I can definitively say three things about Chef Laurent Gras after dropping the GNP of a depressed Caribbean country at l2o: he has what approaches a pathologically unhealthy fascination with emulsions, he could convince me to be a pescetarian if it didn’t sound so gay and, finally, he is not fucking around.
Since this was probably my most serious dining experience since growing teeth, I approached it like a prizefighter. Wore the jeans with a little extra room, skipped lunch, game face, let’s get it on. Instead of a cut man, we had about twelve sharply dressed waitrons. Instead of a water bottle, we hydrated with Champagne, criminally expensive sake and giant glasses of wine. Float like a butter poached arctic char, sting like a several hundred dollar check.
The pre-fight staredown:
We arrived at the ex Ambria space and were whisked through the uncluttered dining room to our semi-private table. I had called in advance and asked about taking pictures. The hostess sounded genuinely happy that yet another shameless food nerd was about to get his rocks off. I stalked through the dining room and glared at the other patrons. I was hoping to have a quick brawl with some decrepit hedge fund criminal to make me extra-hungry for raw flesh, but we were early and the only other diners were far too crunchy to fight. They only serve tap water in order to save the planet, which makes about as much sense as eating at l2o during a recession. Someone came by with a plate of five different breads, but one variety contained bacon. So, really, they needed just one kind of bread. On with the gluttony.
Round 1: la premiere amuse bouche
Some black yam noodles, black mushrooms and sea monkeys. It was amusing and the little fantasy creatures were crunchy and salty. I could see kicking back on my couch and chowing down on these like Chili Cheese Fritos. You know, if I lived in Japan or a horror movie.
Round 2: la deuxieme amuse bouche
A chunk of octopus tentacle on brioche. I would kill a man for one more bite of this. I swear to allah I could eat perfectly prepared octopus every goddamn day of my life. It was tender and savory and why can I only get octopus done right when I pay a lot for a meal? Do they have to cook this shit with diamonds or something?
Round 3: Kinmedai (Japanese Golden Eye Snapper)
Garnished with garlic chips that stuck in my teeth, but it was also topped with little hibiscus blossoms so we’re cool. I am a total sucker for the opportunity to eat flowers.
Round 4: Tuna
Arranged in a checkerboard pattern with shiso emulsion, soy emulsion, emulsion emulsion. Relatively simple, it let the superior cut of tuna get most of the shine, while the little emulsions played the supporting role well, George Kennedy to the tuna’s Paul Newman.
Round 5: Tofu
This is what all tofu hopes it grows up to be. It was almost obscenely creamy as it sat there, wading in a little pool of miso reduction. That said, it was tofu. I feel about tofu as I feel about Woody Allen. I want to like him. He’s clearly an off-center genius and he seems to try hard, but every time I give him the benefit of the doubt, he ends up just making me uneasy at best. This tofu never had sexual relations with its adopted child, however.
Round 6: Shimaaji (Horsemackerel)
Another dish I wanted to love. It almost looked barbecued and it smelled like heaven, but it was kind of tough and rubbery. I think that’s an aspect of the fish, but that shouldn’t be my problem. Lesson – don’t eat horse whether it gallops or swims.
Round 7: Arctic Char with nutless pesto.
Nutless pesto is a misnomer. This dish would make a eunuch stiff. I think I’d eat my own hand if it were poached in butter, but this fish was perfect. It was accompanied by some kind of zucchini film gelatin reduction emulsion insanity. I hate zucchini. I loved this.
Round 8: Salt Cod with Potato Emulsion
Now, I expected that something called salt cod would be salty, but this was Dead Sea salty. It instantly removed all the moisture from my body and left me convulsing violently on the floor. After I was revived by paramedics in designer suits, I finished it, but just barely.
Round 9: Kampachi
This is some kind of designer amber jack fish that is evidently very good for you. Even when you poach it in butter, I assume. It was served with tapioca pearls. I normally think tapioca pearls are the domain of dumb Chinatown tourists, but their slight tang worked nicely with the dish.
Round 10: Swordfish
I swear, if I could eat swordfish and octopus the way Chef Gras cooks them, I’d turn my back on cow, fowl and swine forever. It was seared and served with trumpet mushrooms and some random emulsion-y, sphere shit on the side. This was my favorite dish because the smokey savory of the swordfish coupled with the perfectly seared trumpets made an eckie-fueled dance party in my mouth. I think Kruder and Dorfmeister are lounging in my molar.
Round 11: Pork Belly
I am a sucker for pork belly and this was the best preparation I’ve ever eaten, owed mostly to the absolutely perfect cut of the meat. It was accompanied by a reconstructed potato with a potato emulsion (srsly?) cream filling. Kind of like a Cadbury Egg, but a lot more expensive.
Round 12: Hiramasa shabu shabu
Another preparation of amber jack, this time Japanese hot pot-style. A couple pieces of fish, some leafy goodness and a little bowl of dipping sauce. It was a really nice way to end the savory courses on a light, but extravagant, note.
Round 13: first pre-dessert
Grenache truffle explosion of such intensity, that my woman’s head actually exploded after she ate it. I will miss you, baby, but I must go on.
Round 14: second pre-dessert
Some creamy goodness with bee pollen and honey. Light and playful like a declawed kitten on meth.
Round 15: Raspberry
The best raspberries ever plucked from a vine bathing in a hibiscus flower reduction with something that had a fancier name than ‘ice cream,’ but you get the picture. Oh yeah, and it was covered in gold. I’ve eaten gold only a few times in my life and it makes me feel like an evil dictator every time.
Round 16: Chestnut souffle
Holy christ. As I understand it, in the strange world of French fine chef wankery, the souffle is like the fadeaway jumpshot – at its best it is more artful and subtle than the gaudy dunk, yet its grace and timing make the three-pointer look kind of boring, and all for two little perfect points. It is classic and it is really fucking hard to get right. I am no scientist, but I think it has something to do with barometric pressure and sunspots. I haven’t had that many, but I am absolutely positive this was the best one I’ve ever had.
Round: 17 first post-dessert
Round: 18 second post-dessert
Some little provincial pastry that no doubt reminds Chef Laurent Gras of his youth, when he was still in his training beret. It was fine. Also, a pistachio macaroon that looked kind of like a hamburger made completely of Soylent Green. It was delicious. Let me out of the goddamn ring.
So I was punch-drunk and staggered, but I felt good about my chances with the judges as the final bell approached. The check arrived without fanfare and I immediately took a Tyson-sized haymaker right to the groin. My vision went hazy and I swayed as the sound of the crowd faded away. A throbbing sensation replaced all thought and then, nothing, as I collapsed to the floor in a mess of arms, legs and internal hemorrhaging. KO to the forebrain. This meal was phenomenal, but for the cost, I should have literally slipped into a coma from full-body ecstasy. I should have ululated loudly and uncontrollably. I should have been compelled to run into the kitchen and give a tongue bath to my new lord and master. If every course were on par with the best five, this place would be my $100/hour cocaine habit. Because of a few uneven dishes, it missed the utter perfection I was hoping for in this experience. I probably won’t go back for a very long time, but if someone ever foolishly offers to buy me dinner wherever I want, I’ll make them take me to l2o.
Fucking hell this is great post. Excellent pics too. I’m DYING to try this place, but I’d also like to put a down payment on a house. Well played jaeger!
Eating gold makes turd futures more valuable.
solid, gut popping post, jaeger. btw, my last cat had a meth addiction…it was NOT pretty.
I’m sorry to hear that your girl’s head exploded, but it’s good that you did not stray from your commitment to finishing all 18 rounds. I’d love to take my boo to this place but I don’t think my unemployment checks will cover the tab.
For the record, my head only metaphorically exploded. And despite having very little square footage in the stomach department, I also finished (most of) the meal. And it was awesome. These gluttons are always forcing you to finish 10 rounds or more of beer or food or cage fighting. Sigh.