For an amateur food critic (who happens to be single, too), this event was like, well, her wedding day... maybe for sake of similes and metaphors, I'll say her elopement. All day, she thought of what she would wear and didn't eat much (not to make sure she could fit into her dress but so that she didn't compromise her appetite), then nervously awaited when the cab would come get her. She only remembers a blur of images afterwards, hints of memories. Dramatic? Yes. True? Of course!
For lunch, I had hummus and a thin salad at an Irish bar (no reason for a snow day to have kept me down) and spent the day bumming around and ensuring I could easily and safely arrive in the city despite the day's (weak) Snowquester. The suspense and anticipation was subtle but, for a girl like me, palpable. Upon arrival (at a minimally-marked address), I grabbed a seat on the couch in Minibar's "waiting" room--in front of two sets of curtains ensuring the mystery of the dining room--and peeked through a cut out to the kitchen, just over a very modern fireplace. The hope of suspended, delayed gratification was exquisite.
Unsurprisingly, I was the first one to arrive. I sipped a glass of cava from my vantage point and imagined going down the rabbit hole of gastronomy. I imagine other people talk about the weather and comment on the decor. An armchair did look like it was made of marble, after all.
While sipping and trying to calm my delighfully nervous nerves, I enjoyed rice paper crisps with a nori/lime powder. It was served in a hollowed out "book." I ate them all, then played with the book.
The staff--who were very friendly throughout the ranks--shepherded us (a couple arrived, then later, a younger man) into the dining room. I settled and removed my scarf, thrilled like I was at Christmas mornings of yore. With a puzzled look, I tried to find a place to put my scarf: seat back? next chair? floor? Before I dropped it, someone came over and relieved me of it. How thoughtful.
Then, it began. I consumed 28 dishes in a dizzying show of culinary artistry, mastery of chemistry, and creativity. I'll warn you: I'm going to go through each one, so ensure your seat is comfy and you're well hydrated. I've never before thought so thoroughly about my food and how it was made, what it tasted like, how the texture felt in my fingers, nose, mouth, and throat. More delightfully, nothing was at it seemed: "snow" was yogurt, "bread" was meringue, "beans" were chemical anomalies.
The restaurant Komi, technically, is the top restaurant in DC (on the list I'm operating from). It's snooty, poorly lit, and criminally, does not permit photography. When I went and pulled out my Blackberry (a dark era of food blogging) I asked the staff if they were kidding and received a very not-kidding response back. Minibar eschews these trappings, encouraging both photographs and questions. The staff refrains from interrupting conversations (like Komi) and lets diners reach a pause in their conversation before describing a dish's 8-12 ingredients, preparation, and construction (quite welcomely).
I learned photos were ok at dish 6 at Minibar: up until that point, I blissfully enjoyed the freedom of not picking up my phone and savoring the mystery of what I was eating. The chefs finished preparing the dishes, then plated them right before our eyes: dashes and flourishes of this and that were added while we sat and watched. The first dish was a "Oaxacan Marshmallow," a mezcal-infused ball of what seemed to be soft ice or hard marshmallow. Next, was an Asian "Coca de Vidrio," what looked to be thin, tender glass. After that was a Parmesan leaf (situated among real leaves and holding its own quite well), then within this winter still life, a dish called "Walnut Mimetic," a replica of a walnut to be eaten in its entirety, filled with liquid walnut barely enclosed in a thin candy shell. Next was a "Pillow of PB&J," a small ravioli that exploded in jamminess and what looked like a deeply-rich ground saffron powder, which was finely ground raspberries.
I couldn't resist commemorating the dish "When Pigs Fly," a hollowed-out swine-shaped meringue (replete with a curly tail) and stuffed with bacon ice cream. I started to struggle a bit with the heavy and the rich: I questioned my fortitude for the many dishes to come.
Right after Babe was a "Foie Bomb," liquid foie gras barely held together by a thin shell that looked like a hand-spun Christmas ornament. This is what taking a literal bite out of the soul of French gastronomy would taste like.
The detail with each plate--edible and otherwise--was remarkable. The container (plate or otherwise), the accouterments, the senses that were awoken reflected the thought that went into each dish. The "churro tendon," literally, gelatinous veal tendon breaded in panko, fried, and coated in cinnamon and sugar was served atop a bit of paper to evoke how you'd eat one at a fair. An almond tart with blue cheese was served next: what looked like a perfectly-halved egg shell (which was, in fact, made of almonds ground and shaped into a small bowl) was served atop a small bed of rocks (legitimately inedible; we weren't sure, though, underscoring how credible their imitations had become).
As an aside, along the way I had a variety of drinks: wines, nonalcoholic cocktails, and liqueurs. At one time, I had more than four non-water glasses on my table. My unsuspecting favorite, however, was amontillado sherry. That glass, I finished, while remarking that it is the only mostly-non-creepy thing I can associate with Edgar Allen Poe.
The dishes up to this moment were clever but full of novelty: dishes meant to be enjoyed in one quick bite, instead of slow savoring. The next dish was a "Pigtail Curry Panini," one of my favorites (of five, perhaps? I see no need to narrow down too much). The "bun" was an apple meringue baguette, with cleverly inscribed hash marks to suggest it's really bread. The pig tail meat tasted of apples and curry... the meringue held up exquisitely and slowly became juice and juicier. Admittedly, though, I was glad to consume something that required bites, rather than a quick pop-in-mouth.
The dishes at first evoked titters at their cleverness, but then slowly started precipitating gasps and sighs. Next, we had a Thai soup with coconut milk dumplings in a beautiful dark pottery bowl. After that were baby carrots with coconut and curry, one of my other favorites: "carrots" were actually reshaped carrot puree, robed in a chemical compound that created a skin on the new shape. When a person manhandled these delicate faux carrots, its juice moved roughshod over the bowl like a poached-egg egg yolk. It was brilliant.
Next was another favorite, beech mushroom risotto with truffle. I love being delicately disabused for a moment, in what I expect to see and smell: a bag (reminiscent of state fairs, ring tosses, and goldfish) was placed in a bowl before us. The top was cut, silky, stocky steam exuded, then whole truffles were shaved before us, right into the steaming plastic madness. There's no pasta, only mushroom. That's better than a carnie thinking you weight 10 pounds less.
Next was smoked oysters with escabeche. At this point, my interest started flagging: I started talking to my dining neighbor, a lovely man from California who was my equal in blowing large amounts of time and money at exorbitant restaurants. A man on business, he spent the night before at Komi (see above!) and was visiting Adour the night after. This, dear kind reader, is a man who was deliberately knocking out the 1st, 2nd, and 50th (Alain Ducasse should not be 50th, j'avoue) best restaurants on a business trip. We discussed restaurants in New York, DC, San Francisco, Paris, and Las Vegas in the type of detail typically reserved for those who speak Klingon at Star Wars conferences. I met my equal and he works in IT.
My amount of photography at this point is directly proportional to the intensity of conversation: we discussed Michael Mina, Thomas Keller, Alain Ducasse, Joël Robuchon, Gary Danko, Paul Bocuse, and Michelin (the stars, not the tires) in the most gratuitous, esoteric, snooty detail--coupled with the full appreciation that we were both mid-level working-level non-food-industry people. It was like finding a food soul mate.
After that were exquisite things: "Fabes con Almejas," a wonderful bean stew (fake, chemically-reconstructed beans which were a pleasure to eat), Grilled Lobster, Peanut Butter and Honey (I started flagging at that point), "Espardenyes with Bone Marrow" (I think I was getting annoyed at this point that I was being interrupted while conversing) and Roast Squab with Oysters and Seaweed (I have no idea what this was).
Dinner was done and after my conversation, I regretted never having visited the French Laundry, not getting a reservation at Paul Bocuse's place near Lyon, and blowing my money at Harrod's steakhouse instead of chez Joël Robuchon in Las Vegas and while we're at it, never visiting his place in Paris. I know how that all sounds, but I eat cereal or pasta for dinner when I'm not eating foie gras, don't worry.
Next, were the pre-dessert dishes: there were way too many previews for this movie. First was the olive oil soup with a freeze-dried mandarin. I had a heads-up on this one from Tom Sietsema, my local food critic, and liked it as much as he did, which is to say, not at all. He likened it to "not unlike slurping vinaigrette." That's true: it was cold (not good-gazpacho cold, but freezing chicken soup cold) and too oily to be tempting. Next was "Dragon's Breath": I think the other single diner and me were discussing some chef of note and I was annoyed the dessert didn't justify the interruption.
Pre-desserts started improving, though: the Pine Snow with Honey was tempting. Freeze dried yogurt, crumbled into snow flakes, was served beneath Greek honey, aside a (non-edible) pine branch. It wasn't delicious as much as fascinating.
Next was coconut sticky rice with mango: I started getting a little tired by the end, deciphering between what was real reality and imitated reality. The mango here wasn't real, it was sorbet. I started wondering to myself why the fake thing was so close to the real thing when the real thing was good, but that esoteric wandering died quickly: no need for wandering when it is prorated, dish by dish. Here's a photo, ruthlessly borrowed.
Unfortunately, I can't recall the Pina Colada Tablet or the Sable Bon Bon: frankly, I was ready for dessert, as I saw no need for anterior or inferior desserts. There was a TerraMisu, which I also don't recall: I'm at an unknown amount of drinks in at this point (yes, I took the Metro). When we moved to the bar, aptly and reversedly called BarMini, I remembered again.
I had a Rhubarb Binchotan: it was so clever because I thought I was eating charcoal. A stone, rounded on top like a reverse meniscus, hospitably housed two small pieces of rhubarb coated in something that resembled ash (binchotan is a traditional charcoal of Japan). I was delightfully and exquisitely tricked.
Last was a Lava Rock Chocolate: at this point, there was no point in pretending I was doing anything more than enjoying the superficial benefits of a cleverly-textured edible rock. Maybe it was a rock, who knows.
If you've scrolled this far, I have little shame in admitting I was at Minibar for five hours. I stayed for a cocktail, because I found one that had sherry in it, which as you recall, magically became my new favorite liqueur. Cleverly, this sherry drink was infused with smoke and was even more cleverly served in a Mason jar, to ensure that smoke sunk in.
My friend, whose name I didn't even catch, let me photograph his gin and tonic, replete with fat slices of cucumber, juniper berries, and its own bottle of Tonic Water. I didn't even have to ask for a small photo shoot: he just offered.
It was exquisite and everything a fancy dinner should be: delivering wonder, well-constructed food, and cleverly-contrived dishes. Minibar, you're worth your weight in foam, smoke, meringue, and gold.
No comments:
Post a Comment