Tuesday, August 14, 2012.
Upperline, Christopher's, College Inn, Mr. John's. Root.
If Mary Ann told me who the guests would be on our roundtable show today, I didn't remember. I was surprised by a dream team of restaurateurs. All of them had so much to talk about that when the three hours came to an end, we still had much left to discuss.
Upperline's owner JoAnn Clevenger came with a notebook of topics. Even without that, she's good for a three-hour show all by herself. On a remote from the Upperline, she and I went for a solid ninety minutes, blowing off all the commercials and even the news at the top of the hour. I couldn't bring myself to interrupt her. JoAnn has one of the great minds in the business, in a class with Ella Brennan, Archie Casbarian, and Leah Chase when it comes to looking at everything in a new way.
Next to her were two guys I felt slightly sorry for. Christopher Case is chef and owner of a new, obscure (because it's in Slidell) and excellent bistro. He broke into the conversation more than the average guest does--something I encourage. Brad McGehee is the new (as of a year ago) chef at Ye Olde College Inn. I think he made a bigger improvement in his restaurant than has ever occurred at the College Inn, which two years ago had declined to terrible. But it was hard for these young fellows to break through JoAnn's forest of ideas.
Desi Vega didn't have that problem. He's one of the owners of Mr. John's Steakhouse. Steak gets everybody going, and did--not just with the other guests, but also most of the telephone callers. No dissenting opinions: Mr. John's is the city's best steakhouse, they said, as I have been saying rather longer than anyone else.
JoAnn further ingratiated herself by bringing three bottles of wine. Genesis is a big Syrah which, but total coincidence, we sample on the show two weeks ago. Gallo Sonoma Valley Chardonnay was, as it long has been, much better a wine than one might imagine. But why Hungarian Tokaji? She was interested in it, was why, and hadn't had it. It's a sweet, oxidized, fortified white (actually, a brownish-pink). "Perfect with biscotti, I'd think," said JoAnn.
After washing the wine glasses (I am a one-man show wherever I go), I stepped out into the cool of the evening (it really was, courtesy of one of those violent thunderstorms that strafe the city this time of year), and walked the six blocks to Root for dinner.
It was my first eating at Root. By all accounts (including that of the chef, a guest on the round table show a couple of months ago), this is a contender for Best New Restaurant of 2012. (Although R'evolution, to which I have not been either, has emerged as the favorite in that betting.)
Root's buzz is a result of its works in molecular gastronomy, the controversial new approach to cooking made popular by Spanish chef Ferrand Adria and French chef Herve This. The art is largely about changing the appearance of foods in such a radical way that the flavors surprise.
For example: one of the three items on the foie gras special was rendered into the equivalent of Dippin' Dots--those little beebees of ice cream you can buy from vending machines.
My unified field theory of food is that if it tastes good, it is good, regardless of the story behind it. The attempts by many chefs and restaurateurs to talk customers into liking their food by giving forth a story about how it's all raised on local farms, is organic, uses heirloom species, and all other such tales amount to a smoke screen. It's easy to buy the great raw materials: all you have to do is pay for it. It's much harder to make food taste good.
Absolutely everything on every plate at Root had a story. The server recipes it while you're admiring the stuff. Even little dribbles and piles have some unique distinction.
To keep from being prejudiced (most likely negatively), I told myself that I would pay attention only to what the food tasted like. I'm proud to say I made it through without jaundiced perspectives. I'm ecstatic to report that this was a great-tasting meal from front to back.
I ordered three courses. I got seven. (Someone must have spotted me. I didn't see any other tables getting that treatment.) Long dinners of many teeny courses is a hallmark of the molecular chefs.
An amuse-bouche that everybody else did get was a scattering of little herbs with micropiles of mustard (you could count the grains in each), drizzled with a rebuilt sort of tomato puree. I didn't quite catch all the contents, because in what was no more than a tablespoon of the stuff were at least five components.
Then came an unordered semi-soup whose salient components were a slice of rabbit roulade, ramen noodles, a fried quail egg, reduced dashi broth, and some pillows of day-glo molecular stuff that I couldn't dope out. A savory sauce had been smeared up the side of the bowl--a raw, rustic motif we'd see again. What was beyond question was that all this was just great to eat. Everything bore the taste of everything else, as the textures and colors changed. I didn't see this on the menu.
The first page of the menu follows the current rage for house-made cured meats and sausages. The sausages numbered eight varieties; the server said that everybody seemed to love the merguez. I like that Moroccan lamb-and-veal sausage myself, and looked forward to eating one.
But I could not eat one. At least a half-dozen of the sausages were piled like cord wood on one side. The rest of the platter was occupied by pickles of everything from baby cucumbers to beet-juice reddened boiled eggs to watermelon rind. I couldn't come close to finishing all the sausages, but I did get through almost all the pickled crunchy vegetables, pepper rings, etc. It was enough food that I could have--and should have--stopped right there. The plate (listed in the "Socials" section of the menu) is clearly designed for two or more. At nine dollars I was expecting nothing this generous.
Now an intermezzo course, consisting of a peach-colored sorbet, white chunks of something that had just come out of the liquid nitrogen, and blueberries rendered somehow into a gel that looped around in a circle. I closed my eyes and ate. Was it good? You betcha. Fruity wonderful.
I moved to a vegetarian entree that caught my eye. Aloo Gobi is a Mongol-inspired Indian dish dominated by cauliflower, roasted with other vegetables and an up-front collection of roasted-in-house spices. A broth at the bottom kept everything wet and flavorful. I did my best, but could only get through about half of this. (Again, at $12 I didn't anticipate the huge bowl than came out.) This wasn't just exotic for its own sake, but thoroughly exciting.
The real entree, fortunately, was on the small side. That's only because the substantial chunks of braised veal cheeks were abetted by a minimum of other ingredients. The one that caught my eye was popcorn shoots. Some actual cooked popcorn was in there, too, challenging my poor teeth. They jokingly called this a blanquette de veau, but you'd have to eat four plates of that classic French dish to get this much flavor.
I told them I didn't want dessert, but they brought one anyway. A pale green ball of something between ice cream and sherbet, atop cubes of cantaloupe. Or was it mango? As I said, I was paying attention only to flavor, not individual ingredients. And this flavor was lovely. Even the orange smear.
Well. The rumors about Root are true. The place plays the games, all right, but at the end the enjoyment is there in full measure. Bravo!
The premises are interesting. I'll write about that when I go there again, as I expect I will, soon.
Root. Warehouse District: 200 Julia. 504-252-9480.
It's over three years since a day was missed in the Dining Diary. To browse through all of the entries since 2008, go here.
