A Night at Del Posto

After I read Sam Sifton's September 4-Star review of Del Posto in The New York Times, I knew this was a place I was only going to hear more about, and definitely a place I couldn't afford.

But when you really want something, you naturally find a way to justify it. Two weeks ago I was tossing ideas around for places to take my mother for her birthday during her visit to the city, so I asked my managers at work for suggestions. They had been eating out a lot, so I knew they'd steer me well. "Del Posto! Hands down!" One of them said, raving about how attentive the captain had been during the service and how perfect the bottle of Barolo paired with his meal. He could have talked about the bottle of Barolo for hours had I not needed to return to my tables. "I'll make you a reservation, they'll remember me," he said, urging me to commit to the five course meal.

I waffled. Would it be worth the $95 prix fixe price? Would I even be able to get a reservation? My manager's voice spoke to me from the same shoulder as my indulgent conscious. Make the reservation... You'll regret it if you don't... The voice haunted me. I shook the voice and weighed my decision. For one, it would be in celebration of my mother's birthday. I could take her elsewhere, but for all I knew I'll be lucky enough to spend a year in the city and then I might end up somewhere else, so why not treat her to the best? After all, the woman did sacrifice her body for me and she's spent the last 23 years putting me before herself, so she deserves the best. It would also be an educational experience for me. To know great food, you have to eat great food, right? I could eat cereal for a few weeks, and besides, I rarely have to buy food between work and school. Furthermore, it was highly recommended by two of managers and both of them have a good deal of dining experience. When someone who works in restaurant management says it's the best service they've ever had after working in both Los Angeles and New York City, I'm prepared to trust their judgment. I had decided — I was making reservations.

My manager was more excited than I was when I told him I had decided on Del Posto. "Really?! Oh my gosh, you're going to have the time of your life! Let me call and make the reservation! I'll get you with Augustine! He's the best! I wouldn't be surprised if they bring you something special! You must get the Barolo! It's such a steal!!! When do you want to go?" He paused to take a breath and picked up the phone. I told him a Sunday would work well with the schedule. He caught his breath and waited for the host to answer. When a host answered, his voice lowered several octaves to sound more official. "Yes, this is ----, I dined at Del Posto two weeks ago and I'd like to send another guest your way on Sunday, November 14." He waited while the host checked the books, covering the phone to whisper, "I think I got you in, you SO owe me!!!" He then returned to his official business-like voice, "Ok, thank you very much." Click. "I got you in!!!"

I was now committed and I decided I would keep the dinner date a secret. I told my mother to pack a nice outfit for a fine meal and left it at that. In the weeks leading up to the meal I occasionally visited the Del Posto site, looked at the menu, and scoured the chef biographies. Del Posto, which is the first Italian restaurant to earn a 4-Star review from The New York Times since 1974, is a joint effort between New York restaurateurs Mario Batali, Lidia Matticchio Bastianich, and Lidia's son Joseph Bastianich. Del Posto is their Italian love child, swaddled in Italian luxury. The restaurant serves lunch and dinner, offering two prix fixe options for those visiting for dinner. The Del Posto team has worked together to create a number of video demonstrations for both swooning and educational purposes, all of them available on the restaurant's YouTube page.

When I told my mother on Sunday night where we were going, I'm not sure she knew what to expect. I told her it was a Michelin Guide rated restaurant and that I was lucky to get reservations on such short notice. We wore our Sunday best and made our way to the Meatpacking District.

We checked in with the host and made our way to the bar where we sat on kush leather bar stools. Tea lights flickered everywhere from each stair of the staircase to the individual table tops on both floors of the restaurant. I studied the extensive bar, glancing down at the menu of classic cocktails. The European bartender approached us dressed in a charming suit, ready to make us a concoction that would transport us into everything that is Del Posto. I ordered my mother a Manhattan made with Maker's Mark and a Hemingway Daiquiri for myself. The Manhattan was in perfect balance, accented by a bitter cherry. My cocktail was the last tart tinge my tongue would taste for the next three hours. We were about to be walked to a table where umami—a Japanese word for the fifth "savory" sense—would be redefined. As we inhaled the soft ambiance of the dining room and listened to the pianist play Cole Porter, another suited man greeted us. "Buona sera," he said, bowing his head slightly. "Whose birthday are we celebrating tonight?" I gestured to my mom, who at this point was glowing from the combination of happiness and bourbon. "Happy birthday," he said with a stiff yet welcoming smile. He then bid us farewell. "Enjoy, ladies. Buona sera."

We sat at a neatly clothed table where we were each gently pushed into our table at the same time. It was this moment where the show really began. Each member of the polished service team approached the table with a different offering. We were first greeted with water, and again with a tasting from the chef, and then by the captain, who stood with one of the most inviting smiles I've seen flash in a restaurant. "Would you like to see a wine list or your menu first?" He asked. When we requested the wine list he then offered the service of a sommelier, in the most non-assuming way possible. This man was everything you could possibly want in a server — kind, inviting, knowledgeable, patient— everything. He suggested a glass of Rosso del Soprano from Sicily for my mom and I selected a glass of crisp Vermentino from Toscana.

We were then handed the bound menu, where we were instructed to select a antipasti, two handmade pasta tastings, and a secondi course. My mother gave me her trust and told me to order our food. With her approval, I selected both the lobster salad with broccoli rabe and the carne cruda, which is basically an Italian steak tartar. For our pasta courses we selected the caramelle di Gorgonzola Dolce pasta with truffle butter and orecchietta stuffed with lamb neck ragu. For the secondi course my mom wanted the wood grilled lobster with artichokes and I decided on the seared duck breast.

A bread basket arrived with an assortment of fresh miniature loaves. Each piece of bread was warm to the touch and steam escaped when the crust was broken and pulled apart. By this time we had been graced with the presence of six different faces, all of them pleasant and extremely poised in their delivery. Then the first course arrived. Though beautiful, we agreed that this course was not memorable. The lobster was served in a cold and spicy diavola sauce and the cruda was your typical delicate tartar decorated with delicate greens. What I did appreciate about the cruda was that the mushrooms were cut to mimic the appearance of shaved Parmesan, which was a nice artisanal touch.

We then moved into our pasta courses. The caramelle arrived, each piece of pasta glistening like a freshly wrapped candy in a wrapper of silky truffle butter. They melted in my mouth. Soft Gorgonzola Dolce was within each little treasure, perfect in warmth and texture. We were then greeted with our second paste tasting, which was equally good. The pasta was a deep purple, almost to the depth of my mother's glass of red wine. Delicate, yet strong in flavor. The pasta tastings teased us both, making us wish there had been more on the plate.

When the pasta dishes left the table, the table was bare for a few minutes and each of us were already full. Before we could welcome the arrival of our secondi course we looked up to another new face. He pushed a royal chart towards our table with a polished and covered serving platter. Our captain then met him to reveal what was beneath the large serving lid. "This is a gift from the chef. Wild striped bass. We do hope you enjoy," our captain said with his famous smile. I watched as the flesh of the fish was gently pulled from the bones and plated. The man then put a glove on his hand to hold a fragrant black truffle, generously shaving it over each plate. Each truffle shaving fell like a feather making it's way to the ground. I was awe struck. What had we done to deserve this? When both men left there was silence at the table. I bowed my head to smell the essence of truffle and then took a bite of what was perhaps the most luxurious fish I've ever tasted.

"Lauren, do you think he did this because it's my birthday?" my mother asked.

Birthdays are special, but no chef sends birthday wishes in the form of fresh fish and shaved truffle to the table. This kind gesture was odd, but I wasn't about to ask questions. Maybe my manager had really made an impression when he called to make the reservation. I didn't know. Sometimes you just have to say thank you when something amazing happens for no apparent reason. The man who served the fish returned to the table, pulling his card from his jacket.

"Do let me know if you have any concerns about this evening," he said, placing the card next to me.

I definitely did not have concerns, only compliments, but at this moment I was in a truffle coma. As I sat, intoxicated with pleasure, the secondi course eventually made it's way to the table. A split lobster body sat before my mother and a crispy duck breast sat before me. The lobster was slightly overcooked, but the duck... the duck was another level. This duck was perfection on a plate. The skin was perfect. the temperature was perfect. The seasoning was perfect. Even the celery puree was perfect. If I could duplicate this duck breast in school, Chef would surely hand me my graduation certificate then and there. This duck was of true caliber. I'll probably dream about that duck breast for years to come.

Though the secondi course was fantastic, neither of could finish. Had we been wearing belts, they would have needed readjusting, and just when we thought it was over, we were handed dessert menus. As much as I wanted to order cheese for dessert, it just wasn't happening. Wanting to take advantage of all the courses, we made ourselves order the dessert. My mom selected the gelati tasting and I picked the polenta-squash cake with sage gelato. The gelati tasting arrived in a large bowl with a birthday candle, each scoop on top of the other, and the polenta-squash cake was a dainty portion as I had hoped, but just when we thought we could handle what was before us, they brought more! Our captain delivered a small wooden chest, each drawer sliding out to reveal an assortment of Italian sweets. There were galato bon-bons, candies, preserved fruits, fresh cocoa nuggets, and cookies. We were not prepared to turn this offering away, even though we should have, for the sake of our stomachs.

We left mesmerized by the degree of fine service and with memories of pure Italian extravenge.

So what it worth it? Absolutely.

Yakitori Taisho

I finally made it to Yakitori Taisho on St. Marks Place, which is short walk from where I live. It's a tiny Japanese grill reminiscent of Tokyo, or atleast that's what I had read before I moved to New York City. A bartender in Lawrence told me Yakitori Taisho was one of the places I had to visit, so it was definitely on my list.

I've never been to Tokyo, but I'm definitely curious after this meal, which was probably the closet authentic Japanese kabob joint experience I've had. Mae and I waited a good twenty minutes on a Sunday night before we were sat at a packed bar in front of the grill station, which is a four by four cubical space with three sweaty Japanese skater boy cooks. They wrap towels on their heads and sport California skate and surf shop T-shirts. There is absolutely no interaction between these men, only occasional eye connect to ensure no one is about to bump into eachother as they toss ramen noodles and flip skewers of chicken meatballs, asparagus, and quail eggs, which are just a few grill offerings.

As I took a look around the restaurant I realized I was the only Caucasian in sight. Everyone was Asain, and everyone seemed to be ordering similar dishes, but I couldn't figure out what it was they were ordering. Luckily the menu has English explanations in small print, so I did my best when selecting my meal. When the waitress arrived to take our order, we were both stumbling a little bit, realizing that even though we weren't ready, we needed to put an order in if we were going to be served. I quickly ordered the special, which was pictured with a tasting of meat skewers, rice, and a twist on kmichi. Mae ordered a few skewers and called it good. I also ordered some Japanese fries with aioli on impulse. After expressing some frustration about mayonnaise on sushi the other day in a Facebook status, several friends informed me that Japanese cuisine welcomes the mayo - on everything. Rather than throw a fit about mayo again, I decided to do a little embracing of the oddity.

We watched the cooks prepare several dishes we wish we had ordered. "What's that?" Mae would shout across the bar, trying to grab a cook's attention. These guys didn't have time to give us descriptions, but one of the cooks took interest in my pretty Chinese roommate and did his best. When our food arrived we both agreed we probably could have been a little more adventurous, but I guess there's always next time.

Bottom line: The food is cheap, the beer is cold, and the wait can be long, but the food is damn tasty, and I'm willing to wait in line again.

A meal worth sharing

Today I attended orientation for the French Culinary Institute where I'll start school this Thursday. I felt like a giddy freshman again, eager to meet my classmates and learn what the months to come would entail.

I arrived to the building where a table of my classmates were sitting patiently in silence. None of them were really talking, but I sat down anyway and introduced myself. Everyone went around the table and said where they were from. Most of them were from New Jersey and one of them was from the Boston area. I've noticed that people are pretty specific when it comes to claiming Jersey, much like people from Kansas City. I have yet to learn what each of these areas encompasses in terms of character, socioeconomic class, etc. Like Kansas City, I'm sure people get a little sensitive if you connect them with the wrong part of Jersey.

When it was time for orientation to actually start we were led through a narrow hallway where we had our pictures taken and eventually to a room where we all had duffel bags waiting for us. My duffel was labeled with my name and inside it were three chef jackets with my name sewn on the right side, three pairs of pants, three skull caps, three aprons, three neckerchiefs, and dish towels. I also received two books, one with my class notes and a food guide.

After we claimed our things we sat and waited for the presentation to being. I looked around the room and noticed that the class was an even split between men and women. There are about 25 people from what I gather. I'll be with this group until I graduate in June 2011, so I'm sure we'll get to know eachother pretty well. When we went around the room to introduce ourselves we were asked to state our names, where we were from, and explain the last good meal we ate.

My new classmates are from New Jersey, Queens, Bronx, Brooklyn, Harlem, Russia, Florida, Ohio, Boston, Maryland, Sacramento, and St. Louis. I'm the only Kansan. I didn't get into the whole "I'm from Colorado and Kansas" explanation. I'll claim Kansas for now. Everyone had a different dining experience to share when we explained our last good meals. Some people said they cherished the last meal their mom made, while others spoke of dining aboard and local spots within their neighborhoods. A couple even chose to reveal that their loyalty lies with chain restaurants, which is pretty lame if you ask me.

I described a meal I had two nights ago with my new friend Thomas. After we closed up the restaurant Thomas invited me to go to Greenpoint, Brooklyn, for some authentic Polish food. He said the place served affordable grub and all the servers wore traditional Polish attire, and better yet, the wine was cheap. I was in! We hopped the subway and before I knew it we were in Greenpoint standing in front of Karczma.

Never having the opportunity to eat Polish food before, I didn't have any expectations, and I'm glad because I really enjoyed what I saw when we set foot in the place. The dining area resembles an old farm house with wooden tables and a wooden bar. I didn't know if I was part of the crew on Oregon Trail or if I was in Poland, but I dug it. Polish folk music was turned up on high and Polish beer poured from the taps. The menu was a large wooden book, sturdy and sacred looking. I told Thomas to order since he was a return customer. He ordered a plate of steak tartar, a large beer to share, a Polish specialty plate, and a cheap bottle of red wine. I ordered the spicy beef goulash for some extra variety.

When the steak tartar arrived, we were both a little taken aback. It in no way resembled the delicate mound of tartar we served at our restaurant with slender, toasted pieces of bread. This tartar was obviously out to redefine tartar, or convince us that we should never order tartar again. Our Polish waitress slid a pound of ground chuck onto the table with a side of onions, mushrooms, pickles, and capers. We both had a moment of silence when the plate arrived, confused where we should start and wondering if we should even eat it. Was this sanitary? I began to wonder. Thomas mixed everything into the beef and I began to remember my grandma Annette eating raw pieces of hamburger with salt. Eating raw red meat hadn't killed her, so surely I would be fine. I smeared some of the meat onto a slice of bread, closed my eyes, and did as my father always told me — I tried something new. It wasn't bad, but we weren't licking the plate clean either.

"Do you not like the tartar?" the waitress asked.

"Oh no, of course not!" Thomas falsely assured her, giving me a wink as she hurried to another table.

When dinner arrived I knew my stomach was in for a beating. A heaping plate of goulash sat before me and a large plate of pierogies, hunter's stew, potato pancakes, kielbasa, and stuffed cabbage sat piled high before Thomas. Everything was either meat, sauerkraut, potato, or salt. Not a combination I'd indulge in too often, but definitely a selection of new tastes. It was the experience and the company, however, that made a dive into a new culture all the more pleasant and memorable, which is why I thought the meal was worth sharing with my classmates.

On Thursday I will arrive for my first evening of classes. I'll receive my knife set and it will most likely be a syllabus day of sorts. I'm sure the chef will have an introduction followed by kitchen rules and a few words about sanitation. Surely I'll find a story within the evening worth telling.

Until then,

Lauren

Finally, free time

I finally have time to wash my underwear. After nine days of working, eight of them doubles, I'm happy to report that I've had three days off to do whatever I want.

Sunday I went to Trader Joe's and picked up some necessities. I'm pretty happy when my fridge is stocked with salad fixings, goat cheese, tortillas, salsa, almond milk, vegetables, and beer. My roommate works on weekends, so I decided to buy some salmon for dinner. I marinaded it in maple syrup, soy sauce, and fresh ginger and served it with barley and stir fried zucchini. We ate some edamame and cucumber dumplings for an appetizer. Mae has never had to cook for herself, so cooking in our tiny New York City kitchen has been enjoyable and new for both of us. In the mornings I usually saute myself an assortment of vegetables and serve them with eggs over easy.

Yesterday was the first time I was able to shop for anything that I didn't have to wear to work. I stocked our kitchen with a few items I found at cheap home furnishing store down the street and stopped at a farmers market. I was really surprised to see how many farmers markets are in the city! There are a variety of markets and all of them are huge! How they're able to transport all of the fresh produce is beyond me. I'm glad it's all available. Mae has learned that shopping for me usually entails kitchen items and groceries, not necessarily shoes and clothes. "On Friday we're going shopping," she said. "Oh great, I've been wanting to go inside the big Crate & Barrel!" I told her. "No, like real shopping, Lauren." I'm a lost cause.

Last night I was invited to observe a class at the French Culinary Institute where I'll be attending evening classes beginning next Thursday. When I arrived to the building I was issued a chef jacket and hat. I was introduced to a prospective student and together we were led to classroom of students prepping their cooking stations for class. The chef instructor told us he would be teaching how to cook and serve shell fish. I looked to the dry erase board that hung in front of the classroom. "Class Plan of Action" was written across the board with a list of tasks to accomplish:

Class Plan of Action

-Court bouillon with vinegar

-Sauce Americaine

-Moules a la marinere

-Escargot Bourguignon

-Scallop with parsley coulis

-Oysters & clams

The class met at the head of the classroom where the chef began to lecture about the versatility of sauce Americaine, which is a rich lobster sauce made using the entire lobster. He then grabbed a live lobster and began to prepare the class for the execution the lethargic sea creature. I watched as students began to squirm, some of them laying their eyes on a live lobster for the first time. I have memories of my father submerging live lobsters into boiling water for their final moments, but I'd never seen anyone kill a lobster like this chef did.

He held the creature with both hands, knuckles up, and twisted its body like a wet rag. Water and bodily fluids began to seep from the lobster's broken shell and the chef began to pull the organs from the head cavity. It was quick, and probably more painful for the students watching than the lobster. He then stuck a thick needle through the lobster's dismembered tail to prevent it from curling and the class watched as the dead specimen's legs continued to flail. The lobster's meat was placed in a bowl separate from the cracked shells, which would later be used to enhance the court bouillon. He then dismissed the class to preform the same routine at their individual stations.

I watched as students held their lobsters, some of them hesitant to commit lobster murder. Shells cracked and lobster bodies began to clank against the steel bowls at each station. Once the lobster preparation was finished, the class began to prepare their sauce Americaine and some steamed mussels. The smell of simmering garlic, butter, and lobster stock began to drift through the air. White wine hit my nose and I could hear the chef saw at crunchy baguettes. Broth foamed in each pan as parsley and slabs of butter were tossed into the mix. All I wanted was a slice of baguette and an invitation to dip it. Alas, the mussels were steamed and a buttery liquid was drizzled over their yawning shells. "Would you like one?" one of the students asked. She could probably see me salivating.

Class continued, and before I knew it I had been observing for an hour and a half. Luckily, when I turned in my issued chef coat I knew dinner downstairs at L'Ecole was waiting. My admissions officer invited me and a guest of my choice to eat at the restaurant on the school's tab. I will cook at this restaurant during my last 200 hours of training.

Mae was my guest and we enjoyed a cocktail at the bar before we were sat for our five course meal.

Dinner was fantastic. Mae and I asked our waiter about the sweetbreads on the menu since neither of us had tried them before. Sweetbreads are thymus glands of beef, pork, or lamb that are usually pan fried. Sensing our hesitation to try them, he didn't push us to order, but instead mentioned that he might bring us a surprise at some point in the meal. When our meat courses arrived, sweetbreads accompanied our osso buco and lamb dishes. We each tried them, but we didn't finish them. While the taste wasn't bad, the texture was different... almost like fried soft fat.

After five liberal courses, we were feeling full and sleepy. We pushed ourselves to walk home, and even though I was slightly uncomfortable, I smiled the whole way home. The evening definitely made me excited to start school next week. It's really happening!

The beginning of a new beginning

My boyfriend of sixth months left for California this morning. He loaded a small and rusted Corolla with his three bikes, a handful of belongings, and a his cat. He packed light, left all that he knew, and headed West to discover what his California itch is all about. I'm happy for him, but a selfish part of me wishes we had more time together. The reality of separation really stings, even though I am moving in 13 days.

A knot of emotional congestion has gathered in my chest and I've lost a taste in my mouth. I've also failed to write for about a week, which was against my blogging plans. I've been eating, but it hasn't been very enjoyable since he told me he was leaving. My friends and family have pulled me through the doldrums and I've accepted that life without him will feel strange for awhile.

My friend Cameron believes I'll feel better when I move. I have every reason to feel excited, and our conversation over dinner at Teller's last Thursday reminded me of that. Cameron has an unmatchable ability to lift my spirits and make me laugh. He drank some Adami Garbel Prosecco and I sipped a couple glasses of Wente "Morning Fog" Chardonnay. Cameron insisted that I eat something, even though food was the last thing on my mind. We split a warm goat cheese spread appetizer with Black Mission Figs. My tears were interrupted by spurts of laughter and the appetite that had vanished made an appearance. It was a therapeutic dinner for me. We had a few side salads and nibbled on a margarita pizza fresh from the pizza oven. It's just what I needed - Simple food, a few drinks, and Cameron's company.

My dad, step mom, and brothers visited on Friday to experience a stroll down Massachusetts Street for one last time before I move. They treated me a mojito at Esquina and dinner at Pachamama's, which caters to guests who want something a little inspiring out of their dining experience. It's hard to put a finger on what Pachamama's really specializes in, but I think it's safe to describe the food as a fusion of the familiar and the foreign. The typical suspects are on the menu, but they've been dressed up with some modern, multicultural flare. My brothers have grown to learn that eating out is about trying new things in our family, and bless their hearts, they really try. With their tastes in mind, we decided to order the the Rock Shrimp Mac & Cheese "Lollipops" as an appetizer. It sounded intriguing and what kid wouldn't want to eat mac & cheese on a skewer? Sneak some shrimp in there, fry it up, and it's bound to excite their taste buds. They were good. For dinner we all ordered different items and passed them around the table to for everyone to try. My dad ordered the Apple-Wood Smoked Duck Breast, Heidi tried the fish special (which is escaping me right now), the boys split a Star Bar Burger jazzed with white cheddar and smoked bacon, and I picked Oaxaca-Cheese Stuffed Thick Cut Pork Chop. The duck breast arrived to the table drizzled with a brown sugar blueberry butter on a bed of fingerling potatoes and creamed zucchini.

Duck may not be my favorite bird on a plate, but it was definitely a combination of tastes I hadn't tried before, which is always a good thing. We all enjoyed Heidi's fish. No one seemed to love my pork chop, but I liked it. I felt like there was too much going on in the dish, but I really like the crushed hominy underneath the chop. It had a gritty texture and it really complimented the rojo sauce, which had the right amount of heat.

I don't know that a pork chop really need cheese stuffed into it, but it was an interesting

technique. The burger impressed us all. It was killer. A friend of mine used to work in the Pachamama's kitchen and he swears it's the best burger in town. I believe him. He said they grind the ground beef in house, bake the buns, and have a secret combination of ingredients in their patties. I'd venture to say the burgers at Pachamama's are senior to Dempsey's and The Burger Stand. If you're in Lawrence, you may want to venture on your own burger taste challenge. We ditched a fancy dessert so the boys could enjoy some Cold Stone, which puts their Salina ice cream options to shame. Their visit really meant a lot to me and dinner at Pachamama's was a perfect cap to my four years in Lawrence.

This will be my last full week in Lawrence, a place I definitely consider a home. I received a stellar education in this town and I've met some amazing people here. I learned a lot about the local restaurant scene and I observed several kitchens that will forever influence the rest of my career. I may feel a little tender right now, but it's only because I've grown attached to the familiar. The beginning of a new beginning is never easy.

Cafe Beautiful

Cafe Beautiful is definitely an appropriate name for Chef Sukan's cozy, lofted, private restaurant on Massachusetts Street. This past Tuesday I had the pleasure of dining at Cafe Beautiful with a small group of friends in honor of new transitions. My friend Lindsey will be moving to Chicago this weekend and I'll be moving to New York City in a month. Sukan's food celebrates very percise knife work and all that is simple. He doesn't advertise and he said he breaks even with his business. It's not about the money for Sukan, and that's obvious when you get the check and you've just experienced eight courses of beautiful food for $67 in the comfort of a personal dining room. Oh yea, and you get you bring your own wine AND you get a personal chef all to yourself for three hours. Deal? I think so. I'll let the photos speak for themselves.



"Justifiable passion. That's what I have."
-Chef Ken Sukan

Course 1: Butterflied shrimp with a bay scallop in an egg custard

Notice that the custard is presented in a hallowed squash bottom.

Wine Pairing: The. Formula 2005 Small Gully

Course 2: Fresh fruits glazed with ginger dressing

I adore the little kiwi flowers. I think this looks like a fruit boat with a pineapple sail.

Wine pairing: Siduri Pinot Noir 2008

Course 3: Red snapper
Wine pairing: Folie a Deux 2006 Napa Valley

Course 3 (vegetarian): Tempura vegetable tower


Course 4: Cucumber salad with white tuna and sesame drizzle

This salad is one of the best salads I've ever put in my mouth. Sukan created tiny julienned tendrils of jicama, purple cabage, carrot, and cucumber tossed with a light vinegarette. The hallowed cucumber created a bustier for the overflow of seductive slaw.

Wine pairing: I think I stopped writing down
the wines at this point in the meal...Oops.

Course 5: Sockeye Salmon with a ginger soy glaze
and a salad of apple and fennel


Course 6: Tuna sashimi flower presented in an ice bowl

Course 7: Sushi unagi
Course 8: Warm tea (not pictured)

After eight courses of fantastic food and wine, we were all happily full and buzzing. The conversation was rich with laughter and memories. Lindsey said it best: "I love how more wine brings out the sheer honesty that I so much appreciate." It was a night of the best food and company I could have asked for.