Roots Bistro Gourmand: Rustic Fare Meets Cutting Edge Gastronomy

Chef Philippe Corbet and Chef James Orlandi are shattering assumptions of what a restaurant “should be.”         

Olive Oil Poached Salmon with Fried Chick Peas

The co-owners of Roots Bistro Gourmand in West Islip, Long Island have deep respect for the roots of cooking, but aim to transform the traditional bistro experience using techniques of New Age gastronomy.   

Seared Sea Scallops with Wild Mushroom Mousse

Dining at Roots evokes the charm and flavors of French country cooking propelled into the future with gastronomic tools like foams, emulsions and vacuum sealing. In the words of Corbet and Orlandi, the Roots experience “juxtaposes high end cuisine with humor and accessibility.” 

Read my profile of Corbet  and Orlandi here in Edible Long Island’s Spring 2014 Innovation Issue.  

©2014 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Harold McGee Lecture Series (Part Three)

It is the final day of the Harold McGee Lecture series at the French Culinary Institute and our hosts on this journey about using the scientific method in the kitchen are struggling with a little chaos theory at the front of the room. An important package containing essential oils for a segment on flavors has failed to arrive, and even the projector doesn’t seem to respond as Director of Culinary Technology, David Arnold repeatedly pokes the remote. Finally the equipment comes to life and we begin.

Today’s topic is Science and Modern Cooking, and Dr. McGee opens with a bold statement that initially takes me by surprise – the trendy term “molecular gastronomy” is a fad. As in empty. No meaning. Hogwash.

For a second, I wonder if the lecture hall’s audio system is faulty. The phrase just sits there for a moment between McGee and the audience resembling a collapsed soufflé. Why would the world’s most preeminent authority on science in the kitchen purposely deflate such a deliciously highbrow phrase?

It seems it’s a matter of sheer practicality, which I’m beginning to realize is Harold McGee’s preferred method. As he elaborates, I like what I hear more and more.

He explains that the phrase is really a marketing term that was dreamed up to attract participants to a workshop in the mid-1990s, but the fact is chemistry and cooking has been linked since the mid 1800s.

“Nobody who’s cooking is thinking about molecules,” says McGee. “They’re thinking about ingredients and flavor.”

He then presents an intriguing premise – the “MG” phrase has actually been shunned by the very chefs the media applies it to. “It’s much more about the individual and their vision,” he explains. McGee presents a number of position statements or “manifestos” by leading chefs that address the conundrum. McGee even worked with a number of top chefs to write a statement that sets the record straight about science in the kitchen. He offers a perspective by Ferran Adian of elBulli that I find particularly compelling:

“Cooking is a language through which all the following properties may be expressed: harmony, creativity, happiness, beauty, poetry, complexity, magic, humour, provocation and culture.”

McGee brings it all together for us in a mild-mannered but authoritative way: “Science is a piece of it, because it allows these people to enable their vision, but science is just a tool.”

We then plunge into a segment on new tools and ingredients top chefs are using each day in the kitchen. But McGee cautions that while ingredients like “hydrocolloids” are au courant, the processes they facilitate, such as thickening, gelling and emulsifying have been used by cooks for years. David Arnold starts up a vacuum distiller, a massive device with dials, rubber hoses and glass tubing that looks like it belongs in an emergency room. Nils Noren mixes up a concoction of cucumber, oranges slices and herbs into a green soup. David puts it into the distiller and it starts chugging. The exercise shows how pure, crisp distinctive flavors can be condensed and extracted from a mess of ingredients.

At lunch, Veronica and I return to Balthazar because there is a better selection of sandwiches on weekdays. But I soon learn that she has an ulterior motive. A recent convert to tart baking, she purchases a full sampler platter of tarts – including Cherry Clafoutis, Mango Souffle Tart and Apricot Frangipane Tart.

“You’ll help me eat all these, won’t you?”

Clearly, I’m there to enable her obsession, and I participate willingly. We return to the classroom and set out the tarts on a desktop, buffet style so we can evaluate the finer points of each. We both vote in favor of the impossibly fluffy, golden Mango Souffle Tart.

“You’re probably going to write that I force fed you all these tarts,” she says.

“I would never!”

During the afternoon Dr. McGee and company take us on a magical mystery tour of sensual perceptions. We study taste, smell and flavor, and I learn through a simple test that I am what the experts call a “hypertaster,” which means I have more taste buds than the Average Joe. We sample different parts of a tomato and discover that the savory taste is more intense at the core, and sniff banana slices to discover that some aromas from the fruit are actually the same as those that emerge from cloves. A strawberry has dozens and dozens of aromas that are released from one piece of fruit and meld to create that unmistakable essence of strawberry.

Our course completion certificates in hand, Veronica and I say goodbye on the steps outside the French Culinary Institute. She must return to her Test Kitchen, and I to my other daily endeavors.

“Back to reality,” Veronica says.

“Well, for us, that would be virtual reality,” I reply. “I’ll catch up with you in the blogosopher.” We hug, and I head for the subway. The last few days have been extraordinary for their many discoveries.

As Harold McGee says, “You never know.”

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Molecular Mouthful

Transportation technology has nearly failed me (one stalled subway and a bellicose taxi driver) but I still managed to arrive at wd-50 on the Lower East Side of Manhattan for my 7 p.m. reservation. I am joined for this immersion in molecular gastronomy by my friend “Lee Sloan,” a Grande Dame of food and wine on the New York circuit.

One cannot be dubbed a “Grande Dame” without a certain level of experience and outspoken opinion, and Lee has all these qualities in abundance. I’ve taken a certain perverse delight in inviting Lee – a staunch traditionalist – to join me in this futuristic culinary voyage that could easily equate to a visit to Captain Kirk’s kitchen. This promises to be nothing like Grandma’s home cooking.

wd-50 on 50 Clinton Street in New York City has been given one star by the 2007 Michelin Restaurant Guide, which classifies the food as “Contemporary.” While the guide makes no mention of the term “molecular gastronomy” it does use precious words like “experimental” and acknowledges that it’s hard to know if Chef Wylie Dufresne “is a chef or a mad scientist.” Yet, wd-50 is generally thought to be the epicenter of the molecular gastronomy movement in New York.

Lee and I have come to get a better understanding of what this movement is all about. Is it food, art or science? Lee has located some data on the five basic tastes – bitter, salty, sour, sweet and umami. What is umami? It’s a Japanese world that means “savory” or “meaty” and means the ability to detect glutamates found in meats, cheeses and protein-rich foods. In 1908 this fifth taste was clearly identified My pre-dinner research has turned up some debate on the term molecular gastronomy. A group of ground-breaking chefs recently issued a joint statement in the London Observer that focused on embracing excellence and innovation as the key principles of their work. The statement, in fact, rejects the trendy term molecular gastronomy as a descriptor of their cooking. We’ll leave the debates on linguistics and terminology to others. Tonight, our taste buds will boldly go where they’ve never gone before.

The exterior of wd-50 is unassuming – weathered red brick, a large tinted picture window, and that quirky pairing of initials and digits in neon at the lower corner of the pane, oddly reminiscent of the symbols used in the periodic table of elements. Inside, it is sleek and modern, decorated in shades of slate, blue, light wood and stone. There is a glimpse of chrome in the open kitchen at the far end of the room.

We are seated and review the wine list. “Is the wine molecular, too?” Lee asks wickedly. We order glasses of bubbly cava and Lee begins to quiz our waiter – What is the food all about? What makes it different? He seems somewhat bemused by her questions, and admits that no one has ever really asked. Instantly he launches into the credo, “This is molecular gastronomy, and the kitchen is a chemistry lab. The tastes and textures of the food involve all your senses.”

That sounds good to us and we’re glad we’re all on the same page. “While you’re at it,” Lee asks, “can you take out all the calories?” The waiter chuckles at her request. Apparently there are some miracles even science can’t accomplish.

We strike up a conversation with the couple seated next to us. The gentleman, named Lew Shomer, is a true devotee of the movement, and he and his wife just returned two weeks ago from a visit to The Fat Duck in the United Kingdom. “We’re experimental,” he tells us. Lew explains the principles of molecular gastronomy, and how foods are transformed, liquefied and turned into foam and concentrated flavors to engage the senses. It’s a little like having our own interpreter. He’s even attempted the techniques at home. “We’ve fooled around with the foam,” he confides.

Lee and I study the menu carefully, trying to find the optimal range of space-age selections. “I really hope my taste buds are up to this,” I tell her.

The restaurant is now filled with an attractive and fashionable crowd. We select three appetizers to share and two entrees. A member of the wait staff brings us a rectangular box filled with sesame flatbread, parchment paper-thin and speckled with pale ivory seeds. The nutty flavor of the sesame is intense and the flatbread crackles at the touch.

Our appetizers have been chosen for maximum variety. Corned duck, rye crisp, purple mustard, horseradish cream is split between us. Strips of duck sliced like bacon are rolled and stacked on a crisp cracker base, with a dollop of mustard and cream at the center. Lee takes her first bite and looks deep in thought. The horseradish is sweet and biting at once and the duck is smooth and rich. “I taste different things,” she says as she contemplates the flavors. “There are different sensations depending on where the food hits the tongue. This really does work.”

Lew gives us each a taste of his hangar tartar with the addictive, deep aroma of beef dressed with béarnaise ice cream. We sample slow poached egg, chorizo, pickled beets, dried black olives, and foie gras, mole lentils, quince yogurt. It’s not an excessive amount of food, but each flavor is intense, and the familiar is transformed or re-engineered. All of the action and satisfaction is olfactory and taste-oriented. The dust of dried black olives offers a concentrated mouthful of brine. Chorizo is presented as a savory liquid reduction. Tiny pinpoint-sized lentils pop like pasta. Foie gras is as soft as feathery custard.

“It must be fewer calories,” I tell Lee. “The servings are smaller.”

She laughs out loud. “As my mother used to say, from your mouth to God’s ears!”

The technique of eating reminds me of a wine tasting exercise. We each take a bite, roll it on our tongue and immediately experience a chorus of staccato flavors and sensations. It’s not about eating to satisfy the stomach, but to make the tongue come alive. Bland, it certainly is not.

Beef shortrib, cabbage, cheddar, Pink Lady apple features glossy rectangular slabs of short ribs stacked over greens and a sunny pool of melted cheddar, scattered with crispy onion rings. The dish evokes smoky chipotle and caramel flavors.

Parsnip tart, quinoa, hazelnuts, bok choy is actually an artistic composition of brambles and grains. Crispy shreds of parsnip taste like they’ve been roasted over an open flame, and the quinoa has the sweet taste of summer fruit.

“This defies definition,” says Lee. “Your satisfaction is stimulated by something completely different. It’s about body, mind, spirit and palate, of course.” Indeed, the five basic tastes are dancing as fast as they can.

The dessert plates are perhaps the most thrilling in flavor and visual appeal. Each resembles a three-dimensional Salvador Dali dreamscape. Yogurt parfait, pine, apple, pineapple, is a field of snow white, with logs of tangy yogurt decorated with spun gold. White chocolate cream, black sesame, argan oil, carrot is a Halloween color scheme of deep orange, black and white. The quenelles of carrot ice cream are velvety deep essence of carrot and supple white marble-sized marshmallows are like puffy clouds.

We pay the check, and the beverage manager Glen Goodwin graciously allows us to visit the kitchen. There are no beakers, lab coats, or pocket protectors – just a battalion of young culinary professionals working at an efficient clip. The kitchen is orderly and immaculate. There are chrome fixtures and a European-style stove in the center of the room. The kitchen is laid out scientifically, with hot foods prepared at the back, and cold foods and desserts prepared at the front near the dining area.

As we talk with Goodwin, our insight begins to catch up with the sensory experience we’ve just had. Goodwin explains that this style of cooking comes from chefs who “ask why too much.” He describes culinary professionals that are intensely curious. Here, the kitchen is a collaborative place where ideas incubate and come to life. Anyone can suggest the idea or hypothesis for a dish, and they keep trying it out until they get it right. Goodwin says this is a breed of classically trained chefs who have made the cassoulet a hundred times, and “now they want to try and make the cassoulet with pine nuts.”

In the taxi returning to midtown, Lee and I try to deconstruct the formula for molecular gastronomy – flavor, texture, color, matter, animal, vegetable, mineral and a little molecular action. Is it science? Is it art? Is it culinary avant-garde? We settle on revolutionary and unexpected with a stunning injection of physiology, psychology and imagination puréed, dissolved and freeze dried to perfection.

© 2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Test Tubes in the Kitchen

Let’s get one thing straight. In my mind there are chefs, and there are chemists.

Trying to mix the two is like trying to blend oil and vinegar.

I’ve spent a lot of time learning chef skills, but chemistry has never been a core competency. In high school, I would get excited when the Language Department hosted the annual International Dinner, or when the Home Economics Class invited me to taste test their final project. But, I would frequently nod off during Chemistry class, and in fact, earned the worst grade of my entire student career in Chemistry.

Given a choice between the Periodic Table or Tarte aux Pommes, I’ll take the pastry every time.

So, even I admit to being baffled by my current fascination with that odd hybrid of chef and chemist, the molecular gastronomist.

The term molecular gastronomy is a mouthful, with a dash of pretentiousness, advanced degree snootiness and food snobbery mixed in for good measure. It is a term that is still only whispered in the geeky fringes of the culinary movement. You’ve heard the rumors. These are folks who like to shake things up, manipulate tastes and textures and inject the flavor of foie gras into doughnuts, or serve beef tongue that tastes like a bologna sandwich. Who are these people who care more about molecules than mouth feel? Are food scientists chefs, foodies or a different breed altogether? They are reported to be a strange fusion of three-star chef and deranged scientific genius. Perhaps even more provocative, is molecular gastronomy art or science?

I’m intrigued by the questions, so I get in touch with my inner Louis Pasteur and decide to investigate this odd phenomenon of Bill Nye the Science Guy Meets the Galloping Gourmet.

In the spirit of full disclosure, it is a distinctly unscientific investigation.

I quickly latch on to a recent text – a Bible of the movement called, quite simply “Molecular Gastronomy: Exploring the Science of Flavor” written by Herve This. Monsieur This is a physical chemist, and the author of several books about food and cooking. Immediate answers may not be forthcoming. Monsieur This starts by discussing what molecular gastronomy is not. It is not cooking, and it is not food science, nor is it food technology.

According to Monsier This, “…food science deals with the composition and structure of food, and molecular gastronomy deals with culinary transformations and the sensory phenomena associated with eating.” (p. 3)

So are we talking about some sort of higher calling here? At the very least, Monsieur This seems to be engaging in a game of analysis, investigation and myth busting. He wants to challenge culinary convention and gain a deeper insight into what works in the kitchen, and why it works.

Monsieur This says, “Time-honored maxims, proverbs, old wives’ tales, folk beliefs, and culinary rules are millstones round our necks that weigh us down when they are false and wings that carry us aloft when they are true. Hence the importance of molecular gastronomy, whose primary objective is first to make an inventory of such rules and then to select those that have withstood careful analysis. Culinary art has everything to gain by separating the wheat from the chaff of empirical observations.” (p. 12)

So, I guess it’s not enough to be thrilled by the fact that your soufflé actually rises (thank, God, by the way). The Molecular Gastronomist wants to know why the soufflé rises, and wants to improve the soufflé’s chances of rising higher. (That sounds a lot like the last employee motivation program I went through.) And it better taste darn good, while you’re at it. If we know why food molecules do their thing, we can manipulate the molecules, the techniques and our equipment to get better and more fantastic results.

Monsieur This writes: “Whoever understands the reasons for the results he or she obtains in the kitchen can improve on them.” (p. 17)

Then, there’s that aura of culinary enlightenment. I suppose those who can unlock the mysteries of the kitchen, are then able to go on and create phantasmagoric edibles like foie gras doughnuts, or beef tongue that tastes like a bologna sandwich, and will ultimately achieve inner peace. Is this a tastier version of yoga?

I am still left with many, many questions. At the top of my list: “Is molecular gastronomy really different than “cuisine” and what does the food actually taste like?” I enlist my friend Lee Sloan, a Grande Dame of food and wine to join me on a little tasting excursion to a restaurant on the East Side of Manhattan where the proprietor is reported to be both Chef Extraordinaire and Mad Scientist. We are about to subject our refined palates to a little culinary atom smashing.

©2007 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved