This is the second of a trio of trips that my friend Isaac and I have endeavored to take, following a somewhat obscure, fringelike movement in fine dining. The ostensible Molecular Gastronomy movement.
I think it's interesting that whimsical food presented as one thing, evolving into entirely another would have developed such nomenclature. It seems to me that molecules and culinary trickery have little more to do with each other than do molecules and traditional fare...
This overnight trip to Chicago was the second stop of three (the tour was kicked off with a two day jaunt to El Bulli just outside Barcelona) in what we have dubbed the Mindfuckyoular Gastronomy World Tour.
That was highly appreciated by the restaurant staff at Moto, a place that I'd only recently been told about by Chef Keller from Per Se. (Or so I thought, more on that later...)
This experience, as did the last one, began with the place. We were dropped off on a totally desolate corner in the center of Chicago's Meat Packing District, complete with butchers' reefer vans parked down the block. Looking for this place reminded me a little of hunting down Flourent in 1994.
Eventually we walked up to a door, and saw a sign, Otom. I quickly figured out that Otom was Moto spelled backward and since this was stop two, I thought I was onto them and the vibe of these types of places. Barging in, I announced our presence, feeling very proud of myself for having deciphered the Otom.
The Mâitre D' firmly but graciously escorted us back outside (it was raining) and walked us two doors down. To Moto... Otom's sister restaurant.
It was on...!
This place was absurdly non-descript. A long bar stretched to the left with an 8 top table placed directly across. Beyond this very simple bar area was the main dining room. The left wall of which was a large floor to ceiling muslin curtain, backlit to serve as the main source of light for the room. It was soft, elegant yet plainly beautiful. The drapery was mirrored by a plainly painted, olive drabish wall, a strip of exposed brick cut lengthways through the center of it. For such a renowned restaurant, the place was so ordinary it was almost shocking.
The staff and servers, however, were not. Running around in black suits, they looked something like I'd have imagined Obama's Secret Service to be if he'd commissioned the agency from scratch. Laid back hipsters replete with earpieces, speaking into their sleeves earnestly, ran about with strange, but interesting looking, dishes of food, bottles of water or wine. You could see from the second you sat down, that although the choreography was a little coarse, they were all doing their absolute best. It was wistfully beautiful to watch.
We sat at our table and waited for a bit. And then, after some time, came the menu. Printed on a thinly sliced piece of hard garlic bread. Upon closer examination, it was the menu from another restaurant. Ballsy... And quite tasty.
The wine director, Matt, previously of Charlie Trotter's, came over and presented us with a list of the most meager selection of wines either of us had ever encountered in a fine dining establishment. 10 or so reds, perhaps another 10 or so white, with a few champagnes, stickies, ports and dessert wines. He gently explained to us that the place was about the food, and that the wine program was much more about pairing rather than ordering flamboyant bottles. We initially opted for a reasonably priced but safe Burgundy but, in a truly pleasant twist, Matt offered us a $60 bottle of Ribero Del Duero in its stead, saying that it was much better suited to the food. Very, very cool...
So we chose to blindly go on their journey and do it their way. And what a journey it was...
They started us off with breakfast. Eggs with gazpacho, an english muffin and potatoes. Except the eggs, served scrambled, were a yellow roulade of carrots and cucumbers on top of a gazpacho relish. The muffin, a garlic foam wafer that immediately melted in your mouth, was topped with a drop of sweet corn "Butter." "Trippy..."
They subtly placed a candle on the table during breakfast, a romantic touch for a couple of guys, one of whom is a confirmed bachelor and the other of whom is engaged to be married. But in time we understood why. There were no accidents at this place.
After breakfast, we were presented a radically deconstructed French Onion Soup. Gruyere paste was schmeared along the inside of the bowl, which contained broth, a healthy mound of caramelized onions and a circular white "crouton" wafer that crackled and fizzed when it hit the tongue. Cobbled together, the broth, cheese, crouton and onions were cumulatively quite like French onion soup. "Far out..."
The Urban Garden showed up next, in a little terra cotta planting pot that one might have used to grow spices on their window sill. This dish was a melange of ingredients that comprised "dirt," "roots" and the leaf greens that might have been components of a true urban garden. It was silly and delicious. "Really silly..." But really delicious.
Another deep bowl arrived with little strips of potato in it. At that moment our server picked up the candle, blew it out and poured the candlewax into both of our bowls. He very coolly explained that the candle wax was beef fat, and when poured over the potato, it became their French Fries. And it tasted like fries, too! "Nutty..." But it totally worked.
Buffalo Wings followed. Blue cheese paste, shredded chicken, a large drop of extremely hot sauce and a slice of somewhat dry chicken breast all conspired to give the impression of food that, for some, might accompany a heavenly afternoon watching the Bears game. They even served Belgian beer to complete the scene. And it was some beer, triple fermented to 9% alcohol...
Their "Risotto" where one pours and mixes the ingredients together to make crispy rice and soy foam into an al-dente rice like consistency didn't work very well. (They actually asked me and I told them honestly) But it was delicious nonetheless. (I told them that too...)
A real life tin ashtray full of pepper and sesame "ashes," came with an accompanying "cigar" (a Cohiba nonetheless) which, instead of smoking, we were told to eat. This cigar was the actual Cuban Sandwich, and was almost as good as the Cohiba Edicion Limitada I smoked that afternoon. "Awesome..."
The "Canoli," arrived, just in time for dessert. But, at first bite, our "canoli" was shredded duck, molé sauce and queso Blanco wrapped in a corn tortilla "pastry." It looked so absolutely realistic that for a moment, even after they explained what it was, I still expected a sweet rush of marscapone and rich chocolate to attack my palate. "Freaky..."
Strawberry Flakes came in an All Clad pot, smoking with low rolling fog. It looked exactly like dry ice, and they instructed us that exhaling after taking a bite produced a puff of smoke through the nose. Probably not dissimilar from chef's numerous exhalations while designing these dishes... "Wild..."
The palate cleanser that was two plastic enveloped popsicles, celery and tomato squeezed out of the plastic together to make a frozen "Bloody Mary." "Radical..."
The exploding Acme s'mores dessert was a small bomb shaped chocolate sphere with a burning wick that, when lit by the waiter, was actually the marshmallow. And it sure exploded in your mouth... "Gnarly..."
A parade of dishes, while not appearing traditional in any way whatsoever, evolved into things even more surprising than they appeared initially. There was a fun, utterly cartoonish characteristic to the cuisine, which, in light of the delicious flavoring and intense creativity, worked much more beautifully than the gravitas we flew into Chicago expecting.
While the service may have been a little slow at times, especially when they were busier, it was more than compensated for by a very cool bunch of personalities all of whom are culinary school grads and all of whom are obviously passionate about what they're doing. The people were as fun as the food.
But as weirdly fantastic as the food was, and as delicately and consistently as it was prepared...
I was absolutely mesmerized when I was told that it was the chef's night off!
MEA CULPA: because we thought we're so experienced in this world by now, it wasn't until the Tuesday after we got back that a quick chat with the folks @ Per Se revealed to me that the restaurant we were looking for was Alinea.
It's dumb luck of the highest order that we get to fly to Chicago, go to the wrong restaurant... And love it as much as we did!
Bentley Meeker is the owner of Bentley Meeker Lighting + Staging, Inc., (www.bentleymeeker.com) which performs lighting and visual environments for private and corporate events.
He lives in the absolute very southern tip of Harlem and is a part time dad with his 10 year old son.