A friend of mine dined at Alinea in mid-July and sent me an account of his (and his wife's) meal. The prose was too excellent not to share it with the board (with his agreement). No photos, just delicious words from a guest poster, excellent with both cuisine and prose, whom I will call DCM:
The entrance to the restaurant, extremely unobtrusive (with no sign), nested between Boka, a restaurant in a house, and some sort of ethnic food place on the other side, is one of the highlights of the experience. A plain blank door, high modernist rectangle, recessed a bit from the street, opens up (the valet guy holds it for you), you walk into a completely dark passageway that emits the truly heavenly smell of fresh grass and cut herbs and dried flowers (they lay down a carpet of fresh sod every day; this whole arrangement changes with the seasons), and then you realize there are multi-colored hanging lights, like the kind people put on strings outside on a summer night, that barely illuminate your passageway to a door, wherever that may be. You reach the end of the snug sexy tunnel, puzzled, but step inadvertently on a trigger that opens a sliding glass door at the entrance to which stand 2 or 3 smartly dressed staff, there to greet you, and take you to your table. You get a glimpse of the kitchen on your way to the stairs (we were on the 2nd floor). It’s the cleanest, lightest, roomiest, and busiest kitchen I’ve ever seen (been to Trotter’s kitchen twice, and to Tru kitchen), and they have 25 people (all men save for 2) working the counters and stoves.
Up the stairs, and around, past several more staff, all men, all tall, all slim, half of them bearded, and blessed with very nice smiles. We get seated, and a guy who has a sort of sheepdog haircut (the only one with an unkempt coiffure), evidently the sommelier, asks us about drink preferences, and Chris opts for a pinot noir (not game for a wine flight), I opt for whatever juice sequence they may have (it turns out to start with sparkling cider, then goes to a red raspberry potion with lime and black pepper [excellent] and then to something they call a cherry cordial, which, despite the name, was very dry). The juice flight here was nothing like Tru or Trotter, but went fine with the dishes.
There were fourteen courses (15 if you count the extra, for me, on my birthday, perfect chocolate and cream affair that was hot on the inside and cold on the outside). The surprising semi-theme was sweetness, a taste that Grant Achatz apparently resonates with (especially after his bout with tongue cancer). The amuse bouche, the first course, served on a single spoon, was incredibly bold. Not savory or piquant, it was osetra caviar intermingled with crème fraiche intermingled with a butter ball (they mill their own butter in the kitchen), taken all at once in one bite, and oh my god, what a blast of knee-buckling fat! Made to order for me.
Next came the rabbit dish, served with incredibly finely chopped summer vegetables (of all colors) in a piquant sauce and cherry blossoms, with wasabi, and smoke (Achatz is a genius with smoke, it has an agreeable strong smell and goes with the tastes). The course which followed was spectacular to see, a Thai clay pot (beautifully made) that had dry ice smoke pouring over a large scallop shell that you lift up, to inhale the citrus and lemongrass aromas, and experience inside the fourteen textures of shellfish and ceviche, piqued with savory gels and creamy dollops of something.
A Dungeness crab dish followed, with squash blossoms, and some sort of divine squash puree, and cardamom and saffron. Against the creamy piquant slightly sweet undertastes were killers. To offer something on the opposite end of the spectrum, the waiters (and you were served seriataum by about 6 different waiters, all friendly, all enthusiastic, all knowledgeable), making a dramatic entrance with a shale rock slab on which there was a Binchotan (or however the Japanese works here, a kindling fire that actually sparked embers, scaring Chris for a minute before they settled down), and on a slab of wood sat a perfect square of wagyu beef with a savory sauce on top, a perfect bluefin tuna chunk, a succulent piece of pork belly with the richest fat flavor imaginable, and, dramatically, to the side, a shrimp’s head, standing on its neck and pointing skyward with its little antennae and spindly legs pointing up. I think the shrimp’s head was fire-roasted or something, to make it crispy crackly, I ate it, and one of the antennae got stuck on the inside of my cheek, getting it out took a bit of labor. I wouldn’t say it was delicious, but it was interesting.
Then came one of my favorite dishes, the veal cheeks in a “spring bounty.” I can’t retrieve what was in the bounty, but it was amazing (creamy and piquant sauces over very finely chopped veggies, asparagus and other things, and sweetbreads). Eating it was like sinking into a near-coma of pleasure. Then came the great signature Grant Achatz dish, “hot potato/cold potato.” This is a little half cup of cold buttery potato soup, with a round ball of a potato on a pin, to keep it suspended over the cold soup, you release the potato from the pin and immediately imbibe the whole thing, discovering that the potato is hot, and wafts and woofs its way in the vichyssoise, thereby causing your tongue to throw a party for your mouth. This is spectacular.
But nothing can compare to the duck dish. I’ve never seen anything like it in any restaurant. You are presented with a large glass slab, on which there is a riotous array in harlequin colors of 60 different “garnishes” (made from 87 different components), all neat little dabs and daubs and cylinders. You stare at this, transfixed. It’s so so beautiful. Then comes the wide narrow plate, which, spread across it in horizontal spectrum, are five preparations of duck, from confit and cracklin to sliced duck breast to duck stomach to foie gras, and you experiment with the 60 garnishes, trying one with a little bite of this or that duck, and continue until your eyes and tongue bug out. You’re cautioned by the waiter not to try to eat all 60 garnishes. But we laid waste to more than half. The waiters don’t tell you what the garnishes are, encouraging you try them more or less blind. You can identify the easy ones with curry or citrus or crème fraiche or basil flavors and textures, etc., but there are so many. And so many mysteries.
Another signature Grant Achatz dish follows (this one from his heyday at Trio, up in Evanston, where he first made his name in Chicago, after apprenticing with Thomas Keller at French Laundry and Ferran Adria at El Bulli and god knows many other places, including Trotter’s here in Chicago, but at the time of Trio he wasn’t even 26, I believe; he’s 36 now). It is the raviolo with exploding black truffle, bursting not only with hot liquid truffle but with romaine and parmesan. It is one bite, but a completely memorable sensation. By this point you need a palate cleanser, and Achatz has come up with one that is a total success. It’s not sorbet. Instead, it is five long needle-type things, with a small chunk of ginger on the end of each. The five kinds of ginger range from sharp and peppery to smooth and yogurty. It kind of shocks your palate awake, and keeps it tingling for a good while. I can’t say enough about ginger (the Bruce Cost ginger ale, of which I am a huge fan who gets bulk purchases of it, is made with raw ginger and pure cane sugar; it turns out Cost is one of the best chefs on the West Coast, in Asian cooking, and has put out a ginger cookbook. The more chefs who pick up on ginger, the better.)
A whimsy follows this. The waiter enters with two inflated balloons, suspended on a string, with a pin at the bottom so you can hold it. The balloons are made out of green apple, and inflated with helium. You “kiss” the balloon, it starts to deflate, you eat it, you sound like Minnie Mouse if you say anything, and then you can eat the string. Very strong apple flavor. But awfully sticky (they serve hot towels with it).
Then a dish which Achatz somewhat playfully calls a salad. It is divine. A beautiful black half-bowl arrives with red red red all over, strawberries cut, some with liquid nitrogen freeze, mixed with sorrel, sassafras, pine nut, and granola, and it was sheer luxury to eat (I keep thinking of the word the 2000-year-old man makes up to describe a bed—a Faarrrelllmaaaahhh). This was Chris’s favorite dish.
Then more whimsy: an old-fashioned pop bottle, filled with pink liquid and bubbles, turns out to be raspberry infused with rose, and cranked up with something to make your sinuses clear out in a most pleasurable way (they supply beautiful modernist glass straws to drink it with).
The dessert course is simply de trop de trop de trop. The waiter clears the table (there are no tablecloths at Alinea, just an ebony square or rectangle, made of fine wood, and the utensils are perched on a little device, like a small bed, to keep them off the table, you use them, leave them on your plate, and they’re replaced for each course). Then he unrolls something that looks like a chamois cloth, and feels a bit like one, but made sort of like an oil cloth. It is sterile and suitable for eating off of. Achatz figures why not eat off the table? You don’t always have to have a plate. And so a chef in chef’s whites appears, in our case a very tall and very young blond guy with a pianist’s hands and equipped (the waiter supplies these ahead of time) with several bowls of liquids and powders and runny-thickened sauces. He proceeds to make large sweeping motions with his right arm, pouring beautiful patterns of stuff that looks like paint (some of it is violet, in two shades, and then he pours liquid chocolate in a form in the center of all this, a metal ring he removes when the painting is done, adding pate sucree, and hazelnut, and brown butter wafer, and caramel, in such interlaced decorative fashion that I asked him if he had seen the Namuth movie of Jackson Pollock doing his poured paintings, but this did not, I suspect, fully register with the intense young man), and adds crumbles of this and that. Then he retreats, and leaves us with our utensils and the freedom to eat it. Eat it right up. Eat it right off the damned table. And eat and eat. Hell, the calorie count, never mind the fat and sugar grams, must have exceeded 10,000. I type this rather less nimbly that I’m used to, under the crush of this fantastic dessert.
We had a very nice chamomile tea to go with this. We paid our bill for the wine, apple cider, and juice drinks (+ tea), which came to $50. I left a $10 tip. The food, plus tax and tip, was $702.50, which you pay in advance (like buying an e-ticket to a Bruce Springsteen concert).
The waiters walked us down the stairs and showed us out, each one thanking us, and wishing me a happy birthday, and letting us get a glimpse of the kitchen (truly, a sight that would rival the Manhattan project at its height, under Stagg Field), and then walking us back through that incredible entryway/hallway to the street, where our car was waiting for us.
Toast, as every breakfaster knows, isn't really about the quality of the bread or how it's sliced or even the toaster. For man cannot live by toast alone. It's all about the butter. -- Adam Gopnik