An interesting article:
'Top Chef' top dog: Yes, he can cookOn a recent Tuesday in Manhattan, Tom Colicchio could be found doing something that the millions of Americans who know him chiefly as the snarling top dog on "Top Chef" might never expect.
He was cooking.
In a serious restaurant.
For an entire evening.
The setup, in an annex of Colicchio's Flatiron district flagship, Craft, was such that there was no missing him, a bald, hulking presence dead center in an open kitchen framed so much like a stage that I half expected him to pause while plating the scallops and belt out a number from "The King and I."
The few dozen of us who had finagled coveted seats could watch him fuss over herbs, fret over condiments and furrow his formidable brow. We could even read his thoughts, because the menu provided not only descriptions of the dishes but also musings from the man.
"All young chefs dream of cooking nightly at the small, signature place that defines them," read the missive from Colicchio, who also mentioned the joy of touching "every plate that leaves the kitchen."
"Through the years," he went on, "I've never let go of this ideal."
At Tom: Tuesday Dinner, the name that he has given this occasional restaurant-within-a-restaurant, he reconnects with his roots, reclaims his spatula and shows diners what he's really all about, or wants to believe he's all about.
For performer and audience alike, that's the promise and peculiar spectacle of the so-called chef's table, which Tom: Tuesday Dinner presents in an unusually large format.
I recently sampled three such experiences, counting Colicchio's. Each had a fixed multicourse menu, as chef's tables typically do. Each positioned me and my fellow diners close enough to the kitchen to see its monarch put the finishing touches on the food or, at a minimum, give it a theatrical once-over before blessing its delivery. And each showed a chef pushing back at — and maybe in some sense apologizing for — the financial ambitions, practical concerns and compromises prevalent in his other work.
At Bloomingdale Road, what we got at the chef's table was a far cry from the upscale snacks that Ed Witt serves the regular diners. For $55 a person my companions and I got six courses in all, but we didn't get much that we actually enjoyed eating. The squash bullied the lobster. The risotto managed to be too sweet, too murky, too musky and too salty all at once. The roasted squab included half of a little birdie head that had been cut vertically in two. "Grab the beak and suck out the brains," instructed Witt. We glanced longingly at yet another plate of sliders bound for diners less privileged than we. Witt is throwing off the shackles of conformity at this chef's table, but freedom may not be the thing for him.
At Beacon, Waldy Malouf declared, "This is an evening of experimentation. You're going to have to trust me."
In truth, it wasn't particularly experimental: oysters with shallots; duck with orange and arugula; short rib with Cheddar grits; a lamb chop with capers. But it was more ambitious than the usual meal at Beacon, a large-scale trough for businesspeople, theatergoers and shoppers often looking for nothing more elaborate than roasted chicken.
Although my companion and I had been told to arrive by 7 p.m., we weren't seated until 7:40. Then, midway through 12 courses for $109 — definitely a deal, because that included alcohol, tax and tip, and because some dishes were enjoyable — Malouf vanished and a different chef presented the remaining courses. This other chef never noted the departure of Malouf, who never said goodbye.
Tom: Tuesday Dinner is an infinitely more impressive operation. The service is coddling, the pacing smooth, the wine pairings spot on, the delicacies abundant and the pleasures intense.
That's as it should be, given the competition for admission — these dinners happen only every other Tuesday, and book up six weeks in advance — and how much the meal costs. For 10 courses the price is usually $150, not including tax, tip and drinks.
The initial courses made it immediately clear that Colicchio was doing something different — more particular and composed, less conceit-driven — from the food at Craft, Craftsteak and 'Wichcraft, an empire whose management often takes him far from the skillet.
Out came a circle of boneless crispy pig trotter, the richness and enticing funkiness of the meat offset by the sharpness of a pickled quail egg with it. Scattered around both were tiny hon shimeji mushrooms.
Right after that it was time for the scallops. They were Nantucket Bay scallops, to be precise, reflecting the menu's sustained effort to speak to — and take advantage of — the seasons.
And bringing the scallops' sweetness into bold relief were earthy accents: crushed sunchoke; separate sunchoke chips as light, crunchy and irresistible as anything ever shaved from a potato; and Périgord truffle with an honest, generous truffle flavor.
For this and every other dish, including fallow deer with farro and monkfish with bone marrow and chanterelles, Colicchio had chosen his ingredients with real discernment. And with the exception of wild Scottish partridge served too rare, everything was superbly cooked.
But the overall arc of the meal — the rhythm of it — wasn't exactly right.
The partridge was wrapped in cabbage; the veal breast that came next was paired with bitter greens. Bitter and peppery notes recurred too often. Across the first seven savory courses there was almost nothing — on the plate or the palate — with much brightness.
Yes, it was a meal for late autumn, but not for late autumn in Scandinavia. If food could brood, Colicchio's did.
The setting was a modestly lovely, utterly comfortable room with a long, anticipation-building walk from the entrance to the first tables and well-spaced artwork on exposed brick.
The kitchen spanned almost the length of the back wall, and it was laid out and equipped so that nothing obstructed the view of Colicchio in his unnatural habitat. He did some of his cooking on an electric stove rather than a gas one, which most chefs favor but which would have required a scene-scarring hood.
And he experienced the downside of performing in the open, where no one can doubt your involvement but anyone can register your distraction.
Riveted at one point by his BlackBerry — Padma calling? — he fiddled with the keys for a good 30 seconds and then, to fiddle some more, crouched down below counter level.
Although Tom: Tuesday Dinner lets him show that he's still cooking, it's not much for privacy.
Link to the article: http://www.mercurynews.com/ci_11386502?source=rss
