Chef Skenes is obsessed with flavor and how best to enhance it. In contrast to restaurants that over-embellish dishes and add complexity at the expense of flavor, Skenes takes away. Flavor is paramount for chef Skenes; everything else comes secondary. There is a firm Japanese influence in his cooking rooted in its simplicity, from his cuts of sashimi and live prawns to his use of sea vegetables. Skenes builds on this base of Japanese ingredients and applies fire, culminating in a magical and unique cooking style.

At the center of Saison is its hearth, an open wood-burning oven which nearly every dish utilizes in one form or another. Roasting over the hearth deeply intensifies the flavor of the ingredients. Sometimes Chef Skenes uses the hearth to roast an entire fish or meat, other times he’ll roast the bones as a component for a stock used to make a sauce to accompany a meat. Whether intense or subtle, the subtle smokiness and depth from the wood-burning hearth seems to make its way into every dish. The result is an addictive, rustic, wholesome flavor that makes every bite interesting.

The restaurant itself is set back in a barn-like industrial space off a quiet street in San Francisco’s Mission district. It was only after hearing the clanking of pots and pans that I realized I was in the right place. While the restaurant is soon to change locations, the current warehouse-like space is beautiful. The warm glow from the embers of the hearth permeates through one of the two dining rooms. The space is pastoral and romantic, its unassuming decor exemplifies the simplicity of the food Saison serves.

Reserve caviar – Wild reserve caviar from white sturgeon lightly smoked over the embers of the hearth. The smoking is just for a few seconds to firm the texture and add a smokey depth to the flavor.

Alongside the caviar was a Sardinian “music paper,” a thin cracker cooked in the hearth topped with a layer of smoked crème fraîche, artichoke citronne, artichoke purée, shad roe, egg yolks and whites, ficoide glaciale (ice plant), salt wort from Saison’s farm, and wild foraged herbs. This herbal garden was dusted with gold leaf.

Trio of canapés - Three plates of bite sized snacks.

The first was a Marin miyagi oyster filled with diced cucumber, borage, and drizzled with olive oil and a dash of fermented lime. Its flavor was bright, briny, and clean.

Second was a glass of tubers: giant carrot purée with parsnip milk and a purée made from crisp and roasted parsnip. Underneath was a creamy layer of salted egg yolk, oxalis tuber and leaves. The dish was garnished with mallow flower and crispy ice plant.

Third, a sandwich of sliced radish topped with radish gelée. Inside was bitter melon glazed with roasted pig butter and nasturtium honey. The delicate balance of sweet and bitter is what made this dish, and prevented the sweetness of the honey from becoming cloying.

Flight of fish - A selection of seven colorful fish, some aged and some straight from the sea.  From left to right: Red sea bream (aged 3 days), lobster tail wrapped in white radish, pen shell clam, horse mackerel, Kindai bluefin tuna belly, striped jack (aged 5 days), and amber jack (aged 7 days). With the exception of the Kindai bluefin tuna, all of the fish were wild and caught with a rod, line, and reel. This was a seemingly simple dish; it was only after speaking with Chef Skenes that I understood the great amount of detail that went into each piece of sashimi to deepen the flavor.

Each fish was brushed with a white soy sauce infused with the bones from that fish, lightly roasted over the embers of the hearth.  Chef Skenes calls this “bone sauce.”  While the subtle addition of “bone sauce” is imperceptible by looking, I couldn’t help but notice a meaty depth to the fish; an umami quality that enhanced each fish’s flavor.

The flight of fish was served with a rice crackling dusted with river vegetable, shrimp floss, and perilla salt. To the side was a small bowl splashed with a “bone vinaigrette,” a vinaigrette of wild seaweed, dried fish, and citrus infused with the roasted bones of the above fish.

This was an absolutely brilliant course, both conceptually and in terms of flavor. It was essentially a tour of the textures and flavors of the sea, each fish enhanced with aging and the smokey embers of the hearth.

Brassicas - Various wild strands of the mustard family (ruby streaks mustard, malabar spinach, arrowhead and oxheart cabbage) each either poached or gently roasted over the embers of the hearth until crispy. Toasted grains add texture to the dish, including barley, emmer wheat, wild rice, and sonora wheatberry. The broth, poured tableside, was made from wild seaweed and an assortiment of dried fish including flying fish, sardine, and bonito. Drizzled throughout the dish were puffed grains to add textural contrast.  Crowning the dish was a small quail egg.

Vegetable aspic – A transparent bowl of fava beans, peas, zucchini and squash roasted over the fire of the hearth. Burried within was a crispy chip of eggplant skin and a generous wedge of buttery avocado. All of the vegetables were bound with a gelée of tomato consommé. The vegetables and their consommé sat atop a corn pudding glazed in olive oil with pimenton de la vera and basil seeds soaked in basil water.

This dish was a balance of textures and temperatures all held together by the subtle smoke and meaty quality of the tomato consommé.

The vegetable aspec was served with a salt made from prawn roe. The salt had the concentrated taste of shellfish, which also tasted really, really good on bread with butter.

Crustaceans - A dungeness crab ragôut gently warmed in crustacean butter, served with santa barbara sea urchin and wild nasturtium leaf which had been gently roasted over the fire of the hearth until a crisp.  Our waiter added a cool meyer lemon whipped cream, and later poured in a crustacean bouillon table side, made from lobster, crabs, and spot prawns. This was unbelievable.

To the right was a live spot prawn just pulled from the tank and gently poached in its own sea water. The prawn was sweet and exceptionally fresh. I could have easily eaten a hundred of them.

Pasternack’s rabbit - Rabbit meat ground with foie gras and rolled into collard greens. This was gently poached in rabbit bouillon. Also in the bowl were kidney and liver roasted over the embers with herbs.  Most of the herbs, leaves, flowers, and tips were wild and foraged, everything else came from White Crane Springs community ranch.  Our waiter poured in a reduction made from rabbit bones slowly roasted over the embers of the hearth. This was a gamey, buttery chunk of meat that was enhanced by the vegetables and the subtle depth from the hearth.

Heartbreads – Medallions of heart breads from Four Story Hill farm. These are slowly roasted over the embers with berbere spices, brown butter, and fir honey. This was a magical combination of oozy, buttery, and rich veal hypothalamus coated in sweet and crispy honey. Again, the subtle hint of smoke from the hearth really added an element of depth to this dish.

Nuvola di percora – Warm nuvola di pecora piped into a freshly baked brioche with honeycomb. This was one of the most memorable desserts I have ever tasted. Salty and velvety nuvola di pecora oozing out of a light and fluffy butter brioche coated in a layer of thin, crispy honey.

When sliced in half, the sticky honeycomb cracked in two and the warm cheese poured out of the center. This was a dynamic dish that tasted great when placed on the table piping hot, and as it cooled and the cheese began to firm.

Preserved lemon A mixture of meyer lemon cream, lemon sorbet, and candied lemon from meyer lemon preserved on Jan 27, 2011. This was a mix of temperatures and textures all held together by the brightness of the lemon. The preservation process tempered the acidity making the lemon taste sweet with a hint of bitterness, rather than overly sour.

Melon – Melon with sparkling vanilla sorbet, and shiso cake.

Popcorn ice cream - A cool and creamy sphere of buttery popcorn ice cream, nicely balanced with a dash of salt.

Candied raspberries - The natural flavor of raspberry enhanced with a thin layer of sugar. The sugar crystals also added a textural contrast to the soft raspberry. These were addictive.

Chef Joshua Skenes is onto something big. Of all the restaurants I visited in the bay area during my recent trip, this is the meal that keeps haunting me. Skenes use of the hearth as a tool for flavor intensification defines his very unique cooking style. Every course had at least one component that was touched by fire. It’s this traditional cooking that makes Skene’s food rustic, honest, and straight-forward.

I can’t wait to go back. If Chef Skenes continues on his current track, with time, his cooking can only get better.

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The menu read very straight forward: a handful of dishes with a single main ingredient supported by a fruit, vegetable, liquor, or combination of the two.  The beauty of this menu lies in its apparent simplicity; it was refreshing to not have to read a laundry list of ingredients, or an ironic single-word title.

The service was a bit odd.  At first it seemed like the wait staff had just gotten home from work and we were intruding in their living room.  There was a sense of lethargy or general lack of enthusiasm.  But as the clock crept towards midnight (the Spanish eat late) and the restaurant’s service calmed, things livened up.

The formica-lined interior, red and white, seemed like it came from the set of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Everything was built in and slid out from a concealed drawer: the wine, glasses and utensils, even the cheese cart!  The staff dressed in all black with red cuffs and belts.  The only thing missing from the set was Keir Dullea going for a jog around the ceiling.

We started with a glass of Oriol Rossell Brut Nature Cava, a blend of Pinot Noir, Chardonnay, and Meuiner.  The flavor was crisp and full of citrus fruits predominately grapefruit.

Amuse bouche, melon and clam - A small bowl of melon gelee with local raw clams.  What made this dish really special was the way the musky, almost butterscotch flavor of the raw cantelope interacted with the brine of the clam.  It completely held back the brine  while allowing the clam’s natural sweetness to come through.  It was an oceanic-filter.

Amuse bouche, rabbit terrine – A cylindrical rabbit terrine wrapped in summer truffle piped with almond cream.  The truffles weren’t particularly fragrant, and the terrine tasted more like butter than meat.  This was not a great bite.

King prawns with almonds and tarragon - This was a dish I could have easily repeated twenty times.  Two prawns lightly poached in their own salt water, laid across a streak of tarragon with an almond crème fraîche.  The barely cooked prawns were succulent and despite being from the ocean, tasted sweeter than they did salty.  The tarragon added a bright herbal note while the cool almond cream kept the dish grounded.  This was wonderful.

Sardine tartar with tomatoes and prunes - Small cubes of fresh sardine brushing against a tomato soup with a streak of red tomato paste and basil.   The Andalusian-style tomato soup is close to gazpacho in flavor, but thicker and richer.  It amazingly contains no cream; it’s thickened with bread and olive oil.  The tomato soup’s sweet vegetal flavor supported the lightly acidic raw sardine giving it body.

“After eight” foie gras - Lobes of buttery foie gras topped with a chocolate sauce and mint foam.  The dish was inspired by the English mints.  The refreshing coolness from the spearmint cut through any residual grease from the foie gras making this fatty ingredient somehow taste a bit lighter.  The chocolate added a hint of sweetness and bitterness.  I loved this plate.

Monkfish with saffron rice and zucchini flower - The highlight of this dish was everything except the main ingredient.  The saffron rice with zucchini flower and saffron sauce were outrageously delicious.  The saffron contributed a meaty quality to the broth and when combined with the texture of the rice, it stood on its own as a principal ingredient.  The monkfish, though juicy, seemed like an after thought to me.

Suckling pig with porcini and perigordini - A thick cube of suckling pig with porcini mushroom and a sauce made from mustard, black pepper, brandy, and “nata” the residual fat that floats from unhomogenized milk.  (By the way nata, I learned, tastes very good in drip coffee.)  The skin was crispy and the interior meat succulent and juicy.  The best part of this dish was the sauce.  I sort of wished the suckling pig was replaced by a thick wedge of buttered bread.

Kid with parsnips and cherries – A braised young goat shank with a tick of licorice, parsnip purée, and cherries.  The texture of the goat was much like lamb.  Since the goat was still young it didn’t have much of the barnyard taste that develops when the animal gets older.  The meat was very fatty, but unlike the suckling pig, there was no crispy skin.  This dish was frankly too soft and sticky for me.  But my friends at the table seemed to really enjoy it.  For me, one bite was enough.

Pigeon with mango and armagnac – A small piece of roasted pigeon with diced mango, lavender, and an armagnac sauce.  The pigeon was served with a purée made from the liver.  This was a great dish.  Due to the odd shape of the drumstick, every bite of the pigeon tasted different: some crispy, others soft and juicy.  There was significant textural diversity.

Cheese course - A collection of local cheeses, Tou de Til.lers, Piramide del Quirol, Cabra de la Garrotxa (Bauma), Taleggio, Torta de la Serena, and Blau de l’Avi Ton served with membrillo.

Pistachio soufflé with lime - A spongy pistachio soufflé served out of its ramekin with a lime sauce.  The toasted  pistachio flavor softened the acidity of the lime.  This dessert was well-balanced and quite colorful.

Strawberries with orange and yzaguirre - Sliced strawberries with orange sorbet floating in a yzaguirre broth.  The broth actually had beef stock in it, which might sound strange, but its slight fattiness really complimented the acidity of the orange sorbet and tartness of the strawberry.  This was a wonderful dessert, probably my favorite course of the night.

Peach salad with beets - Sliced peaches with beet sorbet.  I loved how the vegetal sweetness of the root vegetables interacted with the tartness of the peach.

Petits fours - warm chocolate cake, whisky chocolate squares, mango custard squares.  The warm chocolate cake was a nice touch, really ensures their freshness and prevents the small pastries from drying out.

I really like what chefs Oriel Ivem and Guillem Pla are doing: taking traditional Catalan ingredients and cooking preparations and adding a modern twist.  But I wish the restaurant could move beyond the notion that each main course needs a huge chunk of meat or fish.

The most interesting part of all the main courses was everything except the meat.  I would have been much happier with significantly smaller portions of meat and fish, or frankly, none at all.  After the third bite, the flavor becomes redundant.  Though, I suppose, a main course without meat seems like a tough sell in Barcelona.

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One aspect of the Molecular Bar that makes the experience so fun is its chefs.  Instead of creating an environment in which interactivity is passive-aggressively shunned, chef Ramsey and his team explained the back story of each dish and how it related to Japanese culture.  This was particularly crucial for the nostaligic dishes as many of the diners did not grow up in Japan.  Questions were encouraged, and frankly, this in-depth understanding of the food I was eating really added another dimension to the meal’s enjoyment.  Not only did I learn a tremendous amount about the food and its preparation, but I felt like I was eating a story with each course.

Glögg – A small amuse bouche shot glass of the Scandinavian spiced Christmas drink.

Chupa Tapas – A candied foie gras pâté shaped and wrapped to look like a Chupa Chups lollypop.  This was unbelievable, and possibly the best thing I’ve tasted in awhile.  Eaten in one bite, the crunchy sugar shell cracks into a crispy brittle adding textural contrast to the smooth and creamy foie gras.  The rich flavor in combination with the caramel flavored sweetness was incredible.

Tai Chazuke – Chazuke is a Japanese soup made from green tea, dashi broth, and rice.  It is often topped with dried seaweed, pickled vegetables, fish roe, and other salty and sometimes sour savory ingredients.  Like porridge, this dish is a way to utilize leftover rice as the water re-hydrates it.  In this dish a lean slice of sea bream was served alongside a spherified tea ball with crunchy miso beads.  In the mouth the ingredients combine and re-create the nostaligic flavor of Chazuke.  This was a pretty original concept.

Bacalao Espuma – A shot glass of cod foam layered with tomato puree and a small bread crisp to add textural contrast.  The salty cod foam spread like whipped cream on the crouton, the tomato added a hint of sweetness.  This was quite good.

Chef Ramsey demonstrating the spherification technique. This technique, originally conceived by El Bulli, is used here to create a dish that looks like caviar.  The spheres form when sodium alginate is dripped into a cold calcium chloride solution forming a skin over the liquid beads.

Roast Pepper Caviar - This was a dish more about the concept than the flavor.  The texture was similar to caviar, though not identical.  For me the defining fingerprint of caviar is a briny and salty flavor in combination with a cold temperature and burst-in-your-mouth consistency.  This dish had none of those, so while the concept was playful it was still far from caviar.  I also don’t really like the flavor of sweet red pepper.  This was my least favorite course of the night.

Sushi – Cubed tuna tartar atop a rice foam.  In the mouth the ingredients mixed creating an identical flavor profile to tuna sashimi.  This was a really great concept.

Black truffle and lily bulb – This was an exceptional dish.  A light and fluffy lily froth garnished with caramelized garlic and fragrant black truffle shavings.  The nutty and pasty chunks of lily bulb at the bottom — a bit like chestnut without the sweetness — added a creaminess without making the soup too rich.  The warm fragrance from the truffle really brought everything together.

King crab and uni – A light and fresh followup to the previous course.  A variation of this dish was served at my previous meal here called “Red.”  Unlike last time, however, this dish had focus and the ingredients really worked well together.  The simple tomato-infused jelly brought out some of the latent vegetal flavor of the crab.  The uni added sweetness.

Kasago – Roasted scorpion fish with a dried miso powder and crispy skin “chicharron.”

Lobster, potato, and Vanilla – Butter-poached lobster with a potato gnocchi and vanilla broth.  The aroma of the vanilla with the butter gave the lobster a lighter and sweeter flavor.

Secreta de Iberico – Iberian cured ham covered in a cloud of smoke.  The smoking process happened in front of our eyes as the chef explained the dish.

Xiaolongbao – Traditionally a type of steamed bun from eastern China, also known as “soup dumplings.”  The dumplings are stuffed with broth and are usually eaten with a spoon to collect the bouillon as it spills out.  Similarly, the lamb rib was filled with jus creating a natural dumpling.  When eaten in one bite the juice mixes with the already moist meat making this chop taste even sweeter.

Wagyu – Thick wedges of wagyu beef with baby carrot and greens.

Miso soup – A spherified ball of dashi broth served alongside miso marbles and dusted with dried nori powder.  In the mouth the ingredients mixed creating the texture and flavors of miso soup.

Snow – A light peanut mousse covered with nut brittle.

Petits fours – A sacher torte of apricot jam inside of chocolate cake with a clear candy dome encasing, a miniature mont blanc (a fresh chestnut cream dessert), a thin slice of cinnamon toast, and a small effervescent pink disc called “raspberry soda.” Last was a black truffle flavored chocolate truffle. The smell of the truffle coming from the chocolate was immediately noticeable.

Fruits – Lemon, lime, and strawberry.  First, Chef Ramsey instructed us to taste a lime to ensure its sourness.  We then chewed on the miracle fruit for thirty seconds without any indication of what it would do to our tastebuds.  Afterwards, we popped the sour lemon and limes like they were the sweetest fruits imaginable.  The miracle fruit prevented our tongue from tasting sour leaving behind only the sweet taste of sugar.

My recent meal told a story.  This meal was no hodgepodge of ingredients forming disjoined courses.  Many of the dishes invoked memories of Japanese comfort food only told from a different perspective.  The fast-paced service kept the twenty-course meal alive and exciting.  This was an edible show, and it tasted really good.

This is certainly one of the coolest restaurants in Tokyo right now.  I can’t wait to go back.

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The exorbitant prices are justified (somewhat) by the exquisite view.  We were lucky enough to have a window table, and maybe it was the jetlag but I felt like I was eating on the edge of a cliff.  My eyes were in awe of the view: thousands of red lights flickering atop the Tokyo skyline.

The amuses started with a pâté de campagne topped with sundried tomato.  The pâté was on the dry side and lacked the smooth gamey flavor of liver that I like.  I think the leanness of this dish is something that more closely fits the Japanese flavor profile.  Alongside the pâté was a trio of smaller amuses among which the candied espresso foie gras stood out as the most interesting.  I really like coffee but dislike coffee-flavored things.  Here the espresso offered a hint of chocolate flavor and the candy crunch added textural contrast to the smooth foie gras.

Venture de thon mariné au thym, fenouil cruit et cru, anchoïade niçoise, feuilles de roquette aux olives noires – Chunky medallions of thyme-marinated tuna belly with cooked and raw fennel, black olives, and an anchovy sauce.  The acidity of this dish was immediately apparent, particularly the way the slightly-sour olives mixed with the anchovy cream.  It was almost like a tartar sauce.  The rocket added a hint of vegetal bitterness and helped to break up the creamy mayonnaise-texture but its inclusion still seemed a little random.  The tuna belly was just lightly seared leaving the inside a cool magenta.  This dish was good, but a bit boring.

Velouté Du Barry et royale de moule et coquillage au curry – A cauliflower velouté with curried mussels and a shellfish flan.  What’s amazing about this dish is how mild the flavors of cream and butter were despite it being cream-based.  This is a testament to the “Japanification” of a French dish making it lighter.  The curry added a tannic element to the cauliflower helping it integrate with the smooth shellfish flan.  The mussels had a very mild flavor of shellfish, but this was masked a bit by the curry.  This was really good for the first two bites.

Noix de Saint-Jacques toastées, navets étuvés à la vanille et citron confit aux noix – Toasted scallops with stewed vanilla-infused turnips, candied lemon, and walnut.  I loved how the candied lemon brightened the cream sauce.  The cooked turnips were remarkably Japanese in texture only subtly flavored with hint of vanilla.  The scallops were crowned with thin sheets of toast adding textural contrast.  The toast also helped to absorb the sauce.  This dish was outstanding.

Filet de chapon poêlé, fondue de poireau et topinambour, émulsion d’oursin – Roasted scorpionfish with a leek and Jerusalem artichoke confit in a sea urchin emulsion.  This was a fantastic dish.  The skin of the roasted scorpionfish became slightly crunchy and its flavor intensified during the cooking process.  The interior of the fish was smooth and succulent.  The combination of Jerusalem artichoke and sea urchin was particularly interesting: the artichoke somehow made the already sweet urchin taste sweeter, and the salty skin brought everything together.  This was the highlight of the meal for me.

Lamelles d’ormeau tiédies, terrine de haricot coco et poireau aux câpres et caviar, sauce au corail – Thinly sliced warm abalone with a white bean and leek terrine with caviar, lemon, caper, and a “coral sauce.”  It’s interesting how slicing abalone really thin changes the texture from rubber to something a bit more elastic like cooked octopus.  The white beans were a little starchy on the inside leaving them perfectly round, but unfortunately dry.  This made it difficult for them to integrate with the rest of the dish.  I wish the urchin was emphasized a bit more because the way it interacts with the artichoke was fascinatingly delicious.

This meal was particularly special for me because it highlighted French cuisine as seen through a Japanese lens.  Cream sauces were lighter, the vegetables were a little different, the portioning a bit smaller, and sweetness noticeably less.  In some ways, visiting a French restaurant in Tokyo is a real peek into the local Tokyo dining scene.  These are the kinds of restaurants Tokyo-native diners seek out, and the menu and dishes reflect this with their Japanification.

My biggest complain is that a lot of the dishes seemed a bit sterile or lacking soul.  It felt almost as if mechanically prepared.  While technically flawless and quite tasty: where was the love?  There was a tremendous disconnect between the kitchen and the table.  It was almost as if the chef meticulously wrote down the recipes and asked someone else to prepare them.

At the end of the meal, while not particularly moved by the food, I was happy that I went.  The view was truly spectacular, and there was nothing more satisfying than walking home from dinner and crashing for the night.  I don’t think that I would return if I weren’t staying so close to the restaurant, however, as there are just too many amazing restaurants in this city.  But for my first night in the culinary capital of the world, I wasn’t disappointed.

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My friend from Genova was in town this weekend, and had e-mailed me the two restaurants he was “thinking” about visiting during his short trip to Paris: Le Bristol and La Bigarrade. I knew Le Bristol had garnered a third star this year, so I was excited about that. But what was the second one, La Bigarrade? A quick reference to my Michelin guide revealed they too had just gotten a star. I thought about it, at first with reservation, but I quickly remembered that my wise friend has a knack for finding interesting restaurants, even in cities where he doesn’t live ! I humbly agreed and suggested we make a reservation. “I already made one … last month,” he told me.  He’s also very organized.  Located in the seventeenth by the Brochant metro stop off the thirteen, La Bigarrade is located just outside of convenient. Did my Genovese friend want to go here because one of the chefs, Giuliano Sperandio, was also from Northern Italy? My suspicion grew, as I knew Italian pride could be very strong.

We arrived for lunch in the early afternoon to a completely packed restaurant, the size of my small studio apartment.  With space for only twenty diners, the restaurant’s wait list, I learned, can exceed a month. How does he always find these places? We were seated in the sun-drenched dining room with the open kitchen, also petite, just behind us.  We saw the two chefs Christophe Pelé and Giuliano Sperandio working in-sync with each other just a few feet behind our table, casually checking on diners to see if they were enjoying their dishes.  There were no menus, only a chalkboard on the wall that read: Gourmand: 45€, Gourmet: 35€. Was this the right restaurant? How could the prices be so … reasonable? The waiter explained that chef prepares an impromptu tasting daily using market fresh ingredients that would be around 7 – 10 courses. Well, that sure made ordering easy.

It should be noted that there was no written menu for this meal so I wrote as quickly as I could every ingredient I heard and saw on the plate. It’s possible that some of the ingredients as missing or incorrect, just a heads up.

Our waiter placed a slate slab on the table containing a piece of salted focaccia with a small bowl of olive oil. The limited size of the slate and symmetry of the bread suggested that this would be a single serving. I was worried that I wouldn’t get full happy to have this moderation enforced upon me; besides, carbs are the enemy, right? Right …

The first course of shellfish came next served in two parts: oyster and clam. The single oyster was held in place by a bed of Brittany sea salt, which is a good thing, considering it tasted so fresh it may have jumped off the table. Covering the raw oyster was a tea-colored bonito flake gelée with a wedge of lime and wild pepper. The flavor was crisp, sweet, and acidic. The small pieces of wild pepper made the center of my tongue tingle without spicing it. The ocean water was left inside the oyster which, when combined with the bonito flake gelée, tasted like Japan the sea.

The clam was cooked ever so lightly, just enough to open the shell, essentially leaving it raw; but “safe” to eat. The clam was garnished with wild sorrel, white radish, a grapefruit broth, and a few drops olive oil. Also acidic and sweet, with a small aftertaste of olive oil giving the flavor a tough of earth. Like the oyster this was light, clean, and refreshing.

If spring could be embodied in a single plate, it would be what came next: a light and refreshing pea soup with sepia, black garlic, and red flower petals. The soup was served cold. Chef Sperandio explained that from the peas he got this morning, he used the larger more bitter ones to make the broth, and the smaller, sweeter ones for eating. The peas were raw making them crunchy and flavorful. The broth had little to no salting — it didn’t need it; all the salt was in the black garlic along the side of the plate which, when mixed with a spoonful of broth, salted everything very nicely. Thin strips of lime zest were placed throughout the broth adding an element of citrus completing the balance of flavor between sweet, salty, acidic, and savory. The sepia was cooked so its texture remained firm and crunchy, and was ever so lightly garnished with piment d’espelette. Spring was here.

Next came a filet of yellowtail belly served with small wild onion, jamón ibérico de bellota from Spain, lemon, and wild purslane greens. The minimalistic presentation allowed each flavor to be tasted individually and in different combinations, from an earthy pairing with the jamón to a garden fresh ensemble with the purslane. The yellowtail was lightly seared on each side leaving the inside nice and cool. Scattered about the plate were small bits of piment d’espelette which, like the previous course, added a sensation that widened the spectrum of flavor.

The following course was line caught mackerel, caramelized and acidulated onion, wild herbs, and garden fresh watercress. The filet of fish sat atop a reduction of Valencia orange, which chef Sperandio explained had arrived a little bitter. The orange reduction smelled a bit of vinegar and chile oil, even though later I learned there was none, alerting my senses that there may be an acidic and spicy component to follow. The fish was very lightly cooked, skin in tact, leaving the full flavor of the mackerel and its piscine aroma. After eating this course it became apparent to me that each course we’d had so far left a dominant flavor in my mouth. First the bitterness of grapefruit, then the spice of chile, and now, the sweet bitterness of Valencia orange. It kept me interested and curious about what the next course would bring.

Next came the meat course a filet of lieu, or pollock, a strong flavored white fish lightly lightly sautéed with Sichuanese red pepper and wild black pepper. The filet was topped with course sea salt. Alongside the pollock was spring asparagus with small shrimp, thin strips of lemon, and wild red sorrel. This dish tasted slightly acidic from the lemon rind; but this acidity was expanded by the ever so delicate spice from the wild peppers. Remember this is France, home of not spicy food; perhaps spice is too strong of a word … tingling? In addition to the dish’s visual simplicity, the flavors were very explicit and easily distinguishable making it fun to try different flavor combinations with the assortment of fresh vegetables and spices on the plate. Everything worked.

By this point I realized that I was still pretty hungry had probably eaten enough, but gladly welcomed the plate of Reblochon and Crottin, which come from Savoie (by the Alps) and the Loire valley, respectively. I don’t really like the light creaminess of Reblochon, but the prune reduction with which it was served brightened the flavor. Crottin, like a table-side truffle shaving, is always welcome. The two cheeses were plated alongside vadouvan, a south Indian spice blend that seems to be popping up on menus all over the place in the past couple of years.

Our pre-dessert was a refreshing soup of fava beans in a medlar fruit broth. The beans were very lightly cooked, so they stayed crispy. The broth was slightly sweet and acidic.

The first official dessert was a lemon pot de crème with a saffron gelée and rosemary flowers. This was the first pot de crème I’ve had which didn’t leave a greasy residue in my mouth. The flavors were of bright lemon with a slight citrus acidity; but, this was tempered by the earthy flavor and scent of saffron. The texture was pure and smooth and the portioning just right to both satisfy and leave you wanting more.

Next came a pistachio crème anglaise with raw mango in a mango reduction. This was garnished with a pimpinella saxifraga leaf. The crème anglaise was served chilled but not frozen which made it more like a heavy mousse. The flavor tasted very strongly of pistachio — not sweetened at all — just pure pistachio, as if the entire nut, shell included, had been included. This was my favorite of the dessert courses; my only complaint was the lack of brioche of some other sweet bread to return my plate a polished white.

What came next tasted as interesting as it sounds: an oatmeal and tobacco infused mousse topped with a dash of cocoa powder. Throughout the mousse were weightless crôutons of brioche making some bites crunchy and others rich and smooth. Most interestingly was the taste of the tobacco. It was a spice similar to black pepper; except it caused a tingle towards the back of my tongue — an area untouched by other spices. It wasn’t a “hot” spice; it was a light prickle that added depth to the sweet mousse. It was as if every ingredient in this was intentionally placed to achieve a certain affect: this dish was intentionally delicious.

The last dessert, and the only course I did not like during my lunch, was a chilled dark chocolate crème in a coffee-chocolate reduction with tonka bean crème. I didn’t care for this much. This dish was as heavy as all the previous courses combined and completely offset the delicate progression of the meal. Just as my palate was unwinding, it was overwhelmed by the intense taste of Domori chocolate from, coincidentally, Genova where my friend was from. The chocolate was just too rich for me after having eaten four weightless desserts in succession. It didn’t seem to fit in the progession of this meal. As a bit of consolation though, without me having said anything, chef Sperandio explained at the end of the meal that were it up to him the chocolate would not be on the menu: he doesn’t like it. He said he puts it on the menu at lunch time to please the Parisian palate. I’m not sure if I completely buy that; he might have just seen my plate returned nearly full. Nevertheless one strike out of fourteen is still remarkable.

Along with our bill came two small thyme-infused bavarois petit-fours topped with candied almond. Nothing life-changing. Then I actually read the bill: 70€ for two people. Was this for real? I rubbed my eyes and checked again. It’s official: this is the highest quality to price ratio I’ve seen in Paris so far. La Bigarrade could have easily charged double to triple this amount and still had customers calling months in advance to secure reservations.

As we finished our meal our waiter began to prepare the chalkboard for dinner service, thus increasing the prices. Dinner is a little more expensive so I hope you’re sitting down. The cost: 45€ for the Gourmet tasting, 65€ for the extended Gourmand tasting of 12-courses. No wonder this place is so crowded.

After lunch my friend and I sat around talking to Giuliano Sperandio, while chef Christophe Pelé finished up in the kitchen, for the next hour. He explained that the small restaurant and lack of a menu allows him to improvise on a daily basis and optimize use of farm-fresh and seasonal local ingredients. “Not only do the plates change every day,” he added, “but not everyone in the restaurant eats the same food!” He criticized the restrictions on creativity many Michelin 3-star restaurants have in striving to provide a consistently perfect experience. “Here,” he added, “we cook depending on our mood, how we felt when we woke up in the morning … it is very free.” That type of freedom and airiness came across very clearly in the food which, for me, was light, balanced, and enlivening.

For now this small restaurant is still being discovered by diners across Paris. I hope that as its flavors mature, which they no doubt will, it maintains the flexibility and creativity in its dishes that I was so lucky to have experienced during my visit. If it can, La Bigarrade is going to get a lot more popular.

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Il Canto is located in the Certosa di Maggiano hotel, a Relais & Chateaux property in Siena.  The hotel is beautiful, both intimate and rustic.  It’s non-descript entrance gives way to a medieval courtyard whose focal point is a well dating back to the 13th century.  Bordering this open space, on the first floor, are salons for the hotel’s seventeen guest rooms and outdoor seating for taking an evening apéritif.  The second floor is where the hotel rooms are located, each with a view overlooking the courtyard.  When we arrived, we were the only people around so our footsteps clicked on the cobblestone and resounded through the cloisters.  If it were just a little warmer, we would have stayed outside in this calming atmosphere for a bit, a silent and surreal pause before dinner.

Instead we were led inside where our Genovese friend suggested we start things off with a drink.  We were taken into a smaller emerald green room with pre-Renaissance battle paintings and, more importantly, big comfortable couches.  Our sitting and talking turned to walking around and exploring  the different chambers of the mansion-like restaurant.  Their vaulted ceilings and grandiose decor suggested this place might have formerly been the home of a king. Or the home of Mike Tyson.  Perhaps both.

When we returned to the green room, we were handed a small plate of amuse bouche-like snacks to entertain.  The best of the group was a slice of foie gras sandwiched by green apple and licorice sugar glass.  The licorice paired with the creamy foie gras tasted cool and crispy; the apple made it sweet and tart.  Another interesting bite was a sardine in gelatin with fennel.  Lopriore gets wild fennel from near the restaurant, and Aaron claimed he caught a tinge of its anise-like sweetness here.  But to me, it was rather bland.  A dehydrated onion chip was crispy and just mildly piquant.    We had a Shanghai throwback with a piece of steamed bread with lardo, very reminiscent of a Chinese pork bun.  Lastly, spoons dusted with a powder of pumpkin and Grand Marnier, which I found too boozy to be enjoyable and Aaron found merely too powdery, like trying to swallow dirt.  Each of these amuses hit different parts of the tongue and flavor spectrum: salt, bitter, sweet, sour, and spicy.  If the intent was to awaken the palate, it certainly did.

We were led to a niche next to the main dining room, which was quaint and beautiful.  There were two other tables in our room, which remained empty the entire night.  The space felt very light and open, as three walls had large doorways and the fourth, a large window overlooking the courtyard.  Temperature was, unfortunately, a bit of an issue.  Since there were so many open doors and windows, the chilly night air from the courtyard poured in.  Aaron put on his scarf, and our Genovese friend continued to eat with his jacket on.  Perhaps that’s par for the course when eating in a monastery built in the 14th century on a very early spring evening, but it was bothersome nonetheless.  (When we mentioned the problem to the staff a couple of times, things did improve, but if you ask Aaron, not nearly enough.)  We were then brought menus, which we glanced for about 1 second before  asking if an extended tasting menu might be possible.  Chef Lopriore came out of the kitchen to say hello, a very kind and jovial man, and explained that he would gladly provide a tasting menu that highlights his cooking.  Any allergies or aversions?, he asked.  Nope.  He explained that he would keep bringing out courses until we said “stop,” a word that wasn’t exactly in our vocabulary.  But perhaps we should have learned it beforehand.

First we were given a snack called mangiare/bere cocco/curry, or eat/drink coconut/curry.  A curried cube of potato walked the tightwire on top of a rum-laden coconut drink.  I started by eating the curried potato first, whose flavor which quickly reminded me of the Indian vegetarian dish Batata nu Shaak, part of India’s western Gujarati cuisine.  The potato was good enough, but the drink below tasted like the final sips of a piña colada where all that is left is the bitter alcohol flavor of rum.  If the point of this was a slap in the face, much like throwing a bucket of ice cold water over someone while asleep, I was awake.

The first official course was the insalata di alghe, erbe aromatiche e radici, a minimalist salad of seaweed, aromatic herbs and roots.  This included nori strips, radish, coarse salt, hot mustard, ginger, wasabi and mint.  After the first bite it became immediately apparent to me that chef Lopriore had spent time in Japan, not because of the conspicuous presence of Japanese seaweed or wasabi, but because of the flavor profile activated in this incredibly balanced savory dish.  With just raw vegetables, Lopriore touched every part of my tongue except sweet.  This is the gastronomic equivalent of a triathlon, an exercise in the flavors of bitterness, brine, and heat.  Aaron likened it brushing one’s teeth, which is to say it doesn’t taste particularly pleasant, but it leaves your mouth feeling fresh and clean.  It would be unfair to judge this particular dish solely on flavor since I do not believe that was its intention — it reset my palate without sugar to properly prepare for the courses to come.  At least, that’s what I told myself.

The next course brought pino, asparagi, midollo e tartufo, medallions of bone marrow covered with truffle slices and flanked by batons of  asparagus and foamy mounds of a disastrous parsley-garnished pine mousse.  The first thing that put me off was the pink tinge of the bone marrow, which was essentially raw.  I’m not against eating things raw, and in many cases I prefer it; but not for the marrow center of cow bones.  I’m not sure that I can justify that sentiment any further, other than  mentioning that the color frankly made me a bit nauseous.  I didn’t understand the addition of truffle.  The thick crumbly slices of it were shaved in the kitchen so they had essentially no perfume by the time they arrived at the table.  But the absolute worst component of this dish was the incredibly bitter pine mousse.  Bitter like the white part of a grapefruit between the skin and the fruit.  Bitter like your mother-in-law when you decided to spend Christmas with your folks instead last year.  I sometimes enjoy vegetal bitterness; but when combined with the subtly-flavored ingredients here, it completely overpowered them.

After having studied closely flipped casually through Chef Lopriore’s dishes in Sei, his multicolored risotto was high on my wish list.  I was ecstatic when I saw shallow plates of rice being brought to the table, particularly with the rich and earthy smell of saffron teasing my nose.  The dish, riso giallo or yellow rice, was not much for presentation as the borders of the plate were “decorated” with runoff of the broth in which the rice was cooked.  The first bite was delicious, a dance of Sichuan peppercorn and saffron on my tongue.  “Hey, I wonder what those medallions are in the center,” I thought to myself.  Perhaps hearts of palm or more bone marrow?  No, no.  I tried a piece, and if my tongue had fists, my entire face would be black and blue.  Concentrated bitter lemon and grapefruit.  Bitter as in tongue-clenching, “where is the water?” bitter.  Terrible, an absolute assault on the palate. I glanced across the table at Aaron to see if I was the only one who found this course — to put it mildly — unbalanced.  But he was shaking his head, saying “If this guy does this one more time, I’m leaving.”  Meanwhile our Genovese friend chimed in as well: “brilliant,” he exclaimed.  Um, what?

We spent the next thirty minutes discussing and dissecting what the bloody hell was going on.  “When you get to my age,” our friend explained,”you want strong flavors … you no longer eat for the routine pleasures of the palate, but rather for new experiences that shake you and shock you, making you think about flavors in new ways.”  Although perhaps a little patronizing as in “you’re too young to understand why this is good,” there is certainly some merit to his statement.  But if eating is only for the shock, why not drink lighter fluid, stick your finger in a light socket, or eat marmite by the spoonful??  Is it worth sacrificing flavor solely for the purpose of a new experience?  Not in my book.

I took a deep breath when our waiter explained that the next course would be tepid ravioli.  Cold pasta, particularly ravioli, never attracted me.  Ravioli di moscato, capperi e origano di Serraggia followed, ravioli of moscato wine, capers, and oregano from Serraggia.  Each raviolo was plump and inflated with moscato, not an easy task, clearly demonstrating the masterful technical skill of chef Lopriore.  Then came the first bite.  And it was the last.  The flavor that burst forth from the little pillow of pasta was like rubbing alcohol, a surprising and overpowering bitterness.  Maybe chef Lopriore’s goal was to utilize a flavor profile not frequently used in Italian cooking.  But Aaron began to collect his belongings question how much more of this gastronomic assault he could take, and I could see him assembling a mental list of other restaurants that remained open if he headed back to the city center.

I did not enjoy that dish to say the least, nor did Aaron; however our Italian friend, once again, had a huge smile on his face and a sparkling white plate.  “Genius,” he exclaimed.  I nearly choked in confusion.  Were we talking about our meal the day before?  For the record, our friend is 61 years of age and has a very experienced palate; this was the only restaurant throughout our hedonistic gastronomic adventure where we were in such disagreement.  I sought desperately to understand what was making this meal so enjoyable for him, yet so miserable for us.  Could it be that things taste different at certain ages?  Could it be that people just taste differently?  I’m not sure, really.

But fortunately things finally improved with the next course, frutta secca and salicornia, a light salad of dried fruit and sea asparagus containing almonds, almond butter, pistachio powder, pistachio butter, frozen almond milk foam, and seawater granita.  The pendulum swung from bitter to boozy with the prior two courses, and stuck in neutral for this salad.  As a very delicate mix of flavors, this was well-balanced allowing each ingredient to be tasted completely.  The textures here varied from water-bursting sea asparagus to thick nut butters and crunchy almonds and pistachios.  The flavor was very controlled and unsweet, much like Japanese kaiseki courses whose ingredients often sing unique notes alone but sum to create a more neutral flavor profile.  While I enjoyed this dish for the gentle salty taste of the sea asparagus, the frozen almond milk foam was flavorless.  Nonetheless this was a soothing break from the last two courses, and hopefully a sign that things would pick up from here.

And it did.  The next course was the best of the evening, monocromo di scampi, a monochrome of raw shrimp.  The plate had thinly sliced raw shrimp served in a sauce made from the shrimp head.  The texture was both chewy and slighty crunchy, the sweet flavor of the shrimp accentuated by the citrus in the sauce made from its head and carcass.  “I taste shiso,” I said as I glanced around the table looking for approval.  “No, mine tastes like tangerine or lemon,” Aaron replied.  We started to debate the flavors in this dish when the chef Lopriore came over and explained.  Each plate actually had different spices underneath the scampi, so all of our dishes were different.  He used lemon in four different forms –  salted and preserved (as found in Moroccan lamb tagines), green (i.e. unripe), juice, and zest — and a touch of cumin.   This was a clever and intellectual twist to show the different sides of an ingredient that at first glance is quite simple.  Furthermore, each part of the plate had a different flavor, as he hid the spices underneath the shrimp so it was impossible to see.  This was a dynamic and changing dish, where no two bites were the same.  Very interesting, not to mention tasty.

But just as things were getting good, I again found flavors and textures in my mouth that just did not belong.  The next course was inspired from the Tuscan wedding soup ribollita, or re-boiled black cabbage.  Named zolla di certosa, or clod of Certosa, this sponge-like heap of cavolo nero was cold, wet, mushy, and flavorless.  It tasted like crustless white bread dipped in water and eaten immediately.  Aaron, meanwhile, winced at the bitterness of his.  Yes, that’s what cavolo nero tastes like — when raw or undercooked — but this was just too much, he thought.  In other words, we both agreed it was horrible.  It did nothing for my palate other than aggravate me.  There was nothing intellectual about this dish, other than me thinking about how many seconds away the nearest waste bin was if I ran to spit it out in disgust.  I truly wish I had not eaten this.

Petti di piccione in “civet,” or pigeon breast in a sauce made from its own blood came next, and it sure looked and smelled delicious.  The breast was impeccably cooked, both juicy and tender.  It was rosy pink and very lean, with the meat having a slighty rough texture that looked perfect for soaking up the blood sauce below.  The pigeon was served with broccoletti, blueberries, and orange clam.  Looked delicious; tasted not delicious.  The sauce did not taste of blood; rather, it tasted of black pepper and alcohol that had not completely burned off.  My tongue was tingling from the black pepper which made it very difficult to taste anything else.  What a shame, I thought, this dish not only had so much potential but the cut of pigeon was nearly flawless.  Why was the sauce so strong?

By this point in the meal, I had given up trying to rationalize chef Lopriore’s decisions.  There was no longer consistency, nor a clear vision or direction of what he was trying to accomplish with the use of such strong flavors that obscure the taste of the other ingredients.  My patience had worn thin and my palate, exhausted.  The only dishes I had enjoyed up to this point were the sea asparagus salad and the monochrome of scampi.  I just wanted to cut my losses and return home.

The last main course was animelle di vitello, trippe di baccalà e cavolo nero or veal sweetbreads, cod tripe and black cabbage served with peas, fava beans, and lime zest.  The sweetbreads, like the pigeon before it, were just beautifully cooked, tender and juicy with a creamy semi-solid texture that melted in my mouth.  The flavor was rich and nutty, and when eaten with the barely blanched peas and fava beans the texture become much more interesting and diverse.  I did not like, however, the salty and fishy cod tripe which took over the sweetness of the sweetbreads.  Yet another course that had so much potential lost to an ingredient that completely dominated any other flavors on the plate.

The cheese cart came next with a moderate selection of Italian artisan cheeses.  I was happy knowing that Lopriore did not make these I would get a chance to try cheese not readily available in France.  The most interesting of the bunch was the seirass del fen, an aged Piedmont cow milk cheese rolled in hay.  The cheese had a very full flavor and a semi-soft, creamy texture with hints of citrus.  Aaron enjoyed a more aged provolone, but didn’t find the pecorino di Pienza to be particularly special.  The cheeses came with various citrus chips — lemon, lime, and orange — and, oddly, fresh fava beans.  Interesting accompaniments that were okay on their own, but I can’t say any of them made much sense eaten with any of the cheeses.

Our pre-dessert came in a test tube, filled with two layers of some kind almond drink.  The beverage held two different flavors of almond — bitter and sweet — and the combination was quite nice, if fleeting.  Kind of like a mini-shot of Amaretto di Saronno.  We hoped the bitter part of the meal was behind us, and that the sweet part remained.

Aaron had seen a soufflé in passing and, being the optimistic guy he is, figured a soufflé would be a safe choice for dessert.  It was a soufflé al pan pepato, schiuma di latte e rhum and would presumably mimic the flavors of the panpepato we had  eaten that very afternoon at Nannini in Siena. .  The soufflé was served out of the ramekin which meant we had better dive right in or it would cool down.  The first flavor was redolent only of black pepper, as was the second and third.  The strong, boozy hit of the rum gelatin decimated any sweetness that might have been present inthe milk foam.  This taste unfortunately took over any split second that the pepper could not be detected.  Another let down.  Aaron looked like he just wanted to cry.  There was no hope left.

The petits-fours came were a very welcome sight, as we were now starving looking for something sweet  We were given a small lime tart, an almond tuile, chocolate truffles, a liquid-filled white chocolate truffle, and a cough drop spiced dark chocolate truffle.  Aaron had the latter first, and was unable to taste anything afterwards.  Thankfully he warned me and I started from the other side.

The meal had ended and our friend explained that he found it exceptionally interesting and delicious, and said he is now certain about his prior inkling that Lopriore is the best chef in Italy right now.   Aaron and I sat there angry and confused.  Chef Lopriore came out of the kitchen, a jovial and enthusiastic man, to ask what we thought.  I was diplomatic in my response.  I explained that I certainly tasted new flavor combinations, some of which were startling, and chef Lopriore smiled, “that’s the idea.”  Aaron stuck more with the “If you don’t have anything nice to say…” school of thought, merely nodding occasionally.  Lopriore is certainly bold and audacious to serve these flavors, that’s for sure.  Perhaps he tastes things that we do not.  The chef was a very friendly and overall likeable guy; I just didn’t like his food.  At all.

Aaron and I continued to discuss this meal for the days to come.  This experience was unlike other bad restaurant experiences we’d had; something was different.  When chef Lopriore served flavors that I disagreed with, it was controlled and intentional, even if the flavors were horrible to my palate.  It’s not like I could dislike Il Canto for his poor skills or technique — he’s certainly very talented and his cooking reflects that.  But a new experience or new flavor should always be secondary to whether or not the dish’s taste is actually appealing.  This is a restaurant, not a taste labratory.  Aaron swore never to return, saying he’s not interested in being a lab rat to experimented on by developing chefs.  I think I would give him another shot, however.  Too many of Lopriore’s dishes had tremendous potential for me not to return, and I think it’s possible to work them out.  But it’s going to take some time, and meanwhile, there are other places to visit.

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L’Atelier’s location inside the Four Seasons Hotel might suggest a level of stuffiness, but this is quickly eliminated by Joël Robuchon’s unique sushi-bar style seating, which forces complete strangers to talk with, rather than about, each other. This setup also means that the final platings are done directly in front of diners, allowing them to have an increased appreciation of the work that goes into each course, while cleverly hiding the messier kitchen elements behind closed doors. The energy from the adjacent Four Seasons cocktail lounge also flows into the restaurant, setting a lively tone without airs, something that is very much appreciated in contrast to many other haute French restaurants where the only sound is that of cutlery hitting the plate.

Instead of chandeliers, oil paintings, and exquisite gold-leaf molding, L’Atelier’s decoration comes from the food itself, with vases of vibrant orange carrots and green cucumbers sliced daily and put on display. The restaurant uses pervading black undertones to place further emphasis on these vivid colors: the placemats, plates, and countertops all keep one’s focus solely on the food. Even the staff is dressed in black uniforms. Against this black canvas, the halogen spotlights ensure that every detail of every course is highlighted.

Each meal at L’Atelier begins with a basket of miniature baguettes and rolls. The bread is made with a high-gluten flour which creates a slightly elastic interior; the perfect texture, in fact, for returning soup bowls in spotless condition. The crumb is not dense, and the crust is light and crispy — the product of allowing a small amount of dough to naturally expand to size. Be warned, though — it’s very easy to fill up on these rolls, and while delicious, they are just the beginning.

The amuse bouche remained fairly consistent through our visits to L’Atelier, a foie gras parfait with port reduction and parmesan foam. The saltiness of the parmesan contrasted with the sweet port reduction, and both flavors complemented the warm, silky-smooth foie gras mousse. A very rich, and very welcomed, introduction.

I once read that the number of pleats in a chef’s toque represent the number of ways a good chef can cook an egg. If that’s the case, someone deserves a huge crease for L’Oeuf de Poule, a stunning dish that we tasted the first night at L’Atelier. A chicken egg was first slow-poached, then flash-fried inside a golden nest of crispy strips of brik pastry. Surrounded by crème fraîche and tiny bits of smoked salmon, then lavishly topped with a mound of Osetra caviar, this presentation was nothing short of spectacular. I am always in awe of the egg, a self-contained nutritionally perfect ingredient that serves as the foundation for an infinite number of recipes. With this dish, Robuchon pays homage to this divine ingredient, luxuriously salting it with caviar and diversifying its texture by adding crispy bits of fried batter. Aside from the absolutely beautiful presentation, the well-rounded flavor was both fundamentally satisfying and intellectually stimulating. The incredibly generous portion of caviar ensured its distribution lasted through each bite, which was delicious even after the egg was already just a happy memory. With an astonishing $98 price tag a la carte, both the cost and the flavor of this dish are over the top.

Having at least one egg dish in every meal at L’Atelier always seemed like the right thing to do. And with the familiar comfort of eggs and toast in the morning, L’Oeuf coque sans coque was a great example of why. The preparation could not have been simpler. A soft poached egg placed atop a spicy eggplant stew redolent of cumin. Surrounding bits of crispy croûtons and a thin triangle of toasted bread lent a nice crunch that contrasted the oozing egg yolk. A light buttery foam on top of the egg added yet another texture, bringing a light airiness that the dish would have otherwise lacked. I would be happy to wake up to this any day.

Another tribute to the egg is L’Oeuf cocette, a soft-boiled egg topped with a lightly foamed mushroom cream, vibrant green parsley puree, and a few sautéed chanterelles. There’s something inherently homey and satisfying about eggs, remarkably even when served in a martini glass in the Four Seasons Hotel. The first dip of one’s spoon into the glass sends the rich yellow yolk oozing throughout the rest of the ingredients. The mushroom cream added earthiness without weight and the beautiful green parsley puree added necessary brightness with both its color and its herbal flavor. A simple piece of grilled bread, perhaps, to dip into this rich concoction would have been added a nice touch.

Next one might want to move on to some soup, and if it’s warm out, there are few more refreshing options than La Tomate en gazpacho aux petits crôutons dorés et amandes fraîches, L’Atelier’s take on the Spanish classic. A small bowl of chilled tomato soup, resting on a bed of ice, and studded with fresh almonds and miniature croûtons. This soup was a bit Frenchified, perhaps, as it was a bit creamier than your typical gazpacho. Yet that textural change made the soup more interesting, I thought. There were also streaks of aged balsamic which added a little bit of tartness to a few special bites. Aaron was not quite so taken with this dish, but I found it to be a winner.

If it’s cold out, the options are even better. The late autumn menu brought La Châtaigne, a chestnut velouté with celery foam and foie gras. This is my single favorite dish from L’Atelier (and, apparently, Aaron’s). It’s also the single most delicious dish I’ve ever had in the US. Chestnut and foie gras: what a brilliant combination. The warmth of the nutty velouté with the creamy foie gras was nothing short of enlightening. The addition of celery foam added a textural element that bridged the gap between liquid and solid; and even more importantly, brought a hint of vegetal bitterness to tame the sweetness of the chestnut. The ratio of foie to velouté was immaculate, ensuring that each bite had some of each. In every regard, a truly stunning dish.

Le Potiron en velouté au lard fumé et croûtons dorées was another fabulous soup blending the warmth of autumn in the form of pumpkin, with the everlasting satisfaction of smoked bacon. A beautiful study in contrast, just thinking about this dish makes me hungry. Each element contributed its unique texture to this complex soup, keeping it from ever becoming monotonous. Every bite had a different blend of crunchy, creamy, and smooth with the croûtons, crème fraîche, and velvety pumpkin broth. The smokiness of the bacon both complemented and tamed the sweetness of the pumpkin. Some croûtons remained crunchy while those toward the bottom softened up. There was no need, even, to submerge bread in this soup. At least, not until the very end, when I sent my bowl back sparkling white.

There were times I wasn’t quite sure if soup or pasta might make a more fitting early course. In such instances, I went for Les Ravioles, which offered the best of both worlds. A captivating preparation, with tiny foie gras ravioli floating in a warm, rich chicken broth with spiced crème fraîche. Somehow, each bite managed to consist of both pasta and bouillon, making this very enjoyable to the very last spoonful. The texture of the ravioli was also very interesting, as there was a delightful popping sensation in my mouth with each bite. These satisfyingly intense bursts of flavor were not unlike eating larger fish roe, only instead of that salty brine you got the unmistakable fatty goodness of foie gras. The dollop of crème fraîche made some spoonfuls of the broth slightly richer, and its cool temperature added a very pleasing contrast to the warm soup while adding a bright top-note of flavor.

Seeing its beautiful plating going on at the bar, it was impossible not to want to try Le Caviar Osciètre, a generous spoonful of Osetra caviar atop a roll of capellini very lightly dressed with tomato sauce. Pretty to look at, no doubt, but this is a dish that ultimately left both Aaron and I unfulfilled. I think the biggest problem in this dish was the lack of textural contrast — the tender capellini (generally unworthy of being called “pasta” anyway, according to Aaron) and moist caviar proved to be a monotonous combination. And as for flavor, the capellini didn’t have much at all, with its tomato dressing too bland to be lifted even by the briny caviar.

Disappointed with that pasta dish, Aaron thought Les Spaghettis might do the trick instead. L’Atelier’s rendition of spaghetti alla carbonara was something he had read about as an off-the-menu specialty from the Paris location. The dish was served traditionally: just pancetta, egg, black pepper, parmigiano-reggiano cheese, and spaghetti. The small cubes of pancetta were rendered just until translucent without being overly crispy — exactly the right point. The rich yellow-orange color was evidence that only egg yolks we stirred in at the last moment. In the hands of lesser cooks, this sometimes leads to small coagulated bits of egg rather than a creamy sauce, but that was not the case here. Aaron found this dish to be over-priced, at $40 for the two small half-portions. But other than that, his only knock against the dish was that there only a smattering of black pepper, an essential ingredient in this Italian classic.

Instead of such rich beginnings, sometimes I just wanted to start a meal with something cool, clean, and light. Perhaps even something raw. In such instances, Le Thon Rouge is a nice choice. A simple plate of lean tuna sashimi garnished with sun-dried tomato oil and a light sprinkle of fleur de sel. It’s hard to critique this dish since its primary ingredients are so simple and so good, and I’m always impressed by the humility of a chef who can take a step back and let nature sing on its own (*cough* Kinch). This tuna was impeccably fresh, and the coarse fleur de sel added a nice crunch with each tender piece of fish. The tomato oil added richness and a complex sweetness, rounding out the cool, salty combination of tuna and fleur de sel. We saw this dish many several times during the course of our visits, most often as a complimentary treat from the kitchen. But I probably wouldn’t specifically order this dish again. Not because it wasn’t delicious (it was); but because I think there are more interesting dishes to sample, and stomach space is finite (or so people tell me). Besides, if all I’m after is fresh raw fish, there are plenty of delicious Japanese restaurants in New York.

Another cool appetizer was the surprisingly lackluster Le Homard, paper-thin turnip slices encasing chunks of lobster meat bound together with a sweet-and-sour emulsion and a bit of rosemary. These lobster “ravioli” were often presented as a trio, but the single one seen below was sent out as a “gift from the chef” one evening. Surrounded by cracked pink peppercorn, the aroma became almost floral, complementing but not contrasting the natural sweetness of the lobster meat and the turnip. In the end, though, this combination was perhaps a bit too sweet. I guess it turns out that even haute versions of lobster salad are not much more appealing to me than traditional ones.

A similar presentation with equally unsuccessful results was Le Crabe. A very light way to begin a meal, with large chunks of blue crab sandwiched between two slices of avocado, topped by crisp sticks of tart green apple and drizzled with almond oil. The combination of crab and avocado is tried and true… and boring. The strongest praise Aaron could offer for this dish was to call it “inoffensive,” and I tend to agree. Yes, the crab was tender, the avocado creamy, and the green apple crispy, but one can only stand so much of the sweet-tart combination of the three. Nothing explicitly wrong with this dish, yet it was far from riveting.

The very first dish I tried at L’Atelier was L’Oursin, sea urchin in a lobster gelée topped with cauliflower cream. Before even receiving this course, I couldn’t help but stare in awe at the plating in process — each drop of green parsley mayonnaise placed with surgical precision, perfectly matching in size and spacing, in a ring atop the bed of cauliflower cream. Unfortunately, this dish offered more style than substance as the extremely delicate flavor of the sea urchin was overwhelmed by the excessive amount of lobster gelée. Aaron was disappointed as well, pointing out that the temperature of the dish was a bit too cold, which kept some of the more subtle flavors from emerging.

Another light dish is La Langoustine en carpaccio, only this one is not fried, or even cooked for that matter. Thin slices of raw langoustine were lightly garnished with roasted poppy seeds, chives, and edible flowers. Thinly sliced langoustine “carpaccio” is one of the most interesting edible textures, feeling somewhere between solid and liquid — I am never sure if I should use a fork or spoon. Its tender texture is, however, not accompanied by a fatty mouthfeel, but is actually rather lean with a clean finish. The flavor was somewhat in-between a lobster tail and a shrimp, with an incredible softness. A scattering of poppy seeds added a textural crunch. The chives added an herbal freshness and a slight bite. I’m not too sure what the other elements did because aside from color differentiation, they weren’t very noticeable. Despite its simplicity, this was a magical dish.

Another interesting preparation with that same ingredient was La Langoustine en papillote croustillante, a single langoustine wrapped in paper-thin brik pastry with a single basil leaf visible inside. Served alongside this was a dab of vibrant green basil pesto. What first struck me as incredible with this dish was the apparent lack of oil. This langoustine was deep-fried; yet it neither felt, looked, or tasted the least bit greasy. Second, the crust was strikingly thin. The first dish that comes to my mind for comparison is shrimp tempura, where the batter often becomes distracting due to its thickness. But here, the brik adds nothing but a fine crisp layer contrasting against the tenderness of the langoustine. Perhaps the biggest evidence of the crust’s thickness is its shatter effect, where the first bite literally showers tiny fragments of the coating onto the plate, much like the first bite of a fine croissant. A friend reports that the wrapper is now rice paper instead of brik dough, so it will be interesting to see what effect this has on the texture the next time we stop in for this treat.

Neither of us were thrilled with La Coquille Saint-Jacques, a single scallop served in its shell with seaweed butter. In fact, I would say this is one of the weakest dishes we’ve ever had at L’Atelier. With such a minimalist presentation, there is no room for error. Unfortunately, every time I’ve stubbornly ordered this dish, I found the scallop to also be overcooked — hard and firm. Practically floating in (admittedly very good) Échiré butter, it almost seemed more about the butter than about the scallop (“Wait… the butter dish is already on the counter,” Aaron quipped when this was first set before us). The natural sweetness of both the butter and the scallop were unfortunately masked by the dried seaweed used to season on the scallop. This contrast, in most cases much appreciated, was overwhelming here.

I never thought to combine scallops and truffles, or really any kind of shellfish and truffle; but as it turns out this combination works really nicely, particularly because the muted flavor of scallops are highlighted by the fragrance of the truffle — rather than competing, these two ingredients actually enhance one another. But for me, it was the milky foam that really brought La Saint Jacques en mousse together, since I don’t think truffles simply grated directly on scallops would have done much more than serve as a distraction. This addition also created a scope of texture, starting from the gentle airy foam as you work your way to the slightly chewy scallop, and finishing with the crunchy accompaniments, all being accentuated with the scent of truffle. While I’m not the biggest proponent of table-side service; for truffles, the fresh shaving can really allow one to fully appreciate the aroma. But even without that extra flourish, this was fantastic.

The boundary between pet and edible dinner guest always seemed to confuse me, particularly because I would eat just about anything. Rabbit? Okay. Cute little suckling pig? Why not. (Don’t start this conversation with Aaron unless you want horse or dog brought up…) But frog?! I thought about the moral implications for a second minute, then my carnivorous stomach made up my mind for me and I ordered Les Cuisses de Grenouille. Too often, frog legs are unnecessarily greasy and messy to eat. But as haute French chefs are wont to do, the chefs at L’Atelier, well, frenched the bones. The resulting meat lollipop encourages the use of hands (though Aaron generally needs no such encouragement) without leaving the fingers greasy afterwards. The crispiness of the batter nicely complimented the slight chewiness of the meat, without it feeling excessively oily. The parsley coulis added some vivid color to the plate, but did nothing to save this dish from ultimately being quite boring. And honestly, those three Lilliputian frog legs look pretty pathetic all by themselves on the plate. There are certainly better options on the menu.

Getting into the main fish courses, part of our very first meal included Le Bar, a sea bass filet with crispy baby leeks, tomato, and a lemongrass foam. I did not much care for this dish as I found the lemongrass foam to be a bit too strong. Also, the fried baby leeks on top were a bit dry, adding too stark a textural contrast to the warm and moist fish. Third, and perhaps most importantly, the portioning of the fish was significant enough that it actually caused palate fatigue after about the third bite. I should point out, though, that Aaron disagreed with me on this one. He found the natural sweetness of both the tomato and the leek to work well with the aroma from the lemongrass, and he was not so overwhelmed by the foam as I was. Not my favorite dish, I admit, but far from a failure.

On a more recent trip to L’Atelier, I sampled L’Amadai cuit en écailles et servi sur une nage bulbe de lys, a tender filet of amadai (sea bream), served skin-side up, whose flesh gently parted with just the slightest press of the fork. The crevices within the filet, combined with its absorbent texture, drew in the lily bulb broth making the texture of the fish moist, juicy, and redolent of lily bulb. This dish’s Japanese-inspired simplicity and lightness made it a refreshing break after other richer courses. But that being said, this dish didn’t particularly move me; and while the quality of ingredients was high and the technique exemplary, he’d probably hold off on ordering this to save room for other things.

Aaron long believes that smoked salmon has no place at the dinner table. It’s one and only companion should be a New York bagel (and maybe a schmear of cream cheese). But one night, having either run out of other options on the menu, or seeking to expose the unfortunate circumstances of his birth outside the Tri-State Area, he opted to order Le Saumon Mi-Fume, the lightly smoked salmon. Laid on top of a buttery potato cake, the fish was tender and moist, if surprisingly a bit muted in flavor. The watercress brightened it up nicely, though, as did the minuscule condiments that came alongside — a sweet onion jam, black olive paste, and a single sun-dried tomato. The fried ribbons of potato were a nice idea, but ultimately ineffective in adding a crunchy textural element to the dish.

Aaron has tried on a few occasions to imprint the leaf of an herb on a piece of pasta, each time without much success. It’s certainly not easy; at least, that was the first thought that ran through his head when he was presented with La Morue – fraiche en imprime d’herbes dans une nage aux aromates, a thin sheet of parsley leaf-imprinted pasta laid across the top of generous piece of cod. All of this was placed in the center of an aromatic broth. Since the fish was skinless, the sheet of pasta acted as a chewy component both making the dish more texturally interesting, and keeping the tender fish intact. It also locked in much of the moisture and heat, as the fish kept its temperature for a while. Soup, pasta, and fish course all in one, this was a pretty enjoyable dish.

Another tasty presentation reminiscent of both ocean and land was Le Calamar, a salad of squid cooked a la plancha with violet artichokes, chorizo, and tomato water. Adding a nice top note was a generous distribution of piment d’Espelette, the spicy Basque pepper. With all the graceful knife strokes of a veteran sushi chef, the chef carefully scored the calamari with his knife prior to cooking, so that it puffed up and fanned out as it cooked. The effect on the texture was wonderful, with the firm, almost crunchy (but not tough) calamari cooked to just the right point. The slight smoky and spicy chorizo added richness, and the lightly dressed arugula salad on top of it all provided a bit of additional acid in addition to the naturally peppery flavor of the greens. While Aaron quite enjoyed this dish, I found the arugula in particular to be superfluous. Probably not something I would order again (though Aaron would).

After a while, it seemed like we’d run out of new options on the dinner menu. When that happened, we simply asked to take a look at the lunch menu! One dish that caught me eye there was La Pintade, or guinea fowl. This dish certainly seemed more on the Spanish side rather than the French side of Basque cuisine. The bird was very moist, with the breast resting underneath the confit leg. Pimientos padrones were placed on top, the sometimes-spicy-sometimes-mild peppers that are damn good when just fried in olive oil and sprinkled with coarse sea salt. On the very top were crisp slivers of jamon serrano, and there were also bits of roasted tomato throughout. And definitely plenty of piment d’espelette — a favorite seasoning of L’Atelier. The overall combination of ingredients was quite tasty. My only complaint was that there wasn’t enough sauce to go around for the cous cous, leaving much of it dry. Other than that, this was a nice dish.

A solid choice that never seemed to leave the menu was La Caille, caramelized quail stuffed with foie gras mousse, served with potato purée covered with shaved black truffle, and a small green salad dressed with a simple vinaigrette. Though this is a dish whose richness may first strike the diner as one-dimensional, it is actually quite indicative of Joël Robuchon’s attention to balance on the plate. It has the complex sweet and salty, with the caramelized quail meat playing against the rich foie gras stuffed inside it. The hot and the cool, with the quail and the buttery puréed potatoes brightened up the tart green salad. Likewise, both texture and aroma are given equal attention, with the buttery smooth puréed potatoes elevated by the unmistakable earthy aroma of truffles. No single element threatens to dominate over another, and the resulting harmony is the stuff dreams are made of.

Le Ris de Veau was a nothing more than a simple preparation of sweetbreads, but a good one. The fresh laurel leaf didn’t really accomplish much; but, the sweetbreads were cooked very well: crisp on the outside and buttery smooth on the inside. It’s easy to tell when one has started with a good product and it has been cooked correctly, when there’s none of the fatty or oily mouthfeel that poorly prepared sweetbread dishes often have. This is still very rich and meaty, but maintains a clean finish. But the dish was certainly not perfect. I mean… stuffed lettuce leaf? C’mon now. As much as chefs try to turn lettuce leaves into something special, it is rarely successful. That said, with the main ingredient being cooked impeccably well, it is hard to find much fault with this dish.

After viewing the very cool Annotated Dish write up in New York Magazine, and running out of new things to try, I decided to give Le Foie Gras fumée, the layered combination of smoked foie gras and eel terrine, a try. Once was enough. The dish reads very well and sounds like a combination that would work; but it didn’t. In fact, this was one of the biggest disappointments Aaron has had at L’Atelier. The glazed eel is so sweet that it completely overwhelms the foie gras. The creamy texture of the foie gras is prevented from coming through by the drastically different, almost stringy texture of the eel. The white on the plate is actually whipped cream — what was that doing there? There was also a bit of sansyo pepper to perk things up a bit, and some chives mainly for color variation; but the real problem was the conflict between the eel and smoked foie. Aaron points out, though, that people whose palates we trust (our friend Ulterior Epicure, for example) disagree with him regarding this dish, so perhaps it is worth revisiting.

One time that Aaron stopped by without me, he enjoyed a few items I have still yet to see on the menu myself. Figures… the one time I couldn’t go. The first dish was Le Foie Gras de canard une symphonie soyeuse sous une fine gelée à la feuille d’or, a thin layer of veal stock gelée on top of a very creamy foie gras mousse. This combination was covered with shaved white truffle and edible gold leaf. The truffles gave a rich and interesting aroma to this dish that otherwise would have had essentially none. The gold leaf was, obviously, superfluous, but that minor quibble this dish as a whole was wonderful.

It is always a nice to see something as rich and creamy as foie gras prepared in a way that highlights, without distracting, the ingredient’s natural flavors. When I first saw Le Foie Gras chaud de canard au gratin de pamplemousse, I hesitated at the thought of mixing grapefruit, or any other kind of citrus for that matter, with something so delicate as foie gras. But since we had already had everything else on the menu out of curiosity, I went for it. I was pleasantly shocked. Somehow, the bitter acidity was muted — but not completely — in a way that actually cut through the fatty mouthfeel leaving behind a crisp, lean, but still creamy flavor. The sauce was left thin which allowed for maximum absorption in the liver, despite making the plating a bit runny — a sign that flavor, in this dish, was not to be sacrificed at the expense of presentation. The saltiness of the foie gras engagingly complemented the fruitiness of the grapefruit, a beautiful twist of different flavors that mixed together in harmony.

Among the meat options, Le Chevreuil, a filet of venison with caramelized quince, was perhaps the heartiest. What a nice combination. Aaron always says how annoying it is that venison is always paired with the same old black/blue/huckleberry sauce. Frankly, it’s trite. Pairing it instead with caramelized quince was refreshingly original, and added just the right level of sweetness. The venison was cooked rare as venison should be. Aaron is a sucker for a well-executed aigre-doux (fancy French words for sweet-and-sour) preparation (don’t get me started on the Italian cipollini in agrodolce), and so I thought the mignonette worked very nicely in this case. Overall, quite a solid dish.

It’s pretty rare to hear someone mention a foie gras and beef burger without bringing up Daniel’s db burger. See, I just did it, too. But L’Atelier has a foie gras and beef burger on their menu as well, and it is pretty unique. Le Burger is arguably more about the foie gras than the beef. It’s incredibly juicy, making one wonder whether it’s the foie gras or the ground chuck that is more responsible for the stream of juices that will inevitably run down your hand. Aaron and I both dislike bell peppers very much, and frankly their addition in this dish seemed out of place. But the small brioche buns are very nice, soft and slightly sweet. The dish also comes with a small cup of crinkle cut french fries and house-made ketchup with a very sweet and distinct flavor which comes from the addition of ginseng. Aaron and I didn’t particularly like the sweet ketchup; but our friend did proclaim it the best thing since kosher Coke.

Sometimes, though, the bun, the peppers, and the other condiments just get in the way. Sometimes I just want Le Boeuf. Basically about eight ounces of pure raw meat, L’Atelier’s exquisite beef tartare is the best I’ve ever had (… in the US, I should add, lest we forget the buttuta al coltello I had in Italy). In an effort to minimize palate fatigue, we’ve found L’Atelier to be generally consistent with the portioning; but this dish is nearly two to three times the size of any other dish on the menu. It is definitely intense, and definitely not for vegetarians. The dish comes with just the right amount of condiments — mustard, cornichons, red onion, and parsley — which highlight the natural flavor of the beef without distracting. The texture of the meat was very nice, too, neither too coarse nor too finely ground. Yes, there were crinkle-cut french fries, and yes, they were tasty; but really. who cares about stupid french fries when the meat is that good? It should probably be noted that this dish’s $39 price is a little steep for what it is; but certainly justifiable given the generous portion.

For those who actually like their meet cooked, one surprisingly fantastic option was L’Onglet, the humble cut of hanger steak presented with shallot confit, grilled piquillo peppers and roasted fingerling potatoes. The meat was juicy and tender, and when topped with the sweet caramelized shallots and surrounded by an intensely meaty jus, the more complex salty-sweet flavor was quite enjoyable. The roasted potatoes and grilled peppers added a Basque flair to the dish, and topped with a few coarse grains of fleur de sel, they were quite flavorful. A fully satisfying main course, and a nice change of pace from the smaller tapas-style portions that permeate the majority of the menu.

While perhaps leaner than a slab of foie gras, kobe beef is nonetheless renowned for its intensely marbelized texture. We’ve sampled two variations of this Japanese-style beef at L’Atelier, one served with grilled piquillo peppers and the other with wild lettuce. I found the latter less appealing, as the raw lettuce served more as a useless garnish than something to complement the steak. The contrast between raw and cooked was just too stark for the lettuce to work with this dish. That being said, he was asked how I wanted the meat cooked, without any haughty mentions of how “chef recommends” that he get it — a small sign that the restaurant was thankfully willing to cater to the preferences of its clients. His request for rare was fulfilled, the marbelization shining through with each slice. (Truth be told, for something this fatty, Aaron and I swear by medium-rare, allowing a bit of the intramuscular fat to be rendered.) Unless shared among two people, this course became a bit tiresome, since it was, after all, simply a steak. While the quality of meat was indeed high, this seemed more applicable for a steak house and a little out of context with the creativity of some of the restaurant’s other dishes.

It would seem based on what we’ve shown so far that vegetables may be lacking in a meal at L’Atelier. Quite the contrary — there are a few vegetable dishes that might act either as an early course or perhaps a side dish with the more substantial main courses. One such dish that seemed like a refreshing start to a meal was L’Avocat en velouté sur un fondant acidulé de légumes, a vegetarian dish not unlike gazpacho. As you can see in the photo, its presentation that is perhaps more interesting from the side. The dominant flavor in the thick, slightly gelatinous translucent base is undoubtedly tomato, though other vegetables round it out. The avocado crème layer lends some depth to the initial acidity of the vegetable base, a result that works. Texturally, we found this dish rather dull and would have liked to see perhaps some crisp vegetables to add for greater contrast. It was certainly pretty, though.

A lovely vegetable dish was called, fittingly, Les Legumes, small sautéed mushrooms atop a crumbly tart crust with feta cheese, drizzled with maple syrup, and covered with crisp slivers of zucchini and yellow summer squash. Though I didn’t have a chance to try this particular dish, Aaron recalls it being a lovely combination of sweet, salty, and savory. The feta and maple, in particular, was a brilliant combination of salty and sweet, and along with the mushrooms, added lovely depth and complexity to the bright taste of the barely-cooked zucchini and squash.

All this talk about how wonderful L’Atelier is, and we haven’t even mentioned Robuchon’s famous mashed potatoes yet. Fortunately, many of the more substantial main courses often come with these as a small side dish, so you’re bound to encounter them sooner or later. One small bite of these intensely buttery, unbelievably smooth potatoes, and there will be little need for anything else. In my experience, these addictive spuds have even been known to cause cases of culinary beer goggles, rendering the rest of the meal irrelevant, so enjoy at your own risk. But a meal at L’Atelier is simply not complete without a little cast-iron ramekin of these potatoes.

Dessert at L’Atelier usually began with a palate cleanser titled Le Yuzu Vert, a small shot glass of green yuzu granité with a lemon verbena gelée and a thin layer of cachaça, which is the national drink of Brazil. The tartness of the cachaça was moderated by the slightly herbal gelée, making the mouth-feel very fresh rather than bitter and tongue-cringing. This dish was served ice cold which further amplified its refreshing power. A larger portion of this would be overkill; but as a segue into the sweeter end of the meal, this dish does a fine job.

On later visits, this was replaced by coconut ravioli with lemon-mascarpone mousse. A delightfully successful result of spherification, the coconut “ravioli” bridged the gap between liquid and solid. An ultra-thin film gave way to the creamy center, making for a burst of coconut flavor on the tongue. This delicious “ravioli” stayed afloat in a pleasantly tart lemon gelée, and beneath that was a luxurious mousse of lemon and mascarpone. Truly a stunning transition to dessert, it both cleansed and reinvigorated the palate for the treats still to come.

Less successful, though, was the most recent pre-dessert Aaron sampled: almond panna cotta with strawberry-tomato confit, and strawberry foam. What sounded like a tasty combination on paper was surprisingly bland and ultimately lackluster. The texture was not the problem; there was a nice progression from custard-like to light and airy. It was the overly muted flavors. Neither almond, strawberry, or tomato were really able to stand up and get noticed. Definitely not one of his favorites.

Now how can we even begin to talk about Le Sucre? It’s hard to pinpoint exactly what makes this sugar sphere filled with raspberry mousse so special, since there’s so much to it. Is it the perfectly spherical shape? The beautiful color? The spectrum of textures and temperatures? The sweet flavor of the airy mousse tamed by the gelée? The gentle cracking sensation from the first bite? Actually, it’s all of the above. This is certainly an exceptional dessert. The paper-thin sugar piece is blown into a perfect sphere in a process very similar to glass blowing. The thin sphere is then filled with a duo of ethereal fraises des bois and mascarpone mousse, set off-centered on a clear glass bowl, and garnished with a tart raspberry and blackberry coulis, pistachio dust, Kirsch gelée and vanilla ice cream. The precision of this sphere is almost alarming — a perfectly round sphere, this is no oblate spheroid or any nonsense like that. The balance of the flavor is also impressive, with the sweetness of the mousse filling contrasting very nicely with the slightly salty pistachio dust.

Texturally, this dish is, in all honesty, brilliant. With the first shatter of the shell, tiny crispy pieces of sugar are let loose into the mousse, creating a lovely textural equilibrium — each bite is just as interesting as the previous. A later incarnation of the same dish included saffron mousse and pomegranite curd — an equally stunning combination. And aside from the flavor and texture, this dish is absolutely gorgeous. Just look at it! We do hope to see its production with our own eyes one day, but until then this beautiful creation will remain somewhat of a mystery. It should be noted that Le Sucre has since been taken off the L’Atelier dessert menu, perhaps somewhat due to seasonality; but we do hope that it comes back shortly. It’s a masterpiece. [Update 5/17/08 -- my friend the Ulterior Epicure found out the dessert has since emigrated to the Tokyo branch along with the pastry chef responsible for its creation]

While Le Sucre the most interesting dessert we’ve ever had, there are still some others that need to be mentioned. Le Baba, for instance, includes a large piece of yeast cake soaked in rum, set atop diced pineapple infused with fresh thyme, and topped with caramel ice cream and a luscious sabayon. The strong hit of the booze and the herbal note of the fresh thyme kept this dish from being overly sweet. The baba, as always, acted as a delicious sponge as it soaked up the flavors of the other components. Certainly a very tasty combination and a nice change of pace for those who may are looking for a good non-chocolate option.

Also quite nice was La Poire, an almond soufflé served outside the ramekin with poached pear and bitter almond ice cream. Granted, the fact that the soufflé was served outside of a ceramic dish should have no effect on flavor; but it certainly had an effect on temperature as this cooled down very quickly, especially with the adjacent ice cream. Additionally, one of my favorite parts of a soufflé in general is the crispy layer on the sides and bottoms where the batter sticks to the ceramic. This did not have that. That being said, this had a memorable almond flavor, and pairing it with poached pears, slightly bitter almond ice cream, and toasted almonds was a very tasty combination.

Not quite so nice was a dessert simply entitled Le Soufflé, a caramel soufflé that came resting in a shallow pool of chocolate soup and bitter orange ice cream. We each took the first bite — confusion. Then a second bite — disappointment. There was no third bite. This was absolutely horrible. The ice cream was utterly tasteless. The caramel had been burnt, lending an exaggerated bitterness to the soufflé that was not to be tamed by the other accompaniments. The chocolate soup was like an insipid, clumpy, unstirred serving of Swiss Miss. Just a terrible dessert all-around. This remains the one and only thing we’ve ever sent back at L’Atelier.

Fortunately, other choices offered fabulous consolation. They say the first step to recovery is to admit the problem, and I will be the first to tell you: I have a chestnut addiction. So when I saw Le Marron on the menu, I knew it would one day be mine. This dish consists of chestnuts with liquid chocolate-filled croquettes, dates, and a chestnut soup. The chocolate croquettes were incredible — self-contained bursts of cocoa flavor that literally exploded in your mouth. The warm chestnut soup was delicious on its own, with a rich chocolate sauce lining the outside edge of it, allowing a bittersweet harmony in each spoonful. When I had this, the condensed milk ice cream was literally flavorless; but Aaron ensures him that this was a fluke, as every time he’s had it (and there were many), the sweetness of the ice cream brightened up and carried the rich flavors of the chestnut and chocolate wonderfully. The chopped dates were also a great addition. Aside from Le Sucre, this was by far Aaron’s favorite dessert, and one of his favorite dishes at L’Atelier, period.

Not usually something either of us would order, a surprisingly good choice was Le Chocolat Noir, a molten chocolate cake topped with a chocolate tuile, vanilla ice cream, and served with coffee mousse and whipped cream. My first though: why the coffee?! Nobody likes the coffee jelly beans; why would anyone like the coffee mousse? I need not have worried, though, as the flavor of the mousse was very gentle and by no means offensive. My favorite part of this dish was definitely the semi-liquid chocolate in the center of the chocolate cake. The center didn’t quite ooze out; but, it hung out just around the cooked/undercooked line. It wasn’t too sweet, either, which was really appreciated.

On my latest visit, I sampled Le Sensation Chocolat crèmeaux au chocolat guanaja, sorbet de cacao au biscuit oreo, ground oreo shell encrusting a thick chocolate mousse and covered with a ring of guanaja chocolate. With each bite, the crunchy bits of oreo weaved their way into the creamy mousse, making each spoonful interesting. The dish was actually served at room temperature, so when I cracked the ring chocolate, it actually melted rather than got in the way. This might be the darkest colored dessert I’ve ever had; nearly perfectly black. Yet as I ate it, he couldn’t help but think of Jell-o chocolate pudding. Not such a bad thing, I suppose, but considering the apparent complexity of this dish, I doubt that’s the first association the pastry chef would like to come to mind.

A cool and refreshing alternative to the chocolate options was Le Pamplemousse, chilled grapefruit segments with an olive-scented gelée and and mint sorbet. Definitely on the lighter side of desserts, just in the vicinity of ordering sorbet or fresh fruit, to which my response is always “Get a real dessert!” This dish lets the bitter flavor of the grapefruit come through a bit too strongly, which I never particularly enjoy, so I probably would not get this a second time. That being said, the mint increased the cool-winter-breeze effect of this dish. Afterwards, I felt like my mouth took an ice cold shower. The olive-scented gelée was barely detectable, overwhelmed by the grapefruit’s acidity.

On another visit Aaron sampled Le Riz, a milky rice pudding served with caramelized apple and rosemary ice cream. This had very good potential. Unfortunately the portion was microscopic, with two tasteless strips of puff pastry making up the majority of the dish’s volume. The sweet and herbal combination of caramelized apple and rosemary was a delicious one, and the rice pudding itself (an entire teaspoon’s worth, no less) was very tasty. Ultimately, though, the portioning left this dish a little out of balance in his opinion.

Being a slight hypocrite (see two paragraphs up), one night I just felt like having ice cream and sorbet. Les Glaces et Sorbets du Jour offered just that. There were perfect quenelles of mint and vanilla ice cream, as well as mango and grapefruit sorbet, resting on a bed of fresh blueberries and a few coarse chunks of vanilla bean gelée. The best of the bunch was probably the creamy mint flavor, with a refreshing herbal aftertaste. A thin tuile stuck in the top provided a nice textural contrast, and while essentially flavorless, a light foam atop the ice cream did make for a pretty presentation.

Another simple dessert that was nonetheless quite satisfying was Les Tartes Tradition, a selection of miniature tarts. The five flavors included: lemon; dark chocolate; apple; milk chocolate & salted peanut; and cinnamon. Aaron found the best of the bunch to be the milk chocolate & salted peanut tart. The texture of the chocolate portion was not unlike that of a Tootsie Roll, and this rested on layer of crunchy and salty peanut brittle. Great contrast of both flavor and texture. The other tarts were very enjoyable as well, offering a whole spectrum of tastes: sweet caramelized apple, pleasantly tart citrus, rich bittersweet chocolate, and spicy cinnamon. With the tarts sized the way they are, this might also make a nice round of petit fours if shared among two people. (Or so I would think. Aaron never really wanted to share…)

Occasionally the gods would smile upon us in the form of a plate of cannelés at the end of a meal. These wonderful little treats from Bordeaux are as tasty as they are beautiful. Essentially small cork-sized, rum-soaked pieces of brioche, they get a wonderfully caramelized exterior from the copper pans in which they are traditionally cooked. A crisp, slightly chewy outside gives way to the boozy sponge-like inside. L’Atelier’s version is certainly commendable, if not quite in the same league as Petrossian Bakery on 7th Ave. near 58th Street.

Lastly, absolutely no L’Atelier experience is complete without a small plate of macarons. I’m pretty sure there has never been a time when I haven’t asked for five or six more rounds a few extra of these wonderful French delicacies. Flavors we’ve encountered have included raspberry-mascarpone, chocolate, and lemon, each of which I consider to be the freshest and best tasting macarons available in Manhattan. Period. Aaron agrees — there is no better place to enjoy our favorite French pastry. There are three important characteristics that I always consider, all of which L’Atelier gets right nearly every time. First is clearly the flavor. When dealing with certain varieties like citrus or chocolate, it’s really easy for macarons to become cloying. There is a fine line between sweet and too sweet; and in my experience, especially with lemon and raspberry, I find them almost always too sweet. Not at L’Atelier. Second is the texture — one of the most divine sensations is the first bite into a macaron where your teeth gently sink through meringue without any pressure. When a macaron has been sitting around for a while, the point where the crème touches the meringue become a bit soggy and get chewy — I believe there should be no chewiness in a good macaron. Again, never a problem here — always fresh at L’Atelier. Third, is the meringue to crème ratio — too much of either one kills the gentle macaron, and often violates the first and/or second rules as well. I think that the ideal height of the ganache layer is around a fourth of the total height of the cookie. L’Atelier always get this right, too! Every time, these treats are such a satisfying way to cap off a meal. This makes L’Atelier a nice post-dinner destination for a second or third dessert, coffee, and a few tasty cookies.

One of the many elements that makes this restaurant so strong is the portioning. Most tapas-sized portions are just enough to share; but, not nearly enough to cause palate fatigue. It’s also the perfect size for ordering several dishes or, at times, just one or two and a light drink. While the dishes clearly reflect the organized passion of chefs Robuchon and Suga, the experience is customizable such that it literally molded to our cravings every single time.

A first-time visitor to New York might be overwhelmed by the weight of his Michelin guide. Actually, this culinary capitol is no less intimidating for its food-passionate residents. But we can say fairly strongly that if we had the chance to visit only one restaurant in this special city, it would be L’Atelier. This “workshop” has consistently provided, plate after plate, dishes that have reminded us why we love food so much. We can only hope that you have the opportunity to indulge here in the near future … just don’t forget your appetite.

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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.

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