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

I have a special place in my heart and stomach for osterias- their very nature conducive to laidback, delicious, and fun meals. For the uninitiated, an osteria is a casual eatery similar to a neighborhood tavern where one enjoys rustic Italian food alongside carafes of wine. Chef Gino Angelini understands this.

Despite having cooked for former Presidents and Popes, his namesake restaurant remains unpretentious and friendly. The waiters, with their thick Italian accents, even charm my mother. And if you’ve ever met my mother, you know this is a herculean task- at least one my father will attest to. Tables are crowded but not overly so; the food is fantastic, resonating of the Italian countryside. I’ve never walked out without having at least a glass of wine -though it usually ends up being an entire bottle-, a sure explanation as to why my countless visits to Angelini’s over the years always end with a wider waistline and an even wider purple-tinged smile.

With my entire family visiting Los Angeles last week, I treated them out to lunch. It was gluttonous reminder that when it comes to honest, soulful Italian cooking-the type you’d normally expect from an Italian grandmother-, Angelini’s Osteria is peerless in Los Angeles.

Highlights of the meal included shrimp salad tossed with celery, tomatoes, oregano, and bottarga. This was an exploration in textures and flavors: strewn between bites of arugula were soft sweet tomatoes and shrimp that snapped like a sausage when chewed. Tie it all together with an acidic vinaigrette and a sprinkling of pungent bottarga and it’s easy to see why this has long been my mother’s favorite dish here.

Grilled octopus on a bed of arugula and tomatoes was another standout, with charred flavors from the grill acting as the perfect foil to the sweet tomatoes. More importantly, the texture of the octopus was perfect– neither too soft (I’m looking at you, Playa) nor chewy.

A dish of tripe was lovingly cleaned and braised in a tomato sauce for hours then topped with cuttlefish— a shining example of simple rustic Italian food that rewards careful preparation. It didn’t have that funky odor or chewiness of poorly cooked tripe, and the organ meat soaked up all of the wonderful sauce.

Angelini’s vitello tonnato might just be the best version I’ve had in Los Angeles. Veal loin, so delicately poached and sliced that it resembled carpaccio, was topped with a sauce made of tuna, capers, mayonnaise, and anchovies. It tastes like the best tuna salad you’ve ever had– surely worth its asking price ($18) twice over.

Roasted bone marrow on a bed of gnochetti was heartstoppingly good (both literally and figuratively), with each fatty, flavorful scoop of marrow caramelized on the outside and on the verge of collapsing into a puddle of grease on the inside. A lashing of balsamic reduction helped cut through the fat, but it’s a shame the bed of gnochetti was a touch undercooked.

Another memorable dish was the Spaghetti alla Chitarra Noricna. Thick, ropey spaghetti was cooked al dente and lightly coated in a creamy sauce flavored with chunks of seared sausage and shavings of black truffles. The noodles, which practically disappeared in seconds, had a wonderful irregular texture to it, no doubt from being pushed through a chitarra.

Admittedly, I’m not the biggest fan of lasagna. It’s always too heavy for me, sitting in my stomach like a boulder hewn out of meat, cheese, béchamel and pasta. But the lasagna verde, the most popular dish at Angelini’s, proves otherwise. It speaks for itself at first bite– deliciously flavorful without being heavy. At its worst, béchamel is thick and goopey; Angelini’s was nimble and creamy. The use of a mixed veal and beef filling also helped in achieving a light lasagna I wouldn’t mind eating over and over again.

We ordered some other food—truffle pizza (mediocre), calamari (good), bucatini amatriciana (usually great but just okay this time), but what truly lingered on my palate long after I exited the restaurant were the chicken livers. I probably sound like a broken record player now, but its rustic food like this that makes me squeal with glee—a marriage of fresh ingredients with solid technique and preparation. Simply served with crisp green beans and balsamic vinegar, this dish highlighted the quality of the liver— and what awesome liver it was! It had none of that chalky, gritty, starchy texture of subpar liver; rather they were smooth and creamy, closer to foie gras.

Angelini Osteria also serves desserts; some are great (mascarpone with crumbled cookies, espresso, and brandy), some are bad (carrot cake). But do like we did and walk across the street to Milk to indulge in some dark chocolate-vanilla ice cream bars. Me and my grandma think they’re some of the best in the city.

Angelini Osteria
7313 Beverly Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90036
(323) 297-0070

Like many discoveries, I stumbled across greatness by accident. The pancake sits inconspicuously on the menu, snuck in between a salad and sticky bun under the “sides” section. On my first pass, I missed it and had a forgettable fennel-cured salmon with creme fraiche on pumpernickel. I was a few bites in when someone else’s order of baked pancakes caught my nose and eye. The alluring scent of butter and sugar practically strong-armed me into ordering one on the spot.

Fresh out of the oven, the poof of a pancake stands nearly as tall as it is wide. Swelled and toasted at the edges, its golden center covered by a generous dollop of fragrant lemon custard, it looks and tastes like a cross between a souffle, popover, and pancake. Though the journey from the oven to the table is short, the dish visibly deflates with each passing second. A squeeze of lemon and I quickly dig in.

The law of diminishing returns does not apply here— the pancake seems to get better and better each time I order it. It’s simultaneously sweet and tart, light and eggy, and with a smear of lemon custard, represents all that is good in this world.

Canelé’s brunch menu also has other delights: the french toast, four inches high and well-browned on the edges, is otherworldly in both sight and taste. Thick house-cured bacon, crisp on the outside with a slight chew on the inside, is sublime. The restaurant’s fried chicken sandwich, served with an enormous slab of pickled green tomato, would make a Southern grandmother proud.

But at the end of the day, it’s really all about the baked pancake. This past weekend, I brought my aunt, grandma, and sister to try it for the first time. Amidst all the other food, we ordered two pancakes: one for me and one for everyone else. The table fell silent as taste buds quivered with glee. Their verdict? The best $4.50 you’ll ever spend.

Canelé
3219 Glendale Blvd
Los Angeles, CA
(323) 666-7133

This past Wednesday, I was invited back to the Wolvesden to partake in another one of Craig dinners, and it was here I experienced the joy of refinement.

At first glance, the menu looked eerily familiar to my meal a few weeks ago: the proteins were exactly the same (rabbit, lamb, pork, trout) and similarly prepared too. My heart sank a bit, but I knew this was the case given those ingredients were what was in season. I should’ve known better though– despite the familiar ingredients and preparations, this meal was worlds better than my last.

Some dishes were polished with nuance and finesse— crab appeared again, this time accompanied by larger and thicker slices of green tomato for more bite. Similarly, the mascarpone was completely eliminated to allow the sweetness of the crustacean to sing. The venerable rabbit dish I ate last time was brightened with pickled red onions. Such a simple but critical change, the added acidity did what salt does to a bland dish. Razor thin slices of jalapeno added heat while the accompanying black beans were given a whole new depth of flavor with rabbit kidneys and livers blended in.

Other courses were given complete makeovers. Craig’s previous dish of asparagus, morels, and bone marrow sabayon morphed into an asparagus risotto with snails and morels. Just like how drinking a gulp of carrot juice can fill your mouth with more “carrot flavor” than biting into a raw carrot, I kid you not when I say each spoonful of the risotto felt like eating buckets of sweet asparagus.

A few weeks ago, Craig served ocean trout with phenomenally fresh peas; on Wednesday, the fish sat on a bed of tofu surrounded by squid ink dashi loaded with smokey katsuobushi. Bits of shiso and salted cherry blossom were like tiny explosions on my palate.

The only dish that wasn’t better than its previous iteration was the pork belly. Served with soft shell crab, peas, mint, fava beans, and pork jus, this dish was a study in excess. The soft shell crab wasn’t needed and added heft to an already heavy dish. I was equally surprised Craig didn’t add more acidity into the dish to cut through the fat. Perhaps I’m being overly critical, but I still miss the verjus grape he used last time around. More mint would’ve been nice too, but that’d already be nitpicking.

Finally, some dishes were totally new, like the first course of black truffle potato soup. “Just potato, chives, crème fraiche, and a ton of black truffle”, Craig gleefully announced. It always irks me when restaurants use truffles sparingly– might as well just leave them out. Craig’s soup was diametric opposite. It was loaded with so much truffle I actually CHEWED on bits as I slurped the soup. Intoxicatingly good, Christine laughed at me as I attempted to lick up the last drops from my bowl.

Desserts were comforting and delicious. A bowl brioche ice cream, smoked maple syrup, and green apple tasted like French toast had been run through an ice cream machine. The tiny balls of green apple, which added acidity and crunch, were an especially nice touch.

The second dessert featured strawberries (both in normal and dehydrated form) along with pound cake and crème fraiche ice cream. The slight tang from the crème fraiche along with the sweet strawberries made for a wonderful sweet-sour interplay, and those tiny alpine strawberries were a real treat! I’ve only had them a few times, but they’ve got this intense, slightly-pineappley flavor that puts normal strawberries to shame.

There’s so much to love about Wolvesmouth I’m not sure where to start, but it’s definitely one of those experiences where the whole is greater than the sum of its parts:

1. The food is fantastic and constantly evolving; it’s not on the same level as say, Eleven Madison Park, but comparing a well-funded restaurant with a small army of chefs to Craig’s dinners would be ludicrous.

2. You won’t find Riedel sommelier-series stemware and there isn’t even a winelist for you to choose from, but diners all bring and share fun wines, craft beers, and more. Bill of Street Gourmet LA even graciously shared some intensely smokey Lucifer mezcal, and Jo of MyLastBite brought a funny homebrew concoction only known as HUCH (it tasted like hard lemonade).

3. Where else can you sidle up right next to the Chef in between courses and pepper him with inane questions like “did you smoke the maple syrup yourself? (no)”, “what temperature did you sous-vide the lamb for? (135F)”, and “how the hell did you make this awesome risotto? (water instead of stock, tons of pureed asparagus mixed in)”. Thanks for putting up with me, Craig.

These days, fine dining can often feel cramped, with the level of service and ambience increasingly suffocating the more you spend. Meals should be delicious, unpretentious, and fun— laughs should outnumber chews and diners should leave with a permanent grin on their face. My seatmate Josh Lurie of Food GPS summed Wolvesmouth up perfectly, “it’s the dinner party you’ll always want to get invited to.”