About a two-hour drive north of Manila, this is where Claude Tayag and his wife Mary-Ann open their home to the public for a relaxing ten-course lunch that stretches into the late afternoon.

Upon first sight, you wonder if Tayag’s home is centuries old. Everything –from the wooden beams that stretch across the ceiling, to the limestone posts, to the sculpture and artwork that adorn walls– seem coated with decades of patina. If you are Filipino and have an ancestral home, it likely resembles Bale Dutung.

From looks alone, you would never expect this eclectic space to entertain the likes of Anthony Bourdain or more importantly, to be responsible for changing the way many people look at Filipino cuisine.

Did I leave with a new perspective on Filipino food?

Yes, I did.

But only towards the end of the meal, thanks to a few excellent courses that redeemed earlier pitfalls.

As such, it’s no surprise the last savory dish Claude served is what stood head and shoulders above the rest: seafood kare-kare, a supplement course I specially requested from the Tayags. Kare-kare is a rich peanut-based stew traditionally made with oxtail that is near and dear to my heart. Gorging on my mom’s kare-kare lashed with bagoong (fermented shrimp paste) over steaming mounds of rice is one of my fondest childhood memories.

But Claude’s version is different. Shrimp, mussels, and squid stand-in for oxtail, and his peanut sauce is lighter, sweeter, and not as rich as most versions. Whereas the vast majority of people (my mom included) take shortcuts and use peanut butter to concoct the rich stew, Claude’s peanut sauce is made from scratch (raw peanuts) and thickened with some coconut milk. This is what Claude Tayag does best: brilliantly referencing the familiar while pushing Filipino cuisine forward.

But today’s menu revolved around lechon, that whole roasted pig that Anthony Bourdain famously decreed the best roast pig he’s ever had. Claude stuffs the pig’s cavity with garlic, lemongrass, leeks, pepper, and salt, roasts it whole, and transforms it into a slew of separate dishes. But not before serving us squares of everyone’s favorite part: the burnished crisp skin.

In seconds you will have inhaled the cracker-thin shards, leaving your fingers, lips, and face covered in grease. Even if you forgot your Lipitor at home, you will reach for seconds, in hopes there is some left.

But imagine my surprise when I found Claude’s lechon entrees to be just as good as the skin. This is rarely the case.

Consider his sisig, a dish native to Pampanga that consists of the lechon’s face, ears, snout, and cheek sautéed with onions and garlic. You’ll find it in every Filipino restaurant -in Manila and abroad- but not served like this: with bits of chicken liver and a smear of pig brain.

As I later learned, pig brain is not normally used due to the high cost (I was surprised what a tiny brain a pig has), but it adds a wonderful creamy richness to the dish. I was not alone in wishing Claude let the sisig get crispy at the bottom of the pan (similar to the crunchy rice at the bottom of a paellera – ie. soccarat/tutong) but no matter – Claude’s sisig is still stupendously good.

Out of that same pig also came lechon ribs, simply grilled with salt and pepper. Served with a smokey blob of grilled eggplant, the clingy tender meat, fragrant from being cooked next to the lemongrass-garlic-leek stuffing, made for some delicious bites.

But perhaps my favorite of all the lechon dishes was the sinigang, a classic Filipino soup flavored with a souring ingredient (tamarind is often used) along with simmered meats and vegetables. While pork belly is often the meat of choice, Claude tossed in the roasted trotters from the lechon instead, lending a rich savor to the broth no amounts of boiled meat could replicate. If you are lucky, you will get chunks of gelatinous skin and collagen floating in your soup – my favorite part.

Sadly, the dishes that preceded the lechon were a mixed bag. Amongst a trio of dips, only the talangka (shore crab fat) stood out. Balo-balo (fermented rice with fish) wrapped in a mustard leaf was pungent and delicious, but the accompanying “sushi”, made with crab fat standing in for uni, felt gimmicky and suffered from soggy seaweed and mediocre rice.

There was also a delicious chicken inasal, fragrant from being grilled over hot coals and basted with achuete oil. It was served with crab fat rice, and I savored every bite; but then there was a dish of lechon belly shredded, fried, and placed on a tortilla along with kimchi and pico de gallo. Was this Claude’s riff on the ever-popular Korean taco? It felt like a dish coming from a chef interested in transient trends than someone with Claude’s prodigious command of Filipino cuisine.

My least favorite dishes were the pako salad and lumpia ubod. It was refreshing to see native fiddlehead ferns playing the salad’s starring role, but the greens were drowning in dressing!* I couldn’t taste the fiddlehead ferns at all. And while lumpia ubod (deep-fried spring rolls filled with heart of palm) is one of my favorite Filipino snacks, this specimen suffered from having a wrapper to filling ratio of 1000 to 1.

So then this begs the question: why travel all the way out of Manila and spend what many locals find to be an expensive meal for food that is a hit or miss?

I find two reasons:

1. It would be remiss to talk about Bale Dutung without mentioning the company of Claude’s wife, Mary-Ann. She’s a breath of fresh air, the consummate host, and if you don’t follow her well-intentioned advice, you may find yourself kicked out of her abode. I wish I had half her vivacity, humor, and charm.

2. Despite the food being far from perfect, there’s no doubt Claude is trailblazer. He’s putting regional Filipino cuisine on an international platform, upending expectations of it being oily, stewed, brown, and fried. Why do we have Thai, Indian, Vietnamese, and other cuisines well-assimilated into mainstream culture –even alighting on tables in fine dining restaurants– but Filipino food stubbornly remaining in home kitchens?

It is comforting and delicious and deserves to be treated with equal finesse and care. Claude is changing this and to a large degree, succeeding. That alone is reason to go.

And if you’ll indulge me, I will step out on a limb and say I believe the path to recognizing Filipino cuisine lies not in modernizing, embellishing, or adding gimmicky bells and whistles, as some chefs in Manila are prone to do. Foie gras in my adobo? No thanks. Instead let’s work on cooking existing Filipino dishes with more finesse. Claude’s kare-kare is a shining example. From focusing on ingredient quality to cooking with a more delicate hand, I’d love to see Filipino cuisine move from good to great.

Perhaps the Philippines is still a ways off from this. Maybe I’m being too idealistic. After all, most diners in Manila still can’t get themselves to order Filipino food when they go out. In their minds, that is “food I eat at home”.

So thank you Claude for helping change this mentality, one meal at a time.

Bale Dutung
Villa Gloria Subdivision,
Angeles City, Pampanga
Philippines
+639175359198
reserve@baledutung.com

* I am finding overdressed salad to be extremely common in Manila. Literally every leaf is dripping with dressing. What is up with that? Can anyone explain this phenomenon?

Visiting the farm and chatting with owners Cynthia Sandberg and Daniel Maxfield clarified everything. It would be remiss to think about Manresa without thinking about Love Apple Farms and vice versa. David forged a relationship with Cynthia around 10 years ago, and it has grown into an exclusive partnership. David is given carte blanche on deciding exactly what to plant, resulting in access to ingredients that I imagine few other chefs in the country do.

Walking the farm’s rows engages your senses: every few steps and you smell something new. Herbs, fruit, and vegetables –many of which were foreign to me– are everywhere. I wish I had more time to spend at the farm, but dinner beckoned.

As part of Manresa’s 10-year anniversary celebrations, chef Kinch partnered up with chef John and Karen Shields, formerly of Town House Restaurant in Chilhowie, Virginia. Together, they served me nine courses that were amongst the most memorable I’ve had in recent memory.

As I raced back from Love Apple Farms to Manresa along the 17N -a thrillingly twisty road flanked by towering trees, practically a racetrack hewn from nature- I quietly wondered if David Kinch was blessed with the best commute in the world.

Minutes later, I pulled up to familiar sight: an impossibly charming wooden house. I enjoyed a meal at Manresa in early September last year and always take pleasure in walking the small winding path that leads from a quiet street into the restaurant’s patio, and finally through a large door where an elegant dining room awaits within.

Upon being seated, a bundle of lightly smoked vegetables with albacore from Chef Kinch alighted on my table. It would be the first of a succession of courses that would seamlessly take me to the sea and land and back again.

Then chef John Shields took me for a stroll along the coast with his dish of an oyster seasoned with spruce and sided with seaweed and black radish milk. One bite and I found myself standing on the edge of a moss-covered cliff, listening to the crashing waves of the ocean hundreds of feet below. It was like breathing in the ocean’s salty mist with the smell of moss-covered rocks. This dish pulsed with life, and it was my favorite of the night.

Subsequently Chef Kinch took me to the bottom of my imagined cliff to a sandy beach, where I ate his dish of abalone with roast chicken jelly resting on a smear that had the texture of sand but tasted like spiced toast (photo of the dish in the header). Reminiscent of a beach campfire, this was the intersection of land and sea, where meaty abalone danced in perfect harmony with the roast chicken jelly. This was the California coast on a plate, and it was delicious.

I was then whisked back inland as Chef Shields brought over a “salad” aptly named A Celebration of Herbs. This dish was especially meaningful given my time at Love Apple Farms’ herb garden just moments before. Like previous dish, this was cooking that spoke of time and place: a microcosm of Northern California. Here, Shields let nature speak for itself. Perhaps this is his version of Kinch’s signature dish, Into The Vegetable Garden?*

The final two savory courses would again transport me between sea and land. From Chef Shields came the apex of our meal: new garlic and various crustaceans punctuated with tongues of uni and sheathed with a sheet of crispy pork stock. This dish was a study in tension with each ingredient nearly overwhelming with flavor, yet balance was achieved.

Chef Kinch followed with beef plated with warm blueberries, yogurt, and juniper. Wagyu beef from Australia arrived glowing ruby-red and marbled with fat, and the interplay between the blueberries and beef was unexpected but pleasant. It was an excellent last savory course, one I believe was not meant to shock but lend a gentle satisfaction, allowing the inherent qualities of the meat to shine through. I suspect if beef from Japan were not embargoed, Chef Kinch would’ve used that instead.

As we moved onto dessert, I quickly realized that Chef John Shields is a very blessed man. He married Chef Karen Shields, and after tasting her desserts tonight, I’m convinced she’s one of the wittiest pastry chefs of our time.

Consider our first dessert course: shards of cocoa shielded berries and a quenelle of burnt ember ice cream accompanied by a shot of elderflower & beet juice. My picture does not do this dish justice. With each bite, eyes widened, lips curled into a silly grin, and neurons fired. When was the last time you had had a dessert anchored on smoke and savor but rounded out by the sweetness of blackberries and cocoa? Mysterious, bewitching, and the perfect segue from savor into sweet, each bite led to more questions- how was it conceived, what inspired it, how was the burnt ember ice cream made?**

And let’s not forget Karen’s other dessert: a single dried carrot with a muscavado sugar & tonka bean spread to the left and a quenelle of white chocolate yogurt topped with sweet woodruff to the right. It was like a deconstructed carrot cake, but one where each ingredient went through an insane flavor-enhancing process. The lone carrot contained the sweetness of a thousand carrots (was the carrot slow-roasted with some brown sugar to enhance it’s sweetness? I don’t know). The muscavado and tonka bean spread tasted like the essence of carrot cake crust. And the white chocolate yogurt with woodruff was a light floral play on the traditional carrot cake frosting.

As the night came to a close, I noticed the Manresa dining room was filled with some of the best chefs in our nation. Two tables to my right sat Grant Achatz of Alinea (3 Michelin Stars), and two tables behind me sat Chris Kostow of Meadowood Restaurant (3 Michelin Stars). It is often said that David Kinch is a chef’s chef, and this night was proof of that.***

Thank you David, John, and Karen for treating me to one of the best meals I’ve had in recent memory. This was truly inspired by the surrounding land and sea, and I loved the progression of flavors, soaring to an apex followed by a gentle landing, then building back into another high with Karen’s desserts.

John and Karen, best of luck in opening your restaurant in Philadelphia. I know it will be a resounding success. David, I can’t wait to return to Manresa, and I hope you don’t mind I took more than my fair share of salted caramels on my way out. They’re still the best I’ve ever had.

Manresa Restaurant
320 Village Lane
Los Gatos, CA 95030
(408) 354-4330

* I am oversimplifying here, but Kinch’s signature dish, Into the Vegetable Garden, is essentially a mix of a few dozen herbs and vegetables from Love Apple Farms on a plate. It made my list of Best Dishes of 2011.

** I cannot speak on inspiration but my best guess on how the ice cream was made: milk is first infused with burnt embers, which are eventually strained out. Then the smoke-flavored milk is incorporated into the ice cream base and churned.

*** It is baffling Grant Achatz and Chris Kostow have three Michelin stars while David Kinch only has two. Having eaten at both Meadowood and Alinea, I am certain Kinch is deserving of 3 stars.

But once you see the unusually long queue and catch that first unforgettable whiff of pork wafting through the air, you will reconsider. It tickles your arteries with anticipation.

The Roli Roti truck is a mobile rotisserie. On one side of the vehicle, collosal columns of pork and chicken rotate slowly on spits while their drippings bathe a pile of roasted potatoes below. Roli Roti truck virgins are so mesmerized they start snapping cellphone pictures and forget to fall in line.

Standing behind those columns of meat stands Thomas Odermatt. He looks a bit like Thomas Keller to me, but maybe that’s just me. Son of a Swiss master butcher and owner of the Roli Roti truck, he’s taken great effort to ensure his porchetta is not merely roasted pork stuffed with herbs.

Growing up in his family’s butcher shop in the Swiss Alps, Thomas learned the importance of using the best cuts of meat from trusted family farms. It took two years for Thomas to find a pork supplier that met his standards. Only after a discussion with famed Chez Panise chef Alice Waters did he discovered Heritage Foods USA, a small farm in the midwest. He’s been using their Berkshire pigs ever since.

Thomas takes the loin of the pig, rolls it into the belly, shoves in fistfuls of seasonings (fresh garlic, marjoram, fennel seeds, pepper, etc), ties it up, then slowly roasts it for hours until the skin turns mahogany brown.

He then slices the marbled meat thickly and takes care to top every sandwich with bits of crackled skin (the best part!). The pork is then piled high on a small white loaf, topped with some chervil, and smeared with onion marmalade. A sprinkle of coarse sea salt finishes.

What Odermatt hands you may very well be the platonic ideal of porchetta sandwiches. Let’s break it down shall we?

First there’s the meat. A fragrant steaming pile of sliced pork -tender, juicy, and marbled with rich buttery pockets of fat and redolent of fennel, garlic, and marjoram- is pure porcine pleasure.

And in between bites you’ll get bits of golden crisp skin. These bits -crunchy, slightly sticky, and salty- are phenomena onto themselves. They’re good enough to make a grown man cry.

Then there’s a tangle of greens that provides a peppery edge to the obscenely fatty meat and sweet onion jam. The greens are critical– without them, this sandwich could very well trigger on-the-spot cardinal arrest.

Finally there’s the bread. I find bread is often overlooked by most sandwich makers, but of course, Odermatt does not. He uses ciabatta made by Acme Bread that sports a thin crackly crust and soft spongy insides (great for mopping up the porky juices!). As all good sandwich bread should be, it is sturdy enough to hold up against the avalanche of meat, yet soft enough to chew easily.

Once you finish inhaling your sandwich, if you’re anything like me, juices will no doubt be dripping down your hands and forearms, quickly approaching your elbows. You will have grease smeared all over your face and a mischievous look in your eyes as you glance over that magical truck from the corner of your eye.

I feel sorry for the orthodox jews, the muslims, the vegetarians, and my dear old grandma whose refusal to consume pork prevents them from indulging in one of the all-time greatest things I’ve ever eaten.

For the rest of you, the Roli Roti truck can be found at the Ferry Building Farmers Market in San Francisco every Saturday morning. Get in line and if you’re extra-nice, Thomas might give you a chip of burnished pork skin, as he did to the young boy in front of me. A hint of the glory to follow.

Chef Dominique Crenn is wildly talented. And her pastry chef, Juan Contreras, served me the best dessert I’ve had in recent memory (more on that later).

The food is innovative and achingly beautiful. Dominique calls it “Poetic Culinaria”, where food, like art, is a medium of expression that stimulates one both visually and intellectually.

But perhaps I entered the restaurant with overly optimistic expectations, or maybe it was an off-night. I left the restaurant merely content, not blown away.

I can’t say I loved every dish. Over the span of 19 courses, it seemed like plates were coming from two separate kitchens: some dishes were incredible; others were mediocre. My meal, while technically sound, ended up being a roller coaster ride of highs and lows.

My meal started off slow. Outside of a fun Kir Breton cocktail encased in a thin shell of cocoa butter that popped in my mouth (reminiscent of Alinea), the remaining three amuse bouches were forgettable.

Things turned for the better with prawns cooked sous-vide, grilled and served over a stack of smoldering hay. It smelled intoxicating, and I reveled in how the creamy flesh hinted of smoke and brine. I ate it with my fingers. It was fantastic.

Other bright points included oysters with sake, mirin and tapioca; chewy and tender, this was a careful study in texture. And a large hollowed-out rock revealed African Rooibos tea sorbet over orange granita studded with chunks of persimmons. Taken together, it tasted exactly like Orange Twin Popsies, triggering a stream of giddy childhood memories.

And who could forget that bowl of grapefruit-rutabaga soup topped with crab and flanked by lovage snow? This was my favorite savory dish of the night. Nothing was superfluous, and every ingredient had a purpose: crab and grapefruit lent a tart sweetness, rutabaga imparted smokiness, and the lovage snow brightened.

This is what I call “purposeful cooking”, where every ingredient and element is so deliberate and balanced that adding or subtracting anything would sacrifice deliciousness.

So where did Crenn take a wrong turn? For one, the bread service was mediocre. Mini balls of brioche were eggy but neither fluffy nor buttery enough -as all good brioche should be. A dish of lemon sole with sage and kumquat was high on style but ultimately boring. I could see where Crenn was going with those flavors, but it ended up a bit one-dimensional, and I tired of it quickly. Likewise, pickled mackerel with verbena foam and a mound of beet powder failed to impress.

I wonder if Crenn relying too much on sous-vide or if fish is simply not her strong suit? Both plates were technically perfect (eg. the sole was moist and a bit firm as good sole should be), but they seemed boring in comparison with the rest of the meal.

And I’m still undecided on how I feel about the foie gras. Salt-brined, poached in milk, flash-frozen with liquid nitrogen, shaved in sheets, then shaped into logs, it was immensely exciting to have a foie dish that wasn’t served seared or au torchon (though I do greatly prefer the latter).

A creative concept to be sure, but in terms of deliciousness and culinary practice, it veered off path. The texture, while novel, didn’t focus on the creamy richness I love about foie. The “log” was a surprisingly large portion, and a few more bits of balsamic and fruit would’ve balanced. Or perhaps this would’ve worked better as a bite-sized amuse bouche to excite the mind and palate?

With the meal coming to a close, I appreciated Chef’s mirroring of my own preferences thus far: a focus on seafood and vegetables. So it was surprising that my final savory (and only meat) course, Venison ringed with coffee-vegetable ash and drizzled with jus, was phenomenal.

Venison often takes on an intensely pungent gamey flavor if even a touch overcooked, but this was clearly not the case. This impossibly tender cut arrived perfectly rare, with its clean, slightly grassy taste melding seamlessly with the bitter ash and black garlic puree.

Here Crenn is at her best. Certainly there was molecular gastronomy involved to create this dish, but it was merely informed by modernist techniques, not dominated by it.

While the savories were a hit or miss, the desserts were uniformly flawless.

Pastry Chef Juan Contreras is a humble and ridiculously talented man. His work is reminiscent of the desserts I had in 2009 at WD-50 by Alex Stupak, arguably America’s greatest pastry chef.

Perhaps it is because they both worked at Alinea, but Contreras’ desserts exhibit that same whimsy and playfulness, high on spectacle without sacrificing flavor.

Imagine my surprise when my petite server, Mandy, brought over an entire eucalyptus plant -pot and all- onto my table. I stared at it for seconds before realizing I was supposed to reach in at one of the fallen branches, which acted as a lollipop stick for a disc of eucalyptus, lemon, and honey blasted with liquid nitrogen. It was sublime.

But nothing prepared me for the trompe l’oeil that arrived next:

Visually, it was a pear fallen in the snow. Pear sorbet was shaped and spray painted with edible paint to look like a miniature pear. Dehydrated vanilla bean was used for the “stem”. This was served with sage granita, yogurt snow, and edible flowers. Sage prevented the dish from getting too sweet. Yogurt snow melted on your tongue. Each bite of the snow and granita crunched audibly between my teeth – I suspect Contreras added something to give it more crunch.

The pear was also served with quince tea infused with cinnamon, vanilla bean, and star anise (brewed in a table-side siphon). Alternating cool bites of pear with hot sips of tea was ten minutes of pure bliss, and the experience resonated for days weeks to come.

Numerous times during my meal, Chef Crenn came out to chat, ask how my meal was coming along, and graciously gifted my table with extra courses out of the kitchen. It always speaks volumes to me when Chefs speak directly to diners. Not for the glam or even worse, the “celebrity chef” factor, but because talking to diners builds a connection between the kitchen and the dining room. It adds perspective and understanding.

Yes this meal had its share of touchdowns and fumbles, but I want to stress it again: I don’t remember the last time I’ve encountered a chef with so much potential or a restaurant I’ve wanted so badly to succeed.

I don’t know when I’ll be able to return, but it will be interesting to see where how Dominique develops as a chef and where she takes Atelier Crenn in the coming years. I truly wish her and her crew the best.

* Other opinions:
- Both Jonathan Kauffman of the SF Weekly (review) and Michael Bauer of the SF Chronicle (review) agreed with most of my thoughts, though in comparison, my meal did have a greater percentage of hits than misses.

- On the contrary, Chuckeats and Tomo, whose palates and writing I respect, both adored their meal at Atelier Crenn more than I did.

** I remember reading somewhere that Dominique Crenn often rocks Margiela? He’s one of my favorite designers of all time. The similarities between her food and Margiela’s clothes (very conceptual, trompe l’oeil, etc) are uncanny.

2011 was the best year of eating I’ve ever had, and I’m incredibly blessed to have shared many meals with dear friends.

I’d like to commemorate my first anniversary with a recap of the fifteen best dishes I had in 2011 (started with ten but that proved too difficult).

- This list is in no particular order (ranking them proved to be impossible).
- Likewise, this is not a list of “perfect dishes” but rather ones that moved me in one way or another– a reminder of what a great year of eating 2011 was.

1. Heirloom Rice Porridge (Red Medicine; Chef Jordan Kahn)
Sprinkled with bits of hazelnut, crumbled up chicken skin, echire butter, and finished with tongues of uni and a lone egg yolk, this dish was at once earthy, buttery, briny, and sweet. Growing up in Asia eating congee, it brilliantly referenced the familiar while delivering something new. I pray Jordan Kahn never takes this off the menu.

2. Tidal Pool (Manresa; Chef David Kinch)
Foie, abalone, uni, and mushroom swim in a salty kombu-dashi broth that smelled, tasted, and looked like a miniature ecosystem of marine life encapsulated in a bowl. Two details were particularly remarkable:

- The broth was primarily kombu-dashi but our waiter told me there was a bit of oyster liquor added to give it that needed jolt of salinity to taste like the ocean. Genius.
- The quality of foie gras was insane- phenomenally silky and smooth, tasting more of duck than liver, if that makes any sense.

3. Toro Senmai Maki (Urasawa; Chef Hiro Urasawa)
This has been Hiro-san’s opening volley on each of my visits in the Spring for good reason. Monkfish liver (ankimo), shiso, and pickled turnip (senmai-zuke) are wrapped up in seared toro, topped with caviar, and surrounded by a pool of yuzu dressing. A decadent study of balance and moderation, the salty brine of caviar is countered by creamy liver and oily toro while the pickled turnip and yuzu dressing tempered the richness.

4. Quinoa (Eleven Madison Park; Guest Chef Mauro Colagreco)
As has become customary whenever I visit the Big Apple, I treated my sister to lunch at Eleven Madison Park. We enjoyed it so much we decided to return for dinner on the same day, mere hours later. Little did we know Mauro Colagreco of Mirazur (1 Michelin Star) was a guest chef that night.

He delighted us with a dish meant to represent the forest floor: quinoa as soil, bits of parsley cake as moss, blobs of Parmesan cream, and the best part – mushrooms cooked in various ways to elicit a range of textures and flavors – including some that were crisp like tree bark.

5. Brassicas (Saison; Chef Joshua Skenes)
At Saison in San Francisco, Chef Joshua Skenes’ slowly roasts paper-thin brassica greens over fire, constantly moving them around to coax out a variety of flavors and textures. A vial of bonito broth laced with puffed toasted grains follows and a single quail egg finishes. There is crisp and char, sweetness and bite, a layering of tastes and textures without straying from the ingredient’s natural flavor.

6. Kani Koramushi (n/naka; Chef Niki Nakayama)
n/naka opened in April of 2011, and it quickly rose to one of my favorite Japanese restaurants in Los Angeles. Consider a hollowed out crab shell filled with crab meat, truffle-dashi, truffle shavings, shiitake mushroom, and golden egg yolk. There was sweetness from the crab, earthiness from the truffles, all ensconced in egg yolk and dashi. I’m pretty sure I blacked out in between bites from pleasure.

7. Carrots (Eleven Madison Park; Chef Daniel Humm)
Intricately flavored with cumin, topped with medjool dates, and sprinkled with wheat berries for added crunch, these roasted carrots instantly reminded me of a line in Chef Daniel Patterson’s piece in the London Financial Times, Carrots Are The New Caviar.

“All products have the same gastronomic value, regardless of their price.”

Indeed, with each bite I found myself marveling at how such a humble ingredient like carrot could be elevated, with the care and preparation normally reserved for truffles or foie gras.

8. Ganjang Gae Jang – marinated raw crab (Soban)
One of the best experiences of your life may be eating Soban’s marinated raw crab: stick a sizable piece in your mouth and suck hard. The crab meat is cold, sweet, and has turned almost jelly-like in texture, a wonderful sensation that I assure you tastes and feels far better than it sounds. Creamy crab roe then ruptures, slathering your mouth; and right when you think that one bite gets too rich, the soy sauce marinade kicks in: salty, herbal, sweet, and a perfect foil for the richness. Now get the lone shell and flip it over, add a scoop of rice and sauce, and mix it with the guts and innards (make sure to scrape the sides of shell!). Offal porridge. Spoonfuls of heaven.

9. Soymilk Panna cotta, Uni, Geoduck, Fresh Wasabi (Providence; Chef Michael Cimarusti)
Here, Chef Cimarusti beautifully reimagined ideas of Japanese cooking: cool, silky-smooth pudding with a hint of soy provided the perfect base to showcase the uni and geoduck. Cucumber, radish, and puffed rice added texture and color. A delicate dish that I stretched into many many bites.

10. Crustacean (Saison; Chef Joshua Skenes)
Two dishes alighted on my table for this course: first, a spot prawn poached in its own seawater. So simple, so delicious. Next, a mound of lobster tail, crab meat, uni, and nasturtium leaf was sided by a smear of meyer lemon cream and finished with an orange-basil-tarragon broth. The broth was bright and floral, but especially impressive was how it mixed with the cream and together complemented the buttery shellfish.

11. Farm Egg with Sea Urchin, Champagne Beurre Blanc, Brioche (Providence, Chef Michael Cimarusti)
Michael Cimarusti’s famous egg dish probably shaved off five years of my life. But of all the egg dishes I’ve had (Le Bernardin, Manresa, Petrossian, Eleven Madison Park), this is probably my favorite preparation. The sweetness of the egg and uni was fortified by emulsified butter and sprinkled with crispy brioche bits. An exercise in decadence.

12. 32-day Aged Roasted Squab (Saison, Chef Joshua Skenes)
Imagine eating the most intense-tasting squab you can conjure: rich, dark, oily, irony, and chocolatey, caressed by that great gamey flavor. Now imagine skin so crackly and crisp you could’ve heard it across the room. This was the most delicious piece of squab I’ve ever had.

13. Honey-Lavender Glazed Muscovy Duck (Eleven Madison Park; Chef Daniel Humm)
Dry-aged for two weeks, glazed with lavender honey, dusted with star anise and sichuan peppercorns, then roasted until a golden brown, I dare you to find a more beautiful duck in the city. Our captain Sophia rolled over a cart (custom-made for the duck) and carved it table-side. Skin crackled and heads turned: perfectly succulent meat ringed with fat and sheathed by caramelized skin.

14. Apple, Creme Caramel, burnt wood sabayon (ink., Chef Michael Voltaggio)
Apple and chocolate desserts are usually the last items on a dessert menu I’d order. They are often boring, staying well within the boundaries of traditional sweet desserts. But this was different. The apple and creme caramel were good together, but the burnt wood nitro sabayon sealed this dessert’s success with a savory smokiness that kept me coming back for more.

15. Clam Bake (Eleven Madison Park, Chef Daniel Humm)
“A gift from the kitchen, a recent addition to the menu”, our Captain Chris told us, as two servers brought out multiple dishes to build a clam bake. A tray of hot rocks, seaweed, and a teapot of clam chowder was surrounded by several tiny trays of bites. Hot water was poured on the stones, resulting in a chimney of steam that smelled of the sea. At its best, the upper echelons of fine dining remind me of theater, with each dish a separate act in a play. This was certainly a treat for the eyes, nose, and mouth.

Two closing thoughts:

- This list was not immune my preferences/biases: many dishes displayed a lightness and purity of flavor that really appeals to my current sensibilities. Many picks were Japanese-inspired in their simplicity, and my preference towards seafood and vegetables is obvious. It will be interesting to see how my preferences evolve in next years list.

- Given my deep-set love for carbs, I’m shocked a pasta dish is nowhere to be found, though the ones I had at Babbo and Marea would’ve certainly made a top 25 list.

It upended expectations and altered perspectives. I can’t remember the last time a meal made me think this hard about food.

Chef Joshua Skenes is doing something truly refreshing at Saison. He speaks a different language and cooks with a different vocabulary. One I haven’t seen in many Western restaurants in America. Whereas others add flavor through an additive process (more ingredients, more complexity, more embellishments), Skenes takes away. His food uses deceptively simple cooking techniques to fully extract an ingredient’s maximum natural flavor.

Fully extracting an ingredient’s maximum natural flavor. Upon first glance, this may sound trivial; but imagine eating the most intense-tasting squab you can conjure: rich, dark, oily, irony, and chocolatey, caressed by that great gamey flavor. That is exactly what Skenes served me.

He unlocks an ingredient’s pure flavor with shocking proficiency. Fish and meats are carefully aged from weeks to months to deepen flavors. Live spot prawns are lightly poached in the very seawater it was caught– simplicity giving way to complexity. Hand-foraged flowers and herbs shock and delight. And of course there is the open wood-burning fire hearth. Used in nearly every dish, the crackly flames imbue everything they touch with a rustic charred goodness that launches flavors into the stratosphere.

I can say without creeping into hyperbole that Saison is the best meal I’ve had all year.

I arrived at Saison over Labor Day Weekend, not sure what to make of the restaurant. I wasn’t even sure if I was at the right spot. Was that warehouse-looking structure at the end this random courtyard Saison? Why yes it was. To my surprise, upon my arrival I was led past the dining room… and into the kitchen. I hadn’t made any special requests to the restaurant, so eating at the kitchen counter arms-length from the chefs was an absolute treat. Thank you, Jordan Wong (pictured above), for taking such good care of me.

The first course of eggs came on two separate plates. On one was a big dollop of house-smoked caviar that smacked with brine but was tempered by smoke. Simple, delicious, and invigorating.

Flanking the caviar was possibly the most gorgeous flatbread I’d ever seen. I dined in September, but this was like spring bloomed early. A variety of eggs (egg yolks, whites, bottarga, and shad roe) and flatbread provided flavor and foundational heft, but the star was surely the rainbow mound of herbs and flowers. Bright, zippy, and vegetal, it was a refreshing romp through nature.*

The trio of bites that appeared next pulled my palate in directions: salty, sweet, and bitter. First, was a raw oyster topped with lemon verbena foam: a creamy, briny, and citrusy rush. A layered shot of salted egg yolk, parsnip and carrot puree, and parsnip chip was earthy and sweet. The last was a thimble of sliced radishes, sheathing a dribble of brown butter and nasturtium honey. It was a faultless balance of bitter and sweet.

Bluefin tuna scraped using a scallop shell arrived brushed with a jelly made from fish bones roasted over embers, which imparted a wonderful umami-tinged beefy flavor to it. Accompanying the tuna was a rice cracker covered in shrimp and perilla. Eaten together with the tuna, this was a beautiful marriage of coast and sea. There was also a jelly shot made from the tuna’s cerebral spinal fluids, which felt a bit superfluous and tasted much cleaner than I would’ve imagined.

Perhaps Skenes cooking style can be best embodied in his signature dish of Brassicas. And when a chef’s signature dish stars vegetables, you know you’ve got something interesting. He slowly roasts the paper-thin greens over embers as carefully as one would the most delicate fish, constantly moving them around to coax out a variety of flavors and textures. A vial of bonito broth laced with puffed toasted grains is poured in and a single quail egg finishes. There was crisp and char, sweetness and bite; this is Skenes at his finest, taking already great produce and layering on flavors and textures. It was perspective-altering.

Then we started to veer off menu. Skenes sent out the first of three courses not listed on the menu. Vegetable aspic appeared first—a composition of corn pudding, fava beans, zucchini, and avocado sat in a basil-tomato consommé that was a celebration of greens. As with so many great vegetable dishes, each bite revealed something new, a complex interaction between flavors and textures.

Next, one of my favorite dishes of the night (hard to choose just one!) arrived on two plates. First, a live spot prawn was picked from the tank and gently poached in its own seawater. Such a simple preparation yet I wonder why no one does this more. The prawn wasn’t just sweet; a lingering oceanic brine made me lick my lips with pleasure and transported me back to my childhood where I spent summers playing on the beaches in the Philippines.

The accompanying soup was even better: a mound of lobster tail, crab meat, uni, and a crisp nasturtium leaf was sided by a smear of cool meyer lemon cream and finished with an orange-basil-tarragon broth. The broth was surprisingly bright -tarragon and orange are always a winning combination in my book- but especially impressive was how the broth mixed with the cream and together complemented the buttery shellfish. Like the Brassicas, this dish again had Skenes’ mark on it: the flavors were focused and straightforward but wonderfully complex at the same time. This is thinking man’s food.

An unconventional “stew” followed— rabbit mousse wrapped in kale and accompanied by foie gras and rabbit confit. There were, of course, hand-foraged flowers and herbs, as well as rabbit roasting juice. But this was an exercise in restraint: the rabbit was perhaps the mildest preparation I’ve ever had– slightly buttery, gamey, and sweet. Even the foie was applied with a delicate hand, simply hiding in the background, adding body and fat.

But perhaps, of all the dishes at Saison, one shined brighter than the rest. Skenes came over and inquired if I was interested in a 32-day aged squab, another off-menu diversion. I nodded my head furiously.

Moments later, a bronzed bird appeared in the kitchen, fresh out of the smokey embers of the hearth. Skenes himself presented it, with a proud smile— a minimalist arrangement of thigh, breast, and neck, surrounded by grapes, wild flowers, and cherry blossoms.

As earlier mentioned, this was most intense-tasting, “squabbiest” squab you could conjure. It practically reverberated with dark flavor: chocolate, iron, and char, with a flowery trail. Intensity was countered by the fruit and cherry blossom. The meat was denser and tighter than others I’ve consumed, and the fat was practically melting. And the skin was so crackly and crisp you could’ve heard it across the room. Perspectives altered yet again. Why aren’t more chefs experiment with aging meats (beef excluded)?

The cheese course caught me by surprise: a soft creamy sheep’s milk cheese, Nuvola di Pecora, was encased in a brioche with honeycomb.** Why surprised? First off, this was another off-menu item. I was expecting dessert already. Secondly, I normally prefer my cheese naked. Just straight up cheese. Bread, jam, and fruit just get in the way. But this was something really special.

The warmth of the brioche rendered the already soft cheese slightly oozy and runny, a perfect contrast to brioche, which was coated in a thin crisp layer of honey. The mild flavored cheese was complemented by the honeycomb’s sweetness. Savory and sweet, this was the perfect segue into dessert.

The first dessert, Preserved Lemon 1:27, was a study in form and flavor. The layered dessert presented lemons in four ways: preserved/candied in a meyer lemon custard, gelee, and sorbet.*** Like so much of Skenes’ cooking, it served up lip-smacking deliciousness and intellectual stimulation in spades. This was the best lemon dessert I’ve ever had, bar none.

Imagine digging into multiple layers of lemon, with different temperatures, textures (creamy to firm) and flavors (slightly bitter preserved lemon; sweet custard; sour gelee). It was topped with chrysanthemum foam and petals, which kept your palate awake and prevented everything from getting too sweet; likewise, preserving lemons prevented the dessert from getting too tart.

The last few desserts were good, but not quite reaching the stratospheric heights of the Preserved Lemon 1:27. One plate brought a composed creation of caramel, white chocolate, rice sorbet, and a sesame chip. A single scoop of popcorn ice cream along with roasted tea followed. Rounding out the meal were, of course, mignardises: candied raspberries that were fun and tasty, with a crisp exterior shielding a soft center.

It’s been over a month since my meal, and I’m still thinking about it. Over the course of three hours, sparks flew, neurons fired, and taste buds erupted. This meal satisfied the head, the stomach, and the soul, and I relished every second of it.

It’s clear that Skenes is doing unique, delicious -and most importantly- wholly his. There’s too much to love here, from his respect for ingredients, to his extensive use of fire, to his ventures with aging fish and meat. All in the name of fully extracting an ingredient’s maximum natural flavor. He dreams big but works with a restrained hand. A wild talent that genuinely impressed this jaded diner.

Thank you, Chef Skenes, for feeding me and showing me the world of food through your eyes. I’ll be back soon.

Saison
2124 Folsom St.
San Francisco, CA 94110
http://www.saisonsf.com

*The ficoide glaciale (herb frost) was particularly eye-opening: a zippy acidic bite with a crisp crunch– almost like crunchy sorrel. I loved it.
** One of the few times I’ve ever eaten creamy soft sheep’s milk cheese— aren’t they usually firmer? (ie. manchego, etc)
*** 1:27 refers to January 27, the day the lemons were preserved.

Special thanks to Chuck of Chuckeats.com, where I first read about Saison.

The local media (for the most part) have written lukewarm reports of the restaurant; likewise, food-loving friends expressed pallid thoughts, ranging from “disappointingly mediocre” to “overpriced Vietnamese cuisine”. Of course, one can’t help but wonder if palates were biased due to Red Medicine’s public outing of the Los Angeles Times restaurant critic, S. Irene Virbila, in December 2010. It certainly didn’t leave a pleasant taste in anyone’s mouth.

My first experience with Red Medicine was in early February. I ordered a good bit of the menu but like many, left feeling uninspired. The meal was too heavy, too sweet, and devoid of nuance (more on that later). It was certainly not worth writing a blog post on.

But with some family and friends visiting me in Los Angeles, I decided to pay Red Medicine a return visit. We tackled most of the menu, and it was then I realized Jordan’s strength: vegetables and herbs!* The dishes I had were so good I returned in a few weeks with a good friend to relive my favorites.

Have you ever watched Jordan Kahn cook? It’s pretty interesting. Red Medicine’s dining room sports a large opening with views straight into his kitchen. He doesn’t sauté or grill, and he certainly doesn’t microwave. He tweezes.

It’s like watching a doctor perform brain surgery on an infant. Jordan tweezed together my first dish of artichoke “en barigoule” with laser-like focus and precision. A miniature landscape of summer vegetables slowly formed on a plate. There was, of course, artichoke heart on the plate, with bits of green mango and apple in between. A mysterious creamy substance grounded the dish while shards of dried tofu skin punctuated the landscape. A slew of herbs -I’m guessing cilantro flowers, perilla, dill, and sorrel- was carefully arranged on top, no doubt with surgical precision. The result is a cool, crunchy, sweet, fragrant composition that certainly stands toe-to-toe with the most modern dishes in Los Angeles.

To see a restaurant celebrate vegetables is refreshing. Every mouthful is a new experience. The sharpness of perilla leaves in one bite is tempered by the apple and mango in the next. Bits of dill brighten and tofu skin add crunch. I kept pecking away at the plate until all that was left was a smear of sauce.

I suppose Red Medicine’s General Manager Noah Ellis recognized me from previous visits as a dish of crab spring rolls mysteriously appeared on our table, on the house. The first minute was spent staring at the dish, wondering how something as mundane as spring rolls could look so beautiful. The second minute was spent devouring it. The crab was fresh and retained great texture (not ground up into crab pulp), and there was a lingering spice from the chili, but at the end of the day, they’re still spring rolls and I’d take Golden Deli’s deep fried wonders over these.

My favorite dish at Red Medicine (yes, even more than Kahn’s famed desserts) is Summer Legumes and Roots. The dish resembles an herb garden straight out of Vietnam: perilla, rau ram, Vietnamese basil, and sawtooth shield a tiny carrot, an even smaller radish, and a single pea pod. A small vial of emulsified walnut oil is poured into the bowl, and the dish is complete.

The fun begins when methodically picking away at the leaves. A bite of perilla then a bite of basil, all covered in that glorious walnut oil. Some elements are raw, others roasted. At first the flavors seem disparate; one bitter herb pulling with the other. But then the cacophony fades away and something cohesive emerges: a beautifully sweet herbal flavor that explodes on my palate but is practically weightless in my stomach. Of course, one must credit this dish’s origins to Michel Bras’ famous Gargouillou and in turn, David Kinch’s Into the Vegetable Garden, but I’d argue that Kahn’s interpretation may be stronger than Kinch’s.**

It’d also be remiss to visit Red Medicine without ordering their beef tartare. It’s one of the most unique preparations I’ve had– one where raw beef plays the supporting cast, and the lone streak of bright green chlorophyll the star. It was the grounding element, tying the dish together with a spicy herbal kick. The chunks of water chestnut and a rooftop of water lettuce were not superfluous either– they refreshed the palate and prevented the dish from getting too spicy. But I’m still not sure what the powdered substance was? It was tasteless.

We ended with rice porridge. Sprinkled with bits of hazelnut, crumbled up chicken skin (genius!), echire butter, and finished with tongues of uni and a golden egg yolk, the dish so incredibly rich and so luxurious that we only managed to eat half of it before raising our hands in surrender. Yes, it’s delicious enough to warrant a special trip to the restaurant, but I’d recommend splitting it with a party of four.

Desserts are always a treat at Red Medicine. Unfortunately, I was strangely full after this meal and didn’t have room for any sweets; but if past experience is anything to go by, the rhubarb with shortbread and hibiscus is not to be missed. It’s floral, tart, light, and I found it to be even better than Kahn’s often-praised coconut bavarois.

But don’t get me wrong. Red Medicine is not without its faults. Many dishes still veer towards being too sweet and heavy and fail to excite. Case in point: the crispy pork neck with charred frisee, dehydrated banana, and poached egg. The frisee and banana are great, but the sweet pork and gooey egg yolk make the whole dish heavy-handed and syrupy. Same deal with the pintade and lamb belly. I love it when chefs blur the line between sweet and savory, but Kahn still steers the boat too far too often– perhaps due to his background as a pastry chef?

But when you order properly, Red Medicine shines like very few restaurants do. Kahn approaches vegetables in a new light and celebrates herbs like few chefs do. In many ways, he’s serving the most modern food in Los Angeles -at a great price point to boot. Could vegetarians be the leading force of modern cuisine? Kahn and others (Kinch, Skenes, Nishihara) are making me a believer.

One last note: many see Red Medicine as modern Vietnamese food and immediately think about the price discrepancies between Beverly Hills and Little Saigon. Push that framework aside and you’ll find that Kahn is cooking very original food –yes, inspired by Vietnamese cuisine- but still unique to him and his restaurant. He’s starting to hit his stride, his potential is enormous, and I can’t wait to see what he’ll be cooking a year or two down the road.

Red Medicine
8400 Wilshire Boulevard
Beverly Hills, CA 90211
(323) 651-5500

*I’ve never quite understood why so many restaurants don’t give herbs and vegetables their due respect. Of course, there are exceptions (Blue Hill Stone Barns, Manresa, Ubuntu, Saison, etc), but for the most part, many places just don’t get that the perfect carrot can be every bit as tasty as well-aged sirloin. Thoughts for a future post, I suppose?

**It might sound incredulous, but yes, I liked Kahn’s Summer Legumes and Roots more than Kinch’s Into The Vegetable Garden. Bitter is a flavor rarely used in food, but when used properly, it is wonderful. Nevertheless, David Kinch’s Into the Vegetable Garden (at least when I had it a few weeks ago) was too bitter for me. Kahn’s version struck that perfect balance between bitter and sweet.

A minute passed and all of a sudden I was in! For a split-second I didn’t register what had happened but quickly regained my senses and shifted to auto-pilot, clicking on dates and filling out blanks. Before I knew it, I had a reservation to Ludobites 7.0. Success!

Little did I realize how lucky I was… turns out every table for every night had sold out in under a minute!

On opening night, my party of four ended up ordering the entire menu, which turned out to be a smart decision: the amount of food was perfect, keeping my palate constantly engaged and curious.

Things didn’t quite start off with a bang though. An underwhelming “onion tart” (grossly reminiscent of CPK!) was the opening volley. I’m not sure why Ludo named this a tart as it was really just sweet caramelized onions on top of crisp flat bread. The shaving of bottarga on top could’ve elevated this dish higher, but the dried roe should’ve been more liberally applied– I wanted more briny funk!

Thankfully, our second dish of Compressed Pig’s Head and Cheddar redeemed the first. The plating was playful, like that of a sandwich, with the compressed head meat stuck in between crackers, creeping out the sides. The meat reminded me of pork rilettes, only this was more gloppy and smacked with an intense porky flavor, as if Ludo had the distilled the very flavor of pork into a gooey mess. While the cheddar added another whirl of complexity, and the barbeque gelee brought some tang and spice into the dish, I just kept going at the compressed head– offaly tasty stuff.

A dorade ceviche with cucumber water, cornichons, and jalapenos arrived next. It was predictably refreshing with a spicy kick, reminiscent of the Aguachiles served at Mariscos Chentes. Slippery but firm, the slices of dorade were a welcome break from the usual seabass and shrimp ceviches served elsewhere, but I wish I could’ve tasted the fish more as the dressing was quite tart and cucumbery.

One of the best dishes of the night arrived in a humble tin ramekin: salt cod pannacotta with whipped fingerling potato and smoked tapioca, topped with crumbles of black olive bread. Bacalao reinvented through Ludo’s eyes. The pannacotta and whipped potato were luxuriously smooth, and I loved the liberal use of salted cod (apparently Kevin felt it was lacking). Pearls of smoked tapioca were a fine nuance, but the crumbles of black olive bread was pure genius, adding more savor and crunch. Our table enjoyed this so much we ended up ordering two.

Next, a bowl of slow cooked scrambled eggs and uni arrived with a dollop of caviar. There was also a champagne beurre blanc sauce, but I couldn’t detect the champagne. Not to worry though– the dish was still fantastic (pretty hard to go wrong with those ingredients though!). Luscious creamy eggs were the texturally perfect, the caviar was like a cannon, blasting out cannonballs of oceany briny goodness, and the beurre blanc sauce tied everything together (tying dishes together with emulsified butter is often a win in my book).

A plate of Plancha Tandoori Octopus with Yogurt, Cauliflower, and Grapefruit arrived next. As I ate this, I scratched my head in wonder at Ludo’s creativity. It’s amazing how Ludo manages to marry seemingly disparate ingredients into a cohesive dish. Not a single component was superfluous, with the octopus providing heft, chew, and char; the yogurt balanced it with tang; cauliflower gave textural crunch, and the bits of grapefruit were magical: their acidity somehow made the dish *snap*.

Our table agreed the tomato soup that arrived next was a bit of a mystery. It was overly sweet, without that tang I love from tomatoes. There was a nice crunch from the carrot and baby endives, but in the end it was still a mediocre dish. Nevertheless I kept going at it, spoonful after spoonful, wondering what was drawing me to the dish when my friend Matt yelped out, “this tastes like Chef Boyardee!”. And there you go. The dish was unconsciously nostalgic, evoking memories of something I’d eat as a kid. Would I order it again? No.

The bowl of orange soup was whisked away and in its place stood a plate of foie gras ravioli topped with crispy kimchi surrounded by a black truffle sake cream sauce. I took a bite and enjoyed creaminess of the foie melding with the sake cream sauce, but the real star was the crispy kimchi– it brightened the dish and kept everything from getting too rich. The only fault? The pasta skin. It was too gummy and doughy– improve this and Ludo’s got a real winner on his hands.

We started the move into heavier dishes with duck covered in beets and radishes and surrounded by a beet-cherry sauce. A spicy saucisse (basically a sausage patty) flanked the duck, but it proved to be unnecessary as the bird was stellar and could’ve easily stood on its own. Phenomenally juicy, tender, and flavorful, I wonder if the the duck was cooked sous vide.

The second protein dish to arrive was roast beef with horseradish cream and dried mole. I looked at it warily, as I’ve grown weary of heavy protein courses. They sink like boulders in my stomach, dulling my palate, and often fail to inspire. Thankfully, we had a winner here– the beef was left practically rare, just the way I like it. The classic pairing of creamy horseradish was also welcome, but what really stole the show was the dried mole (the dark mass at the top-right of my photo) that were so crunchy and umami-laden, it was as if someone had made crispy breadcrumbs out of harissa, the savory African chili spread.

The last savory course was an epoisse cheese risotto, studded with bits of crunchy hazelnuts; in the center was a gleaming golden egg yolk while a fistful of herbs were strewn on top. Just like the octopus, I was yet again surprised by Ludo’s focus, deliberation, and restraint. The balance of flavor and texture was flawless, with the pungent epoisse cheese was tempered by the peppery herbs. Similarly, the rice was cooked to a perfect al dente, the hazelnuts added a welcome crunch, and the egg ensconced everything in a wonderful gooey richness.

The first dessert Ludo served was riff on a Peach Melba, an Escoffier classic. The lavender wasn’t overpowering, the textural contrast from the peaches, meringue, and ice cream was spot-on, and the whole dish was just plain delicious and comforting.

The last dish of the night was a crustless lemon tart with limoncello and thyme. Unfortunately, this wasn’t a success. The limoncello was heavy and lumbered about the dish like a drunken linebacker; the thyme was similarly overpowering, and unlike the lavender in the previous dessert, I felt like I was straight up eating thyme instead of using it to flavor the dish. And why no crust Ludo? I’m sure you know that’s the best part of every tart

And just like that, opening night at LudoBites was over. I knew Ludo was creative and wasn’t scared of innovative flavor profiles, but I honestly found my last LudoBites experience (6.0 in Sherman Oaks) lackluster. If you’re still reading at this point, I’m sure you’ve realized my experience tonight couldn’t be more different.

Ludo, you’ve managed to surprise and entertain, shock and delight. You’ve upended expectations and at one point (during the octopus dish), even made me yelp with pleasure. Luckily, I’ll be dining there again with friends next week. I can’t wait to return!

Years later, I’m still not exactly sure why Singaporean food tickled my stomach and pulled at my heartstrings. Was it how the local cuisine’s Chinese, Indian, and Malay influence spoke volumes about the country’s culture? Or maybe it was because food was the country’s great equalizer. No matter how famous or popular, dishes were affordable and everyone had to stand in line.

Or perhaps it was simply because the best Singaporean food was cheap, ubiquitous, and delicious beyond description.

So it was with cautious optimism that I entered The Spice Table, Bryant Ng’s Vietnamese-Singaporean restaurant in Little Tokyo. Given Ng was Pizzeria Mozza’s chef de cuisine and also cooked at Daniel in New York, I figured the food wouldn’t be a flop; but would it inspire the same joy I experienced back in Singapore years ago? Would it be authentic? I was scared it would be Westernized beyond recognition.

Turns out I had nothing to worry about. Bryant is Singaporean, and his cooking -bold, polished, and vigorous- isn’t an attempt to intensely recreate classic Asian dishes; rather, they’re redefined through his eyes, marrying the intense flavors of his heritage with the finesse gained from his years at Michelin-starred restaurants.

Order Ng’s Crab Pepper Toast and you’ll find the grunt work of eating crab –cracking the shells and fishing out the meat- has been already done. Slices of toast accompany a hefty mound of crab meat (thoughtfully kept in large chunky portions instead of tiny bits and pieces) held together by black pepper sauce. Load your toast up, squirt on some lime, and take a bite: what first hits you is that familiar punchy peppercorn flavor that seems to get spicier with each bite. You’ll then notice a mellow sweetness (oyster sauce? hoisin?) followed by hints of ginger while the initial blast of peppercorn lingers on. It’s complex and deeply satisfying, lighter than the pepper crab I’ve had in Asia, and shows the kitchen is not afraid of turning up the heat.

A plate of fried cauliflower florets is the most popular appetizer at The Spice Table and for good reason: it veers closer to junk food than vegetable, with a light, airy batter that reminds me of the best fish & chips.

And I suspect Ng’s spicy chicken liver dish is a nod to Pizzeria Mozza’s sublime chicken liver and guanciale bruschetta; same deal with the sambal fried potatoes. Thankfully, both are just as good as their Batali-Silverton counterparts.

Not all appetizers wow though. Grilled bok choy with mushrooms and oysters sauce doesn’t inspire; yellowtail, served raw with scallions, green onions, and chili, is forgettable and reminiscent of similar preparations around town.

While the appetizers section may be a hit or miss, The Spice Table’s wood burning grill, practically a bonfire on steroids, can do no wrong. Loose embers swirl about and flames rage, covering everything in a wonderful smoky char. Go ahead and order some satay, the Malaysian equivalent of grilled meat on a stick. Skip the pedestrian chicken, beef, and pork offerings and head straight for the lamb belly and tripe. The belly is a flavor bomb, exploding with so much meaty greasy goodness you’ll instinctively reach for a big tall glass of beer to wash it all down. The tripe, crisp and charred ink-black on the edges but soft and chewy on the insides, is the perfect vehicle to carry that savory-smoky-woody aroma.

The slab of rib-eye that emerges from the flames is just as good. Ng marinates it in palm sugar and pepper then grills it to a perfect medium rare, redolent of char, spice, and caramel.

You won’t find Ng’s bone marrow in Singapore’s hawker stalls but who cares? It’s phenomenal. Smeared with shrimp paste and house-made sambal, then stuck on the wood burning grill until just on the edge of collapse, it’s served with some rau ram, pickled onions, and maldon salt. Our server told us to spread the marrow onto the toast, but I prefer to load it in large scoops— a big blob instead of a shallow smear. It’s pungent, spicy, and deliciously rich.

As heavenly as the marrow is, the grilled pig’s tail is the best thing on the menu. Period. The tail is my favorite part of the pig– a place where fat, flesh, and bone magically coalesce, rewarding your lips with layers of sticky collagen and moist meat. Here they are boiled, grilled over flames, and served with lettuce, mint, perilla leaves, and rau ram. If you’re anything like me, you’ll instinctively wrap it up with veggies, dunk it in the spicy fish sauce, and shove it in your mouth. It’s at once salty, smoky, sour, lean, and gooey—a spectacular contrast of flavor and texture and certainly one of the best things I’ve had all year.

If you’re still hungry, skip the mediocre Hainan chicken rice and get the beef rendang, laksa, and kon loh mee. All three are great. Sure, the laksa noodles are oddly udon-like, but the coconut milk-laced curry broth is the best in town. And make sure to leave room for dessert! After all that gluttony, a refreshing kaffir lime custard is the perfect ending.

Sad as the demise of Lucky Dragon may have been, life moved on. There were other equally good Szechuan joints around the corner, and I found love in Chung King. Their food numbed my tongue and won my heart.

But what happens when a restaurant closes and there isn’t another to fill the void? With its cozy wooden booths, Sa Rit Gol resembled a country inn and served home-style Korean food. The banchan spread, renowned for its scope and quality, numbered well into the double digits. I loved it. Various kimchi teetered that fine line between fresh and funk, tangy and spicy; bits of candied dried anchovy were deliciously pungent. Some days you’d find baby octopus stir-fried with gojuchang or lotus root gently simmered in a sweet broth.

I fell head over heels for their famous eun dae goo jorim, cod braised in a sweet-spicy sauce so addicting it could double as heroin. My favorite part was the accompanying slices of luscious daikon, edible sponges soaking up the wonderful sauce. Likewise, their pork belly barbeque was stellar. The primal, fatty slabs of meat were nearly worth the inevitable triple bypass heart surgery. And who can forget the delicate mung bean pancakes, magically held together by a gleaming, gossamer crust.

When it closed, I felt lost. Where else would I spend my nights gorging on incredible home-style Korean cooking, fueled by beer, fortified by soju? My search went on for over a year. Olympic Cheonggukang was good but didn’t possess the refinement or selection. Kobawoo House came the closest (their bossam and mung bean pancakes are amazing) but the banchan was no match. And certainly not a soul bested Sa Rit Gol’s legendary eun dae goo jorim.

But sometime last year, my friend Steph told me a new restaurant, Soban, had opened up a few blocks west of where Sa Rit Gol used to be. She said it served some of the best Korean food I’ll ever have, and she was right. My search for great homestyle Korean food finally ended.

Many judge a Korean restaurant by their banchan, and the enormous spread at Soban will surely impress. The selection, which hovers around 15, constantly changes, and nearly every single one is a winner. Take your pick from four different kimchis: the mustard leaf and scallion ones are especially good. Eight namuls (seasoned vegetable dishes) covered my table, including crisp celery sitting in a slightly pungent paste similar to ssam jang, marinated fern stems, parsley stir-fried with sesame oil, and my favorite: marinated soy bean leaves.

You’ll receive slices of egg that are almost custard-like in texture; I like eating it over rice. And speaking of rice, Soban’s is some of the best I’ve had. You get a choice between white or brown rice, and while other places pass off a mix of brown and white rice as brown rice, Soban’s is uniformly brown and mixed with bits of bean, grain, and chestnut.

I imagine the food at Soban is what happens when you take everyday homecooking and put it in the hands of a Michelin-starred Chef. Every dish sings of refinement and deliberation, and the leap from Talented Ajummah to Chef is palpable. The dedication and attention to detail is one rarely seen in Korean cuisine–– can you think of another place where the gojuchang, ssam jang, and doen jang are all made in-house?

Consider the mae woon galbi jjim (spicy braised short rib). It’s one of the best things I’ve eaten this year. The meat itself is like perfect barbeque ribs: tender, not mushy, and retaining a slight chew. I always pick out the pieces with cartilage first— those are my favorite! Whereas other gabli jjim sauce suffer from being watery and limp, with a shallow sweetness from a reliance on sugar, Soban’s tastes like the sugar was completely replaced with dates, lending a raisiny, mellow sweetness. In concert with ginger, garlic, chili powder, sesame oil, and chestnuts, the dish turns sweet, spicy, and tangy, similar to the very best barbecue sauce.

There are other standouts on the menu. The eun dae goo jorim (aforementioned cod dish) is not as spicy as Chunju Han-il Kwan’s and not as sweet as Sa Rit Gol’s, but every bit as flavorful, with the sauce penetrating deep into the buttery fish. Their bibimbap, as all good bibimbap should be, is a study of texture and temperature, with vegetables and seafood arranged over brown rice and topped with a golden fried egg. The accompanying homemade spicy sauce is so tasty you’ll start by gingerly adding it to your bowl but will end up scraping the bottom of the container with your spoon. If there’s anything I’d pass on, it’d be the pajeon (pancake). I tried the seafood version; it’s not bad but I’ve had better.

It wasn’t until my third visit that I ordered and realized Soban’s specialty is gae jang, a raw crab dish that comes in your choice of a spicy or soy-based marinade. You’ve likely seen it served as banchan at various restaurants, but they probably got it from a supermarket, where anyone can buy the marinated crabs still whole, sitting in a sealed plastic box surrounded by a shallow pool of sauce.

Most restaurants don’t make their own gae jang— the labor and time involved in the preparation requires serious dedication and talent. Traditionally, fresh crabs must first be sourced and cleaned then immersed in soy sauce along with ginger, garlic, scallions, and other aromatics. After a day or two, the sauce is repeatedly strained, boiled, cooled, then poured back on top of the crabs to intensify the flavor. Done right, the soy takes on a rich, briny flavor, and contrary to what one may think, is not overwhelmingly salty at all.

I don’t hesitate when declaring Soban’s gae jang to be the best I’ve ever had. Despite not being Korean, I’m a gae jang fanatic. Soban’s is better than the ones I’ve had in Seoul and certainly the best served in Los Angeles. If it’s your first time eating gae jang, you’re in for a treat: grab a piece, and you’ll find yourself enchanted by a giant blob of golden roe so large you’ll wonder if the crab ate nothing but uni its entire life.

Stick a sizable piece into your mouth and suck hard: the crab meat is cold, sweet, and has turned almost jelly-like in texture, a wonderful sensation that I assure you tastes and feels far better than it sounds. The roe ruptures, slathering your mouth in a creamy brininess; and right when you think that one bite gets too rich, the soy sauce marinade kicks in: salty, herbal, sweet, and a perfect foil for the richness. In mere seconds, a cycle of deliciousness has started and ended, but the flavor lingers long after the first bite.

Regain your senses and you’ll instinctively suck again, this time with your tongue darting in to free all the crab jelly out of the crevasses. You will bite down on the shell in hopes of extracting even more goodness. Leave all decorum at the door, this is worth it.

If you’re eating with others, keep a close eye on the crab’s back shell. There’s only one and make sure to take it for yourself! Dinner Darwinism at its finest. Flip the shell over, add a scoop of rice and sauce, and mix it with the guts and innards (make sure to scrape the sides of shell!). It’s like offal porridge. What’s not to like?

Soban
4001 W. Olympic Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90019
(323) 936-9106