken” title.

There were two components to the fish course that came next: salt-grilled Spanish mackerel with yuzu, and a croquette fashioned from a mixture of lotus root and rice. The salt-grilled fish was dead simple but just stunning. The skin was beautifully charred, while the flesh remained moist. A squeeze of fresh yuzu juice and a sprig of some sort of tempura-fried herb heightened the natural flavor of the fish even more. Meanwhile the croquette had just the thinnest crispy layer on the outside while the inside was a moist and creamy blend of glutinous rice and lotus root. I was reminded of a particularly rich form of Italian arancini that are filled with béchamel, but this somehow had a lightness to it, and a delicate sweetness I found almost enchanting. I really enjoyed this course.

The charcoal-grilled beef, on the other hand, I was not entirely thrilled about. In fact I thought it pretty pedestrian. Seasoned simply with salt and pepper, I expected a stronger beef flavor to shine through but it never did. The seared outside I’d enjoyed so much on the fish was nearly absent here. It was instead just gently browned, although it was thankfully rosy pink on the inside and thus fairly tender. But oddly, between this course and the sashimi, the two courses that accounted for the higher priced menu were the most disappointing of the evening. Frankly neither warranted spending the extra cash. I guess even in the food paradise that is Tokyo, you can’t win ‘em all.

The last savory course included a wooden dish full of rice topped with snow crab, miso soup with tofu, and pickled vegetables. Never have I encountered a culture that cooks its rice so incredibly well as the Japanese. Seriously. It’s something to behold. Each grain here had integrity and flavor on its own, while seamlessly disappearing into an ocean of others. It was not clumpy or dry or broken. It was not over- or under-cooked by a second. With nothing accompanying it but a few pieces of sweet snow crab, it was, in a word, fantastic. The miso soup was basically umami in a bowl, and I enjoyed the lone piece of tofu floating in it that had soaked up that flavor. The pickled vegetables were good also, like a savory palate cleanser. But I’m still thinking about that rice…

Dessert is usually an incredibly simple (or completely non-existent) affair in Japan and this was no exception. Just a small cup of red bean soup and couple of wedges of fresh persimmon. The soup was fortunately less grainy than red bean desserts can often be, but I wouldn’t call it particularly great. The fresh fruit was just a simple, clean way to wind down the meal. And I also happen to really like persimmon, so it was a happy ending.

After the meal, I sat in the now-empty dining room drinking tea for a bit before deciding to explore the restaurant grounds. Passing back through the lobby I saw a huge barrel full of soy beans, this tofu-focused restaurant’s raison d’être. From what I could see from my upstairs window the enclosed garden area looked quite peaceful, and it was. An outdoor grill area still smelled of charcoal. A small stream snaked between the different private dining houses. I could have stayed out there for a while just relaxing, but I was already chilling a bit too much on that nippy January evening.

While I wouldn’t call this the single best meal I had in Tokyo (that would be Kyubey), I would say my dinner at Tofuya Ukai was an eye-opener. The wonderfully varied texture, temperatures, and presentations of tofu I saw that night shattered a lot of the pre-conceived notions about certain soy products, (okay, that last one’s actually pretty good, but still). I think Adam said it best — Japan makes you a better person. This meal showed me that maybe this tofu stuff isn’t just for hippies and Buddhists after all. So I say forget all the crap you’ve heard and tasted before. Tofuya Ukai should be on any Tokyo short-list. After all, where else are you going to get your milt fix?

Aragawa is certainly not known for its decor. As a restaurant located at the end of a dark hallway in the basement of an office building in Tokyo’s Shinbashi business area, some might even claim that this restaurant is humble: there’s certainly no grand entrance with valet parking. In fact, there isn’t even an entrance. I would claim, however, that this only increases the restaurant’s pretense. Like an exclusive club, the restaurant’s location suggests that only a select few are lucky enough to know about what Forbes magazine called in 2006 the most expensive restaurant in the world. But prices aside, this basement retreat is known for something else: the juiciest, fattiest, and most tender Kobe beef in the world.

Kobe beef is considered the holy grail of marbleized meats. As a process that involves regular massages and feedings of sake, raising wagyu is certainly no easy task. These cows are said to be treated fairly well, the theory being that happy cows produce better meat. Kobe beef is a specific name given to wagyu slaughtered in the Kobe region of Japan. Partly due to the manner in which the cows are raised, but mostly due to intentionally regulated low supply levels, this beef can get pretty expensive. Up to $800 a pound, in fact. The cows must also be slaughtered in Kobe, Japan for the title Kobe beef to be applied. During the mad cow disease scare just a few years ago, Japanese beef imports were restricted and so “Kobe style” beef was raised domestically in the US. The price was certainly less than the Japan imported counterpart, but purists would claim that there was a clearly noticeable degradation in quality. This distinction exposes a gray area for the cows that are raised outside of Kobe and are slaughtered in Kobe, since they’re still technically considered Kobe beef. And that’s what makes Aragawa special. It’s affiliated with its own farm that both raises and slaughters its own beef in Kobe. No one argues that this beef is not authentic. And guests pay for that. So while both the wagyu and my wallet were massaged, there was some consolation in knowing that the price of the ingredients were partly responsible for the exorbitant prices. But despite knowing that this four figure dinner for two without alcohol did not contain highly marked up prices, I left feeling unsatisfied.

After arriving to the basement floor of an office building with all the lights off, I felt like I was about to engage in some kind of illicit activity. I walked past the closed office doors through what seemed like a sterile hospital ward when suddenly a Japanese man with slicked back hair popped out from around the corner announcing my name. (Wonder how he knew.) It seems I was in the right place. We were escorted through yet another closed door into a small windowless masculine room abundant with red and gold. I could practically touch the ceiling. There was no music, so my voice was quickly funneled into the awkwardness of silence; it was uncomfortable to talk. In a restaurant with about ten tables and an apparently large waiting list, only two others were full. To my left was a young couple from Singapore, the gentleman of which kept sniffling his nose which did nothing for the clearly visible trail of white powder his cold. To my right was an older man speaking Japanese with a significantly younger woman. Both couples seemed to engage in a staring contest with each other, and with my table. It was clear that a glass of wine was necessary. As I reached for my camera, a voice behind me whispered that photography was strictly prohibited. Yeah, ok.

It turns out that the gentleman with the slicked back hair was our waiter as well. He kind of pretended he didn’t just bring us into the restaurant by welcoming us again. He swung around from behind me and handed me a sheet of paper with he pricings of the Kobe beef. This restaurant only serves Kobe beef; not the best place for vegetarians. There were two grades of beef, premium and super premium, both of which came in three different weights, 12, 16, and 20 ounces. We opted to split 16 ounces of the super premium beef, with my reasoning being that this is some fatty beef, and with fat weighing less than muscle, this would be a large steak. Our waiter then verbally explained the appetizer and salad options. Fresh chilled scallops sounded good; I didn’t really want a salad.

While my glass of wine never came, my day boat scallops did instead, two large lightly boiled scallops served in the shell, the adductor still attached.The scallops were served simply with a wedge of lemon and a side of tomato based cocktail sauce being the only accompaniments. The large scallop was difficult to separate from the shell with my dull shell fish fork and butter knife being my only instruments. It was annoying because the scraping sound of the knife against the shell made me cringe. But once this slightly overcooked shellfish was separated from the shell, my appetite was whetted. Alongside the scallops came two slices of lightly toasted white bread with butter. Nothing special.

The waiter shortly returned holding a plate with our Kobe steak to show us before splitting in two. Looked pretty good to me, as I suddenly regretted not getting two individual twenty ounce cuts the portioning just about right for two people. The steak was split and returned, the beautifully rare burgundy steak glistening under the lights. The characteristic fat deposits of this beautiful Kobe steak were clearly evident as sheets of white embedded amongst the red. The juxtaposition of soft fat and tender muscle made cutting through the meat not only fun, but interesting as well. The resistance of the muscle held back the knife through the silky smooth slices of fat. This same texture was evident with every bite, the fat being squeezed out of the muscle creating a buttery taste. I asked for this steak rare; but I feel like the smoothness of the fat would have been even further amplified had this meat been cooked further, as the fat would have remained soft while the meat was made more tender. The steak was rubbed with salt and pepper, grilled, and served only with a side of mustard. It was delicious, particularly the flavor of the spicy mustard cutting through the juicy fat.

Next up was a promptly prepared bill and an offer for tea and coffee. That was it. No dessert. Nothing. We were in and out in just over an hour, making this without a question the highest price to time ratio for a meal I’ve ever had. We were never charged for the scallops nor coffee. Were these included in the price of the steak? I didn’t want to ask in case they weren’t. Shortly after, our waiter turned bell captain and escorted us upstairs to find a taxi. It was only eight o’clock, meaning there was time to stop off somewhere for dinner. I left that night a little hot under the collar, unsure of exactly what I was angry at. Was it the price? Perhaps; but in a culture obsessed with quality of ingredients, skill of preparation, and abundance of food, it’s not uncommon to spend this kind of money on food in Tokyo. Was it the flavor? No; the steak was perhaps the most tender and certainly the juiciest piece of meat I’d ever had. Perhaps the service? It was definitely lacking; but nothing to go crazy about. I felt a little better the next day; but I still swore not to go back.

I think my problem was that unlike black truffles and beluga caviar, which even in the cheapest forms are still fairly expensive, there are inexpensive varieties of Kobe-style beef that may not have the exact same marbelization levels or come in 20 ounce slabs like Aragawa’s beef, but certainly would fulfill any craving for fatty meat. So while I left upset, I realized that I was not upset at the restaurant so much as I was upset at having spent so much money on a single ingredient that comes in much cheaper varieties rather than a chef’s skill. On the other hand, there was solace in knowing that this beef is expensive and profit margins for the restaurant may in fact be slim. I was also glad to have tried this beef to know for sure that there was no need to return.

Once I learned that L’Atelier Tokyo was the original, my suspicions of Japanese influence on the concept of this restaurant were officially confirmed. At first I wondered if the preparations would be adopted to better match the Japanese palate; but, then I realized that here in Tokyo, these dishes were at home. With its floor to ceiling windows and bright workshop lighting passing over the second floor of the shiny new Roppongi Hills shopping center, L’Atelier glows as a culinary oasis beckoning hungry mall diners to venture in. Unfortunately, reservations are required. But fortuantely, L’Atelier has an adjacent bakery where disheartened customers without reservations can take home macarons, french breads, confiture, and a newly found smile. At least that’s what I did my first time. But fortune favors the persistent, and the following Christmas I returned with a reservation. While many of the dishes I had already sampled, I was glad that I waited.

I expected to be seated amongst other foreigners as I was in Paris; but surprisingly, in all the times I’ve eaten here, I’ve never heard any language spoken other than Japanese. There are a handful of hightop tables adjacent to the bar, all of which seem to be second choice to a front-row seat at the counter, where diners get a first-hand view of the intricate plating each dish involves. Many of the dishes were similar to New York and Paris; but there were a handful of new dishes, all of which I was determined to try.

Service started with shavings of cured ham, the source of which was hanging above Paris’s counter but hidden here in Tokyo. Bridging the gap between source and plate is not nearly so important here as it is in Paris; more important is refinement, and hanging pigs in a gourmet restaurant would materlize as crude and uncivilized. But after a few bites, my mind stopped thinking about Japanese cultural nuances and focused on the smokey and salty strips of dried meat that nicely brought out the sweetness of of my Chablis. I do think that salty is the way to begin any meal, as sweet too early can prevent the sweet subtleties of savory courses from naturally progressing.

Next came an individual basket of bread, a collection of five different rolls, the freshness of which was startling. Even the miniature baguette, an item whose freshness quickly deteriorates after baking, was rife with moisture. It was a little excessive to give me a basket of ten rolls, particularly because I ate all of them. But no worries; there was still plenty of room left for the evening.

The amuse bouche was a shot glass filled with a red pepper velouté topped with a tomato foam. I didn’t care much for this: I found the texture repetitious and unchanging, with the flavor of cooked red pepper, something I despise, dominating every bite. It was interesting how the red pepper’s sweetness was synchronized with that of the tomato’s without any acidity; but ultimately, this was a flavor I just didn’t like.

My first dish ever at L’Atelier Tokyo was Le Haricot Coco en fin velouté au fumet de truffe et lard fumé, a bright white bean velouté with smoked lardons and shaved black truffle. Though perhaps a bit crude, the smokiness of pig fat with the earthy aroma of black truffle is a beautiful combination for the nose, one that is both complex and soul-satisfying at the same time. The texture of this soup was creamy with a slight grain from the beans, with the light foamy layer floating on the top acting as a link between the velvety soup and the weightless truffles hovering on top. The foam also kept the texture of the truffles as it held them above the broth, preventing them from going soft. The taste of this dish was the weakest part, though, as the velouté tasted more like milk than anything else — it was undersalted and underflavored. Too bad; this had potential.

Another dish I didn’t particularly like was Le filet de boeuf granité avec une pomme purée truffée, which essentially is a fancy name for beef surrounded by soggy breadcrumbs. The texture of this couldn’t help but remind me of fried and breaded beef. It was not a pretty thought. There was no textural coherency between the granité and the steak, and with a swipe of the fork, I was able to scrape off all the offending topping. The breadcrumbs were also astoundingly salty, making this steak really unenjoyable. The truffled potatoes, however, were outstanding as always, the earthy flavor of the truffle adding an earthy fragrance to an ingredient that normally lacks much scent. The potatoes stole the show for this dish, and my plate was sent back rather lopsided.

The last dish of those I did not like was Le Saint-Pierre cuit à la marinière aux fines herbes, something I disliked in Paris as well but was curious how different it would taste here. Of all the dishes that varied between L’Atelier locations, this was one that did not. It was nearly identical to le saint-pierre in Paris, and it was equally disappointing.

Now that those three dishes are out of the way, the rest of the dishes were very impressive. Le thon onctueux et épice d’un velouté de brocolis was new; I hadn’t seen it on the menu in Paris or New York. This dish had a surprisingly interesting texture, with the bottom of the glass containing a light and airy tuna purée, supporting an even lighter broccoli velouté. These two layers were garnished with smoked tuna and small heads of broccoli. The dish was certainly balanced texturally, but regarding flavor, it seemed a little one-sided: fishy. The salty fish flavor dominated the broccoli, as if I were eating vegetables out of a bowl previously used for a fish course. Though, as I looked around the counter, I saw other diners enjoying this dish, making me wonder if this savory fishy dish was created particularly for the Japanese palate. While it worked here, I’m not sure it would have done well elsewhere, perhaps explaining why it was only on the Tokyo menu.

As for the next dish, Le Foie Gras de Canard sauté aux figues et une glace verjuté, this dish was nothing short of beautiful. I certainly know what I think when I see fig and foie gras on the menu: boring. But note that there was no fig compote or other variant of fig, just the pure fruit sautéed so as to preserve their original texture, adding a chewy contrast to the buttery foie. The figs were much more savory than I had expected: no additional sugar was added. This indicated a clear desire to keep the flavors as close to nature as possible, something which worked nicely to differentiate this dish from other fig and foie variants. Ironically, this dish’s originality came from its connection to nature. Delicious.

Citrus, particularly grapefruit, and meat is a combination I pretty much never enjoy. I find that the cutting acidity of the fruit sidetracks my palate from the comforting saltiness of the steak. I ordered Le Canard Challandais rôti avec des endives glacées aux sucs d’orange mainly because it was a new item for me; but, also because I was curious to see how chef Robuchon saw these two ingredients working together. Frankly, I started laughing to myself while eating this — the hilarity of how well these three ingredients: the bitter endive, the acidic orange, and the savory steak worked together. It was like a high school chemistry experiment: the endive with orange was too bitter by itself; but somehow, when mixed with the steak, the bitterness became undetectable and, in fact, highlighted the latent sweetness embedded in the rare duck. Not only was this delicious, it was fascinating! I’m pretty sure this can be explained scientifically; but for me, it was magic.

Next came my five favorite words: “a gift from the kitchen.” And a special gift it was; normally this was a full course on the menu: La Langoustine en papillote croustillante au basilic, L’Atelier’s version of langoustine tempura. I wondered if La Langoustine would change as, after all, this tempura-like dish was to be served to some tough critics. But confidently, this Robuchon special was identical to that served at the other locations, a testament to this dish’s universal tastiness. The first thing that struck me was the lack of oil in the langoustine’s brik pastry crust. Most of the moisture came from the succulence of the moist crustacean. While the tail was removed from the shell a new dough-based crust was given, adding a delicate crunch that also helped to lock in humidity. Although not technically tempura, this could easily compete against langoustine tempura found in the most famous of Tokyo’s tempura houses. Delicious.

Another new dish was Le Paillard de Volaille relevé de citron et tomates confites avec des artichauts à la plancha, a thin slice of grilled chicken breast covered with artichoke, sun dried tomatoes, rocket, parmesan shavings, and black truffle shavings. While there was nothing particularly bad about this dish — except perhaps that the chicken was dry — there was nothing special either. Why was this dish even on the menu? This seemed almost like spa cuisine. The truffle shavings were frankly uncalled for; I couldn’t even taste or smell them. Sitting on top this chicken breast was a giant nest of superfluous ingredients, all of which seemed to tangle together so that I could brush it off to the side, eat the chicken, parmesan, and truffle, and cut my losses.

La Saint-Jacques au beurre d’algues acidulés was something that I didn’t enjoy in New York, but enjoyed more here. Unlike in New York, this rendition served two scallops instead of one, and with about two-thirds less butter. This was no butter bath, so to speak. The scallops were also slightly undercooked, something essential, so that the texture remained soft and absorbant rather than firm and chewy. The spicing seemed a bit arbitrary; but this dish was so driven by the flavor of the natural ingredients, so long as the textures weren’t off, it’s hard for this not to be enjoyable.

By this point, my sister was in awe at the quantity of food I ate. “I’ve never seen someone eat like this,” she exclaimed. Thankfully Aaron wasn’t with us this night … she might have passed out. But responsibly sensing a hint of fullness, I ordered three additional courses that were slightly lighter. I started with the well-known L’Oursin dans une délicate gelée recouverte d’une onctueuse crème de chou-fleur, a martini glass filled with a sea urchin gelée and covered with a cauliflower crème. The cauliflower crème was bordered with equally sized and perfectly round dots of basil oil. I ate this dish while watching the basil oil being set, drop by drop, under the spotlight in front of me feeling slightly guilty that it took me only a few bites to undo all the pain-staking minutes that went into making all these drops perfectly sized and aligned. But while the presentation was highly styled and certainly artistic, the flavor was simple and fresh, the cool gelée encapuslating the oceanic flavor of the urchin and the crème preventing that flavor from tasting hollow. The urchin was firm and held its shape, despite being in a gelée, a clear indication of its freshness. But while the urchin was firm, the dish overall was texturally monotonous — everything was soft. A slight crunch, as nori typically has when uni sushi is served, would have gone a long way. Nevertheless, this was very flavorful.

Next was a dish I’d enjoyed in New York, and was happy to find that it was delicious here as well. La Caille au foie gras caramélisée avec une pomme purée truffée is two pieces of caramelized squab with Robuchon mashed potatoes topped with black truffle shavings. Aside from the incredibly tasty potatoes, which is essentially butter with essence of potato, the squab held its own very nicely. The lightly caramelized skin gave a honey flavor to the succulent meat which seemed to go really nicely with the more salty potatoes. This sensation was heightened by the aroma of trufle. What a nice dish.

Noticing that my sister had stopped eating over an hour ago, I declined another look at the menu and decided this would be my last course … well, savory course. Next came Le Homard rôti puis accompagné d’une fricassé de champignons au vin jaune d’Arbois, half a roasted lobster with a wild mushroom fricassé. Delicious; but, boring. The stringy texture of the dry roasted lobster soaked up the yellow wine into its small crevasses, making each salty bite slighty sweeter. Something about this dish seemed a little sloppy to me — perhaps the fact that there were three different sauces mixing, but not complimenting, each other. I appreciated this dish as I love lobster; but ultimately, this is not something I would order again.

Time to cleanse my palate, or to warm up for dessert, depending on your point of view. I was handed a small shot glass with raspberries and blueberries suspended in a lime gelée and topped with a lime and basil ice cream. I really like basil when it’s turned sweet: it has a fresh flavor not too far off from mint. The acidity of the lime was a little too strong, however, making my tongue cringe in bitterness preventing it from feeling refreshed from the basil.

My first dessert was a Pomme en feuillantine croustillante avec une glace d’une pomme au four, several thin layers of pastry sandwiching poached apple and crème fraîche, with a side of apple ice cream accented with dried apple chips. This dessert was wonderful. The sweetness of the apple was tempered by hints of salt and the milky crème. It was texturally balanced as well, as each bite of soft apple, crème, or ice cream, had crispy pastry and dried slices of apple. The apple inside the pastry layers was also lukewarm, and as we all know, warm apple and ice cream is quite delicious. Mmm.

But last of the desserts was also my favorite, an updated rendition of my favorite dessert Le Sucre, which for some reason has been taken off all the L’Atelier menus. This dessert was Les Fruits Rouges en soupe avec une gelée de framboise et une fin tube de glace mascarpone, a thin crispy sugar cylinder filled with mascarpone ice cream, served on a bed of strawberries and red currants with a raspberry gelée. With the first crack of the tube, tiny crispy bits of sugar were released into the soft ice cream, making this dish not only beautiful and delicious; but balanced as well. The natural sweetness of the fruit was brought out by the slightly sweet gelée, yet made more rich and subtle by the creaminess from the mascarpone ice cream. Very delicious.

I was happy to see that the Tokyo branch of my favorite international restaurant brand had remained impressive from location to location. Though this may have been the original location, it seems like most of the inventive dishes were still happening in Paris and from there, trickling their way onto the international menus. Yet the consistently delicious fare at L’Atelier knows no geographical bounds — one can expect a well-executed meal at any location worldwide. I look forward to returning the next time I’m in Tokyo since it seems like the handful of dishes that make this location unique can all be tasted in one seating are original and, from my experience, certainly worth trying.