scallop fennel bearnaise

What would you do if you were served a broken bearnaise?

Would you think that it was a mistake and send it back to the kitchen?

Or would you recall that Fernand Point wrote in Ma Gastronomie "It takes years of practice for the result to be perfect" and chalk it up to inexperience?

What if you learned that it was broken intentionally?

Would you be curious to know why?

Or outraged that someone would mess with 170 years of tradition?

Can something be fixed if it's not broken?

Or does it need to be broken to be fixed?

scallop mousseline

fennel: bulb, fronds, green seeds, pollen

smoked bearnaise

caviar

turnip brown mascarpone lemon balm

raw turnip

brown mascarpone

smoked salt

scent of lemon balm

People think I'm quirky when I tell them to listen to their food.

I only mean that mindful observation allows an ingredient to reveal itself.

A newborn turnip, freshly plucked from the earth, spoke to me of the goodness of simplicity.

It's a common language these days, spoken by the corn and tomatoes alike.

I thought that it might want to be something else, but it said otherwise.

Behold my perfection, it said.

But a raw turnip on a plate does not a dish make.

Concept should not supersede content.

(isn't that what went wrong with nouvelle cuisine?)

I once asked an artist how they knew when a painting was done.

The reply was, "You'll know it's done when it's finished".

I asked a chef the same thing and got a similar reply.

But isn't that subjective?

One person revels in embellishment and layers.

Another wants things stripped to their essence.

Is there a wrong or right?

A chef, like an artist, must engage the senses and make an emotional connection.

Art enters the psyche and becomes part of our soul.

Food penetrates the body and becomes part of our cells.

Oh, the responsibility.

Back to the turnip…

It spoke, and I listened.

I listened to the mascarpone as well. It told me to explore a hidden potential. It wanted to be a more complex version of itself.

Lemon balm had no such aspirations. It only wanted to lend its fragrance to exalt the turnip. Such a humble herb.

If I say that I tasted this dish, that would be inaccurate.

I did not taste the lemon balm, yet its enveloping scent was a vital part of the dish.

I experienced the dish and had to ask if there was anything left to add or take away.

That's when I knew it was done.

sakura

People who have the means and leisure to travel at whim often do so in pursuit of a passion. Some follow the sun, others follow food, music, art, or sports. Romantics follow their hearts.

Me, I would follow flowers.

At the top of my itinerary would be Japan in March. There you would find me, in a cherry blossom-induced delirium, standing like Julie Andrews on top of that mountain– eyes up, arms outstretched; twirling like a dervish–reveling in a blizzard of cherry-pink petals.

The Japanese are serious about cherry blossoms (sakura) and the ancient custom of flower-viewing (hanami). The cherry-blooming forecasts (sakura zensen) are watched fervently and the occasion is observed with reverence and enthusiasm.

Cherries belong to the plant genus Prunus, and are a member of the large family Rosaceae, which includes other aromatic fruits such as almonds, peaches, plums, apricots, apples, pears, quince, blackberries, raspberries, strawberries, loquats, and roses.

The flavor of cherries are defined by benzaldehyde (sour cherry, bitter almond) and coumarin (vanilla, sweet grass, hay).

black sesame ganache

cherry yogurt panna cotta

rose-mahleb semifreddo

raspberry meringue

pink peppercorn crisp

sour cherry glass

maraschino almonds

cherry petals

cherry leaf

Download recipe: Sakura

clam chowder, fish sandwich

You've been driving for hours with many more to go. It's pouring rain. You're tired. And hungry.

You get off the interstate at the next town: Peripety. You like the sound of it.

You drive down Main Street looking for signs of food. Anything will do. You spot a neon OPEN sign. Above it, MOOD DINER glows with promise.

You arrive at the door soaked and famished. The first thing that you notice is the smell of food. Enticing and palpable, it becomes a separate entity.

From behind a crowded counter, a sassy waitress greets you and invites you to find a seat. You walk down the length of a communal table and slide into an open chair.

The conversation around the table is lively. A couple next to you are eating bowls of cereal that they say taste like fried chicken and corn on the cob.

A man across the table peers at you from behind horn-rimmed glasses. He tells you that he ordered the rice pudding last night and that it was as light and crisp as a cloud.

You ask him what he's ordered tonight. "French fries, for starters" he says with a glint in his eyes.

As if on cue, a waitress appears and sets down a bowl of soup in front of him. "Here you go– just the way you like 'em…lots of ketchup." He slurps a spoonful of clear liquid with clear noodles and nods in approval. "I don't even miss the crunch" he says.

The waitress asks you what you'll have. You ask to see a menu. "No menu" you're told "just order whatever you're in the mood for".

You recall a diner that you used to frequent and the meal that you looked forward to every Friday night. You order a cup of clam chowder and a fish sandwich.

Your order arrives. Your first thought is "Where's my sandwich?". Second thought: "Where's my spoon?". Somewhere in between, you notice that the potatoes appear to be floating.

You feel disoriented. You have no point of reference for food like this. Yet, you're curious.

You lift a sprig of herb and uproot a potato. You pop it in your mouth and are greeted by the scent of oregano. As you chew, you're surprised by the texture and flavor: potato, bacon, butter, clam–it's all there.

You lift another. This one with the aura of rosemary. Then the last. Thyme.

You're left with a cup of creamy broth. You bring the cup to your mouth and a sandwich magically appears on your plate. A perfectly seared scallop flanked by crisp bacon. You smile.

You eat the sandwich and drink the broth, marveling at how delicious they taste. As you empty the cup, the magic is revealed and you chuckle.

You become aware that the man with the glasses is watching you with amusement. He asks about your chowder. "Delicious" you reply. He smiles and nods knowingly.

He goes back to eating what looks like an ice cream sundae. "What's that?" you ask. "Just the best damned meat loaf I've ever had" he says. You both burst out laughing.

fractal

I was 8 years old when I walked into a department store dressing room and watched in amazement as my reflection bounced back and forth recursively between two parallel mirrors. It was my first glimpse of infinity and though I didn't know it then, I was looking at a fractal.

In 1958, Benoit Mandelbrot, a brilliant young mathematician joined the research staff at IBM. As one of the first mathematicians to have access to high-speed computers, Mandelbrot conceived and developed a radical new geometry that was capable of mathematically describing the real world of Nature. In 1982, he published his ideas in "The Fractal Geometry of Nature" and rocked the world.

Before fractals (which also became known as Chaos Theory), Euclidian geometry was concerned with the abstract perfection that was nearly non-

existent in Nature. It could only describe the imaginary world made up of zero (a single point), the first dimension (a single line that contains an infinite number of points), the second dimension (a plane that contains an infinite number of lines), and the third dimension (a solid that contains an infinite number of planes). None of these could describe the amorphous and irregular shape of a cloud, mountain, coastline or tree. Mandelbrot's fractals were capable of describing the real world of the fourth dimension (a hypercube that contains an infinite number of solids and their relationship to each other in a time-space continuum). The fourth dimension is the world in which we live.

The mathematics of fractals are relatively simple, considering that they describe the indiscernibly complex. Fractals are geometric figures that repeat themselves under different levels of magnification. They are self-similar and recursive. An example would be the irregular and jagged shape of a mountain when viewed from a distance. When a section is magnified, the same shape or pattern is repeated with greater complexity. The pattern repeats itself with increasing detail as it goes on to be magnified to a microscopic scale. Fractals reveal the hidden worlds within a world.

Fractals are found everywhere in nature: mountains, trees, ferns, snowflakes, seashells, bolts of lightning, and the clusters of galaxies. The very planet that we live on is one huge fractal. The human body contains many fractals from the network of veins and capillaries to the folds in our brains, the beat of our hearts, and even our DNA, which is 99.98% similar. Mandelbrot's theory of space-time continuum of Man and Nature in which there is constant change based on feedback is an open system in which everything is related to everything else. Some scientists believe that fractals are the very fabric of the universe. It should come as no surprise that this connectivity has spread beyond the world of math and science and into art, music, literature, architecture, economics, meteorology, trend-forecasting, and even consciousness.

But what about food and cooking?

Certainly, food, be it plant or animal, contain fractal patterns. A perfect example is the beautiful and alien-looking Romanesco cauliflower, whose spires swirl repeatedly in various scales over the pale green heads. An example of a fractal–in a prepared food–would be a turducken (a chicken stuffed in a duck, stuffed in a turkey). And isn't a salad just a vegetable recursion?

As for cooking, could the act of whipping, which is a repetitive motion that changes the volume and texture of a substance with a self-similar expansive network of air bubbles, be fractal? If so, then couldn't the same be true of a reduction? And what about the turns required to make puff pastry? Or the gluten matrix produced in bread by carbon dioxide and ethyl alcohol?

And what about flavor…can flavor be fractal?

Would fractal flavor involve repeating a flavor in varying proportions/scales, such as a sandwich where each bite contains the same flavors and textures in slightly different proportions? Or a glass of wine that is a liquid composition of complex flavors and with each sip, we can discern, or magnify, a different element of its flavor? Would a dish composed of self-similar aroma compounds be a flavor fractal? Or one composed of the same flavor in varying textures?

My preoccupation with these questions can, in and of itself, be considered fractal as I zoom in for clarity and answers, I only find more detail and questions. Ultimately, I believe it is a search for connectivity… to myself, to others, to the physical world as well as the spiritual, and, of course, to food.

Soy fractal

fresh soybeans: edamame cone

dried soybeans: soy milk foam (using inherent lecithin in soy)

tofu sphere (with malt)

yuba cylinder (with peanut, miso, and okara)

fried yuba

fermented soy: sweet shoyu sauce

douchi soil

natto

self-similar aromas: soy, peanut, malt (alcohols: sulfurol

guaiacol

aldehydes: valeraldehyde

butyraldehyde

fatty acids: butyric acid

isovaleric acid)

mushroom matcha balsam yuzu

There's something about the austerity of conifers that captures the Japanese aesthetic.

Or maybe that's just me.

The connection might be rooted in my fascination with bonsai and how an artfully sculpted tree can freeze time in a miniature landscape. (And I think that I might have told you about miniatures and me)

Or it could be that they remind me that I once wished that I could travel the world on a ferry. Such was the pleasure of gliding through the Strait of Georgia in the Pacific Northwest on a drizzly day, watching the mist rise up around the Gulf Islands, shrouding the jagged black silhouettes of ancient pines with the Zen atmosphere of a sumi-e landscape.

Or maybe it's that I recently read "Snow Falling on Cedars" and it evoked the poetry of that place.

I contemplated all these thoughts as I sat by the window this morning, drinking tea and watching the snow swirl over the pines in my backyard. They all loomed and murmured, but the salient voice was the matcha that spoke softly but urgently of balsam.

matcha balsam flan

480g soy milk

50g balsam needles

12g matcha

5g agave nectar

pinch salt

4 egg yolks

Heat soy milk until it just comes to a simmer. Add balsam, cover and infuse for 1 hour (or use a chamber vacuum for instant infusion). Whisk in matcha, agave nectar, and salt.

In a separate bowl, whisk the egg yolks while drizzling in the infused soy milk. Pour into ramekins. Bake in a loosely covered bain marie in a preheated 325 F. oven for 15-20 minutes or until set.

And, because I know you'll ask…

The raviolo is made from thin slices of Portobello caps that are lightly sauteed and softened in olive oil. The filling is a concentrated mushroom jus seasoned with shoyu and kecap manis, molded in demi spheres and frozen. The frozen filling is encased between two slices of Portobello (using a smaller one for the bottom) and the margins glued together with tapioca maltodextrin, which bonds the oil in the mushroom, forming a sort of gasket around the filling. It can then be tempered at room temperature or gently heated to melt the filling.

matcha balsam flan

mushroom raviolo

maitake

mushroom floss

yuzu cube

black sesame powder

candied white pine

Balsam fir (Abies balsamea) grows widely throughout the northeastern United States and Canada. Other trees that exhibit balsam aroma are Balsam poplar (Populus sect. Tacamahaca), Balsam of Mecca (Commiphora opobalsamum)- native to Southern Arabia, and Peru Balsam (Myroxylon)- native to South America, though only the Abies is a conifer.

Balsam is a derivative of the word balm and refers to the soothing aroma that makes it an effective scent in aromatherapy and a popular filling for sachets. In ancient times, as well as modern, balsam oil is mixed with olive oil as a chrism and used in the administration of sacraments in the Catholic church.

Incidentally, balsamic vinegar does not refer to the plant source or the aroma, but to the use of vinegar as a healing substance, or balm.

just wondering

Can flavor…

be fractal?
heal?
alter mood?
affect behavior?
be separated from emotion?
transcend its function?
be genetically predisposed?
narrate a story?
paint a picture?
be composed to play like notes on a scale?
be charted as a periodic table?
inform texture?
satiate without caloric energy?
be masculine or feminine?
have a pedigree or hierarchy?
change the way we eat?

If you think you understand flavor and how we experience it, read this.

cedar pork belly

I wanted to tell you about this pork belly…

…about how, yesterday, I bathed it in apple cider and warm spices

…about how I rolled it up and cooked it sous vide for 12 hours until it was so oozy and melty that my knees felt weak.

I also wanted to tell you…

…about how amazing my house smelled as it roasted in a cloak of cedar

…about how crispy it became in a cast iron pan

…about how even recalling it fills me with lust.

I wanted to tell you all this, but instead, let me just tell you…

…that pork belly is the reason why I would NEVER make it as a vegetarian.

white truffle

She caught the scent the minute that she walked in the door. Even from within a glass case, it lured her with its siren song.

It never ceased to amaze her. How those small nuggets could emit such a powerful smell.

Nestled in a small dish of rice, they were the least salient things in the case. Visually, they were no match for the pates, sliced to reveal their flamboyant mosaics. They had none of the panache of the glistening slabs of smoked fish. Even the oozing wheels of cheese had more verve. Yet, they galvanized her attention.

Her eyes fixed on the marker that rose up from behind the dish. Her breath caught.

That can't be right…surely, someone made an error.

She thought back to the last time that she had purchased them for a client. He hadn't even flinched when presented with the bill. No, there was no mistake.

"May I help you?"

"When did they come in?" she asked with her index finger pressed to the glass. She resolved that if it were three days or more, she would walk away with no regret.

"Tuesday"

Shit. Two days ago.

"They're the last shipment of the season."

Great. It was now or never.

"Could you weigh one for me?"

"Which one?"

"The small one, please."

She watched the numbers come up on the digital display and tried to calculate the weight on her wallet. Without being asked, the clerk punched in the five digits. Reality set in.

She closed her eyes in an attempt to focus.

She couldn't…could she?

There was the economy to consider. And the mortgage, the cars, college tuition (x2), the economy, the apartment on CPW (a student room is HOW MUCH?). Oh…and the economy.

Maybe if she held it…

The clerk passed it to her, loosely wrapped in waxed paper.

Up close, the scent was intoxicating, clouding her judgement.

Maybe…she could.

She remembered that her birthday had just passed and she had been very good. Just that morning, she had walked past a display of Louis Vuitton bags without even a sideways glance. Later, she found a bottle of Vintage Port that she had lusted for, then reluctantly replaced it on the shelf. That one hurt. And, last night, hadn't she forgone a spendy tasting menu for a soulful bowl of ramen in the East Village?

She sighed and handed it back to the clerk.

Her day went downhill from there. The uptown train was 15 minutes late, sending her scrambling into the apartment to pack her bags and catch a taxi to the Metro-North station in Harlem.

The taxi driver was uncharacteristically slow. She watched the time anxiously and twice reminded him that she was catching a train. He would nod, unfazed, and continue his crawl.

She knew that she was cutting it close when she arrived at the station, rushing past the elevator to climb the stairs with bags in tow. From the landing, she caught sight of the train, waiting with its doors open.

Yes! she was going to make it.

As her foot left the top step, the doors closed. From inside the train, a man in a business suit looked up from his newspaper to give her a sympathetic smile. The train pulled away and disappeared down the track.

Dropping her bags, she let out a string of expletives that were reserved for times of extreme frustration. The hard guttural consonants usually had a purging effect. Not this time.

She paced the platform restlessly, considering her options. Waiting there for four hours for the next train was not one of them.

She could return to the apartment, providing that her son was still there to let her in. Or, she could wait for him in the park across the street, reading the massive book that she had brought with her. Barring that, there was the Turkish cafe at the end of his block with free wifi and strong coffee.

Calmer now, she sat down on the wrought iron bench atop the elevated platform and looked down at the lively street scene below her.

She carried a special place in her heart for Harlem. As a student, she would often ride the subway to 125th St from her room near Union Square. Even with the train fare, meals and groceries were cheaper than what she could find in her neighborhood. The simple, honest food was what drew her there. The vibrant cultural tapestry kept her coming back. Her roommates, though concerned for her safety, refused to accompany her. She once told them that Harlem was where "the real people were". She had been trying to make a point. They had cut her off, guffawing from their ivory tower.

The sun was starting it's descent into the Hudson, washing the scene with golden light. Her favorite time of day. Things were not as bad as they had seemed a moment ago. She realized that she had been given a gift—a stretch of time to do with as she pleased in a city full of possibilities. How was that a bad thing?

Besides, there was nothing urgent to return home to. Her husband and dog would be sound asleep. Work could wait another day. There was only one thing distracting her, but that, too, could wait for tomorrow.

She unzipped her bag and pulled out a half-pint deli container. The dry rice rattled against the plastic as she brought it up to her face. She peeled back the top, only enough to admit her nose, then inhaled deeply.

Things were looking up.

octopus squid

"Nowhere in space will we rest our eyes upon the familiar shapes of trees and plants, or any of the animals that share our world. Whatsoever life we meet will be as strange and alien as the nightmare creatures of the ocean abyss….."

Arthur C. Clarke, 1962

Have you ever wondered about the mysteries of the ocean? About the things that lie hidden in it's depths? In an aqueous wormhole, some 1500 fathoms beneath the sea, will we someday find the things we search for…the meaning of life, the philosopher's stone, a new form of delicious, a cure for what ails us, proof of genius, lost socks?

It is said that in our final moments the archetypes that make up our lives will flash before our eyes. If there is truth in that, I am certain that my life-album would include images of a scuba diving excursion on a coral reef.

Fifty feet below the surface, all of the senses disconnect except for vision. Devoid of touch, sound, smell or taste to gather information, the optic nerves become tuned to a superhuman frequency. It is the ultimate voyeuristic experience. Light, as refracted through the pellucidity of water, is astonishing and produces a chromatic carnival that does not exist on dry land. Familiar shapes undulate and shift into anomalous forms.

In that alien landscape, I did not find keys that unlock the mysteries of the universe, but I did find treasure: The absolute beauty of hostility with purpose. That deliciousness can be experienced without taste or smell. And that iridescence is proof of genius.

Now if I could only find that cashmere sock.

octopus squid sea beans potatoes romescu begonia