On the road again: Chicon, day 3

Another Worldcon day, another day spent almost entirely in a hotel room in front of a laptop doing email.  Ah, well; it comes with the job.  I did manage to get out for almost two hours during the day, during which I picked up my program participant packet, checked out a bit of the con's layout, and watched most of the opening ceremonies.  A pleasant time.  I hope to do more con stuff tomorrow.

Lunch was half of a small pretzel roll and a little bit of Coke Zero.  Partly, that was because I was so full from dinner last night.  Partly, it was due to tonight's dinner...

...which was at Alinea, Chef Grant Achatz's main restaurant, and was utterly wonderful. 

I could write a novel about my two meals there, but seeing as how I'm actually under contract for two other novels, I won't do that.  I will hit a few high points, though, to try to explain a bit of the Alinea magic.

When they opened the restaurant doors tonight--we were in the first seating and actually seated first--the two attendants said, "Have fun!"  All night long, servers and other staffers said, "Have a great time!" and "Have fun!"  They also asked if we were having fun.  Never did anyone question whether the food tasted good, as servers at other restaurants often do.

That difference is due to two reasons:  They know their food is delicious--and, man, is it!--and the emphasis is on the complete experience you have.  They want you to have fun, and you most certainly do.

When we stepped through the open doors, we found ourselves on slightly wet grass, as if we were walking outside on morning dew.  To our left, a small aluminum washtub filled with cold water sat atop a small stone wall.  In it, bumping into each other gently as they circulated in the moving water, were glasses of lemonade.  The lemonade was just the right blend of sweet and tart, the whole entrance a nod to summer. 

The meal contained many courses, most of which took advantage of various modernist cuisine techniques to intrigue your imagination visually and fool yet please your taste buds.  A course of mushrooms sat atop four rocks.  A single piece of pasta stuffed with the most delicious black truffles and black truffle water perched in the center of a spoon sitting in a circular container built for just that purpose.

The penultimate course was a balloon on a string weighted down with a shiny nail.  The balloon and the string were made of fruit leather, and the balloon was filled with helium.  If you didn't want to sound silly, you poked the balloon with the nail.  We bit into it, sucked out the helium, and talked in squeaky voices as we ate the delicious balloon and string. 

The final course was amazing.  First, they covered the table with a light gray neoprene tablecloth that matched the color of the building's exterior.  Then, they put down a set of small bowls full of brightly colored powders and gels.  A translucent white egg the size of an ostrich egg came next and occupied the center of the table. 

A chef appeared from the kitchen.  With a set of spoons and very careful motions, he spread the contents of the bowls in broad strokes across the table, literally painting it with food--strawberry powder, Chantilly cream, sweet English pea powder, and much more.  He poured liquid nitrogen into the egg, held it up before our eyes for a few moments as it steamed, and then dropped it hard onto the table. 

It shattered and revealed a world of small, colorful dessert objects inside.  Here's a look at part of the table. 

We ate as they instructed us, by dragging our spoons across the table and into the contents of the white chocolate egg, mixing various flavors and trying out all the many different items inside.

It was glorious.  We couldn't help but laugh the entire time, permanent smiles stuck on our faces as we ate like kids, the very act of our eating further changing the art that was the tablecloth. 

Getting into Alinea is tough, and the meal is expensive.  It's worth every bit of that trouble, and more.  It's worth a flight to Chicago.  It's an amazing experience I wish everyone could have. 

On insanely expensive meals

Regular readers will note that I write frequently about food, particularly about insanely expensive restaurant meals. Ticia asked recently how I got into the hobby of "collecting restaurants," as I often put it, and suggested that others might want to know. So, I'll do my best to explain.

I didn't grow up with fancy food; far from it. I was a very shy and conservative diner for quite some years. Over time, though, business travel took me to cities with restaurants far better than I had ever sampled before, so my palate grew both more discriminating and more adventurous.

A group of us began eating out most Saturday nights and trying different local places, and that helped me expand my dining horizons.

What really pushed me over the edge, though, was a meal at Minibar in Cafe Atlantico many years ago. Minibar, for those who don't know it, is a six-seat restaurant-within-a-restaurant that sits on the highest level of Jose Andres' Cafe Atlantico. Andres worked at Ferran Adria's El Bulli in Spain, and while there he learned a great deal about molecular gastronomy. The meal we enjoyed on that first trip (we've since gone a second time) involved many of Adria's now widely known techniques, including caviar made from the essence of peas, various deconstructed classic dishes, and so on.

The presentations were like nothing I'd ever seen--and they were all delicious and whimsical and fun. Like many types of literature, and like SF in particular, these dishes were more than food, they were the works of artists in conversation with their field's past and contemporary artists. I know that sounds pretentious, but it's true; a chef who deconstructs a classic dish, such as Caesar salad, into a new but tasty concoction that captures the essence of the classic in a new way is both commenting on and honoring that previous dish.

I finally got it: the meals were not just sustenance, and not just delicious, they were also art experiences, performance art of a very special type.

When you eat at The French Laundry or Alinea or Robuchon in Las Vegas, to name but three, you are not simply feeding yourself; you are experiencing the art of a chef and a style of dining that the chef has created and refined. You have the opportunity to learn and experience new things--even as you stuff your face.

A true foodie, I believe, is not just in it for dinner at these fancy places, of course. A true foodie should also love any food that tastes good or is inventive or is otherwise interesting. So, I'll happily enjoy a hot dog or macaroni and cheese, but I'll also crave these more adventurous offerings, even if they cost a small fortune, and I'll enjoy them both as meals and as the art experiences they truly are.