Three Tennessee Restaurants

Husk Dining Room

Husk Dining Room

A brief Tennessee jaunt yielded the opportunity to sample a (very) small concentration of the state’s restaurants: Easy Bistro and St. John’s Meeting Place in Chattanooga, as well as Husk in Nashville. As Tennessee neophytes, these meals acquainted us with a new culinary landscape, and we were eager to survey both cities through their cuisine, on however limited a scope. This post unfolds chronologically, beginning with Easy Bistro and progressing to St. John’s Meeting Place and Husk.

As Easy Bistro enjoys a prime perch in Chattanooga, walking there acquainted us with the city. Just down the street lies an aquarium, a rather unusual urban centerpiece and one which hardly feels organic to the city, given the absence of a proper coastline, the Tennessee River notwithstanding. Also along that route (literally and figuratively), we passed a couple of chains, viz., Chili’s and Applebee’s. This generalization may well be purist and unwarranted, but the fact that these ersatz family eateries—eateries characteristically confined to the suburban context—resided downtown feels like cultural amnesia, an elision of Chattanooga’s history from its current culinary culture. Considering that the city rests against an Edenic mountain backdrop, one confronts an unsavory bifurcation pitting the lush natural environment against the contrived glamour of the city proper.

Easy Bistro rehearses this effaced history through its design. With tall ceilings and an expansive interior (not to mention its central position within the city’s geography), one senses that the building assumes historical significance. To this end, it’s unfortunate that in its current incarnation, the space not only feels awkward, but also lacks cultural specificity. Like most restaurants in the casual-upscale category, Easy Bistro features a bar and dining room, yet rather than install a formal division between the two components, a vast gulf of vacant space provides the only separation. The absence of proper segregation—and the porosity between the two domains that results—means that the dining room shoulders the acoustic burden of receiving more ancillary noise from the bar than one might reasonably expect. On the visual register, Easy Bistro eschews all manner of color and restricts its palette to black and cream. A wall of mirrors amounts to a relatively distinctive touch, but overall, the space sacrifices distinction in the interest of chasing a hip aesthetic.

The menu presented a series of categories—oysters/charcuterie/cheese; snacks; small; medium; large; and classic (this last referring to more traditional main courses.) Diners have the option of following a traditional, three-course format (and we did), but our server reflexively assumed that we were sharing and my sense is that many patrons go with a trendy, small plate experience in which everyone splits everything. Following another trend, the bread service carries a surcharge, although it goes beyond just a standard bread offering (bearing the description, “Cornbread: bacon fat, sorghum butter”) and likely justifies the $4.50 price tag, even if we declined it. I’ll also note that prices were quite reasonable (with most everything under $25, even the larger plates), which may result from the fact that the menu proper isn’t tasked with offsetting gratis bread. Overall, the menu surfeits the customer with options, with everything from pork osso bucco to shrimp and grits to pork belly to mussels.

An alumnus of St. John’s restaurant in Chattanooga, chef Erik Niel was nominated for Best Chef Southeast earlier this year and qualifies as a significant cook in this city. Perhaps due to the menu’s depth and breadth, however, I couldn’t locate a distinct culinary style, which prioritizes ‘something for everyone’ over culinary singularity—or even a voice connected to the region. The menu featured regional touchstones like trout and country ham, but the latter remained buried in a broader charcuterie plate. The trout, meanwhile, suffered from being paired alongside watercress and brown butter; while I’m sure the brown butter supplies a decadent note, the inclusion of watercress makes the dish feel like dieting fare. My broader point is that while one could construct a meal out of canonical Tennessee ingredients, these are not foregrounded. I ordered soft shell crab to start and then the roast chicken from the “classic” section; my brother started with a heavier plate in moules frites (which he felt would pair nicely with his opening beer), and followed with pork belly.

Our appetizers missed the mark. The soft-shell crab bore a very heavy breading; I’d have preferred a thinner coating that supplied textural contrast without compromising the delicacy of the crustacean. A two-way preparation of zephyr squash (sautéed and pureed) served as the primary accompaniment, although florid garnishes rained down on the plate. To my mind, the squash would have paired more successfully with a lighter crab preparation; the heavy batter overshadowed the squash, and more decadent or acidic accoutrements might have better held their own. Although it didn’t impede consumption, I also prefer a cleaner composition. The free-form design feels like an exercise in complexification; I understand that abstract patterns have been de rigeur for some time, yet for this reason, this configuration just demonstrates cognizance of current fashion. Displaced from its postwar context, Abstract Expressionism seems to serve as the guiding aesthetic for much contemporary cuisine, but when this style becomes common practice, compositions such as this one carry, paradoxically, a certain academicism.

Easy Bistro Crab

Soft Shell Crab, Zephr Squash Two Ways

I don’t have a photo of the mussels, but they arrived in a hefty portion. The relatively limp fries didn’t marry well with the broth, which my brother found underseasoned and uninspired inspired anyhow.

My main dish better showcased the kitchen’s capacities. The roasted chicken quarter achieved textural contrast between skin and meat, while the decadent mushroom sauce enlivened everything. Bacon, onions, cremini mushrooms, and lyonnaise potatoes rested beneath the bird. While I enjoy baby portabellas, their inclusion was cause for surprise, given that the menu listed shiitakes (a particular favorite of mine.) When I queried our server as to the absent shiitakes, he conferenced with the chef and remarked that they’d substituted the creminis. In a gesture of Southern Hospitality (or something like that), the chef offered to prepare a small plate of morels—I accepted without hesitation, of course. Needless to say, this dish compensated for the disappointment of the prior offering, even while I recognize that ordering one of the less traditional dishes might have better illuminated the chef’s contemporary flourishes. The unannounced mushroom swap, meanwhile, may be attributable to the fact that this meal occurred on a Sunday. Morels are always welcome—and a great complement to roast chicken—but I now wonder whether surreptitious ingredient swaps are common practice on the Sabbath.

Easy Bistro Chicken

Roast Chicken, Cremini Mushrooms, Lardons, Lyonnaise Potatoes

My brother enjoyed his roasted pork belly, which boasted a robust scale in excess of what I’d expected from the $14 price. The composition reprised the abstraction of the crab, but to a more restrained degree. Under the pork belly sat a black garlic paste, while a ramp puree (organized in circular discs of escalating size) amplified the dish’s garlic character. A light dusting of paprika offset the greenish hues and compounded the intense flavors at play. I didn’t try it, but my brother enjoyed the plate.

Easy Bistro Pork Belly

Roasted Pork Belly, Black Garlic Paste, Ramp Puree, Paprika

Two desserts caught my attention: strawberry shortcake and bourbon bread pudding. My brother ordered the former and I chose the latter, which seemed a fitting choice for Tennessee, adjacent as the state is to Kentucky. I found the pudding successful; the custardy consistency might have benefitted from the juxtapository effect of a crust, but the pecans at top supplied some textural balance. The caramel veered on the slightly bitter end of the spectrum, avoiding the more saccharine notes of less felicitous preparations. The shortcake caught us by surprise in that scones replaced the customary biscuit or sponge cake. But the ingredients harmonized and my brother gave the dessert his unequivocal endorsement.

Easy Bistro Bread Pudding

Bourbon-Caramel Bread Pudding, Roasted Pecans


St. John’s Meeting Place resides adjacent to its more formal sibling, St. John’s Restaurant, with which it shares an executive chef in Rebecca Baron. In contrast with Easy Bistro, the menu features just two categories, “Small” and “Large.” However, given that each category contains at least a dozen choices, one doesn’t lack options. As with Easy Bistro, little effort is made to project native ingredients; with options like lobster mac, duck fried rice, and steak frites, cultural borrowing assumes priority over fidelity to local heritage. Regional specialties exist, including trout, pimento cheese, and Southern sturgeon, but these represent outliers. Even though this meal began very late (9:30 reservation), our patient and excellent server unpacked the menu and fluently fielded our queries. I ordered steak tartare and roast chicken, while my brother went with pasta primavera and duck fried rice.

Complimentary bread consisted of potato-sourdough bread with sorghum butter; both were outstanding, but we especially enjoyed the savory-sweet balance of the butter.

SJMP Bread

Potato-Sourdough Bread, Sorghum Butter

While waiting for our first courses, we admired the interior, a dark space (at any hour) with little light from outside. With its two-story layout, the space is reminiscent of someone’s home, an impression underscored by the decision to only use the first story for tables. A tall pillar adorned with a Vitruvian Man covered in red graffiti provided a postmodern artistic centerpiece that amplified the restaurant’s youthful energy. An open kitchen broke up the space and, in large part because the restaurant wasn’t crowded, avoided the uncomfortable Taylorist aesthetic that sometimes plagues open kitchens. The space assumes a contemporary feel, but with greater distinction than Easy Bistro.

The steak tartare arrived with crostini, lemon, and chili aioli (underneath the lemon.) Ordinarily, I’d lament the paltry helping of the tangy aioli, but the steak boasted a luxurious beefiness that generated enough complexity on its own. The generous marbling suggests that ribeye might have been used, but our server noted that Wagyu beef was used (perhaps cross-bred with Angus?) and so it’s possible that the grade accounted for the marbling more than the cut. Capers—a despised ingredient that usually prevents me from ordering this dish—resisted overpowering the beef. I can’t recall enjoying a tartare this much in recent memory, but my brother mourned the absence of an egg yolk.

SJMP Tartare

Steak Tartare, Chili Aioli, Crostini, Lemon

The pasta primavera earned my brother’s highest recommendation. The kitchen made the spinach pasta in house, with tomatoes, peppers, and balsamic syrup achieving a tapestry that amounted to more than the sum of its parts. I’ll also note the great bargain this dish posed at $9.

SJMP Pasta

Spinach Pasta Primavera, Balsamic Glaze

My roast chicken arrived with asparagus, zephyr squash, and gnocchi. A garlicky lemon butter provided ample decadence. This bird didn’t possess the degree of crispiness from a night prior, but the meat contained a slightly more tender texture, complying with my own preference. A fantastic plate of food.

SJMP Roast chicken

Roast Chicken, Zephyr Squash, Asparagus, Gnocchi, Lemon-Garlic Butter Sauce

The duck fried rice contained confit duck leg, sesame aioli, and a fried egg. I can’t justify the plating, insofar as serving the egg atop the rice would have allowed the rice to absorb the yolk. It may not rank among the most delicate plates, but this plate delivered bold flavors and my brother continues to rave about it. This was another generous deal at $13.

SJMP Duck Fried Rice

Confit Duck Leg, Fried Rice, Fried Egg, Sesame Aioli

Given the late hour, we declined dessert—but considering the high standard of each course, suffice to say that we ended on a high note.


Despite being the less-famous sibling of Sean Brock’s decorated restaurant nexus, Husk Nashville already claims a central position in the roster of key Tennessee restaurants. In every way, Husk serves as a counterpoint to the restaurants discussed above; architecturally, the space honors its heritage. The website, for example, chronicles the evolution of the 19th-century building, which once housed a mayor of the city. On the culinary level, the restaurant adopts the neologism of “New Southern Cuisine.” To be certain, Husk benefits from the financial muscle generated by Brock’s family of restaurants and by no means qualifies as a hole-in-the-wall authentic spot; even still, I appreciate the interplay between culinary tradition and modernity encompassed by the “New Southern Cuisine” moniker.

As I’ve noted in the last paragraph, Husk resides in an actual house that on outside view, still appears more residential than commercial. With its sunken lower level, viewing the restaurant from outside belies its expansiveness. In lieu of a single dining room, the interior contains a series of smaller rooms, reminiscent of Primo in Rockland. Wallpaper and curtains heighten the domesticity and while the patterned wallpaper might ordinarily seem anachronistic, the contemporary flavor supplied by the immaculate tables, chairs, and hardwood floors mediates this impression. A healthy volume of covers lines the room, but with room enough to breathe and still preserve the hospitable tenor. Overall, a certain sheen imbues the building, but with a tastefulness that honors its history.

On its website, Husk lists as its subtitle “A Celebration of Southern Ingredients.” To be sure, “Southern” encompasses such a vast spectrum that the descriptor remains very broad, but the regional focus still exceeds that of the Chattanooga restaurants. Fried chicken, catfish, and country ham earned prominent placement. The lunch menu doesn’t stratify the plates into courses, but dishes are easy enough to classify and everyone in the dining room seemed to follow a conventional format. We ordered deviled eggs and ember-grilled chicken wings to start; I followed with shrimp and grits, and my brother selected the fried chicken. Our server understood the menu inside and out, and while I find the overall-aprons worn by the servers a touch precious, everyone had clearly been trained to the point of confident polish.

First to arrive were the deviled eggs. These were spiked with what the menu listed as “deviled ham,” resulting in a more savory—and less creamy—preparation than one might habitually expect from the dish. I’m not sure how I feel about serving these on a tree stump; on the one hand, the serving vessel was distinctive, but on a separate view, one might argue that it betrays a kitschy, fabricated rusticitiy. Still, we both found the eggs outstanding.

Husk Deviled Eggs

Deviled Pork Deviled Eggs

Parker house rolls were served on the heels of the eggs. These were enhanced by benne seed and a rich butter. Served warm, I couldn’t improve these in any way and overall, we were treated to great bread on this trip.

Husk Bread

Parker House Rolls (In Back), Benne Seed

The chicken wings were cooked over embers, which refers to grilling directly over coals. This hearth-based method has escalated in popularity over the past decade, although my understanding is that Husk’s Executive Chef, Sean Brock, played an instrumental role in recuperating the historic technique. As a result of the unmediated contact between food and flame, ash envelopes the foodstuff, and the uninitiated might infer that our chicken wings were overcooked past the point of rescue. However, the ash coating was deliberate and our server explained that the wings were actually twice-grilled, exponentiating their concentrated smokiness. These were easily the most intense chicken wings I’ve had, and I appreciated that they acquired their intensity from a more organic source than the sugary-sweet amalgam that one often encounters with wings that rely on tacked-on glazes for flavor. The accompanying “MS Comeback Sauce” denotes a Mississippi delicacy essentially consisting of mayonnaise and chili sauce, per Wikipedia. The ashy coating, however, challenged even my own salt threshold, and I could only manage two wings (I don’t mean this as an indictment of them, as I enjoyed them for the singular pleasures they proffered, but rather as a testament to their force.)

Husk Wings

Chicken Wings Grilled Over Embers, Mississippi Comeback Sauce

The shrimp and grits wore a circular nest of vegetal garnishes that both belied their ample serving and very loosely evoked Michel Bras’s “Le Gargouillou” or David Kinch’s “Tidal Pool.” Our server explained that the kitchen had just shifted from a more tomato-based preparation to the decadent one on offer at this meal, which included a healthy dose of whipping cream. I could have done without the layer of garnishes, but the shrimp weren’t tough (as they so often are) and I found this dish more or less perfect.

Husk Shrimp Grits

Shrimp and Grits

No less successful was the fried chicken. Our server warned us that the fried chicken was prepared in the uber-spicy Nashville style (not his exact words) and so the rather mild spiciness disappointed my brother at first. Yet countering this initial disappointment was the extraordinary texture of the breading, which my brother considered the best he’d tasted. He enjoyed the mac-and-cheese and cabbage served alongside, although the cabbage skewed sweeter than he’d have liked.

As we had a full afternoon of driving in front of us, we skipped dessert, but with plans to return to Husk at the first opportunity.

This essay has discussed three successful meals, and the ones at St. John’s Meeting Place and Husk stand near the top of my favorite dining experiences this year. All three of the executive chefs—Erik Niel, Rebecca Baron, and Sean Brock—are modern (though not necessarily modernist) chefs, products of the current century. Brock distinguishes himself from the other two, however, through his sharper Southern focus. Niel and Baron are fluent in current culinary fashions, but their restaurants could more or less exist anywhere. What results is a kind of culinary cosmopolitanism, in which the Chattanooga restaurants deftly conform to dominant tendencies. Such compliance isn’t objectionable, but betrays a certain diminution, in the sense that the richness of local culinary heritage (and its avenues for cross-pollination with other regions) is left underexplored. For those of us who enjoy discovering a region through its cuisine, meanwhile, Brock’s more anthropological approach—probing the history of the south through its culinary lens—feels preferable.


The Modern (NYC)

the modern dining room

The Modern Dining Room

Art museum restaurants carry particular interest through their intermedial constitution; that is, the genre brings the fine arts and the culinary arts into conversation through its placement within the parent institution of the art museum. Of course, museums necessarily privilege the fine arts, but there remain ones whose restaurants showcase world-class ambition and innovation, to the point that the cuisine exists on par—or even in conversation with—the collection of artworks proper. In this model, the restaurant’s seasonal menu registers as an artistic gesture executed by the chief chef and commissioned by the museum (here it’s worth noting in passing, however, that restaurant kitchens still conform to a broad atelier mold, in the sense that an army of cooks satisfy the vision of an executive chef; the atelier system, of course, has long been superseded within the artworld, although exceptions exist.) The Modern, the flagship restaurant of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York City, offers one such example of a restaurant whose cuisine showcases a degree of seriousness that elevates it beyond just subsidiary status. This essay uses The Modern as a case study through which to explore this approach for synchronizing art museum with restaurant, with an eye toward also pursuing whether the example of the MoMA’s flagship restaurant might help us reconsider the definitional question of what “modernist” cuisine looks like in the first place.

Now, MoMA isn’t the only governing body presiding over this restaurant, as The Modern also represents the prize member within Danny Meyer’s Union Square Hospitality Group. Although I’m out of my depth when it comes to New York dining, my understanding is that Meyer’s primary contribution to North American gastronomy lies in popularizing an approachable model for fine dining through restaurants such as Gramercy Tavern and Union Square Café. These remain some of New York’s most beloved restaurants, both for their cuisine and for their relatively democratic character, which purports to showcase a cheery, ‘can-do’ attitude in lieu of the supercilious tenor of traditional temples of New York haute cuisine, Le Cirque being the most notorious example. While I went into this meal at The Modern cognizant of, and appreciative toward, Meyer’s approachability, I wondered: in which ways would The Modern negotiate its twin institutional presences—between MoMA on the one hand and Danny Meyer on the other? After all, while MoMA stands as a a paradigmatic blockbuster museum, it still enjoys (rightly or wrongly) a pole position as arbiter of cultural taste, in contradistinction to Meyer’s restaurant group, which is seen as a more middlebrow approach to fine dining (I don’t say this to reinscribe distinctions between highbrow and middlebrow, but to acknowledge the distinct identities of MoMA and Meyer within the public sphere.) While the restaurant’s price point and 2 Michelin Stars foreground its lofty aspirations, the restaurant still begged the questions: in which ways would the cuisine at The Modern push the culinary envelope, and in which ways might the restaurant’s affiliation with Danny Meyer constrain its synchronization with the art museum?

Architecturally, the Modern invites such questions of synchronization because the dining room exists adjacent to the Museum’s Abby Rockefeller Sculpture Garden. My windowside 2-top afforded an ideal view of the sculptures. The light, groundless aesthetic of Calder and Caro corresponded with the minimalist the dining room; I’m not just using “minimalist” in the colloquial sense here, as the serial distribution of thin ceiling beams evoked Donald Judd. The long and lanky servers confirmed the lean verticality of the space. A small tree stood near the center of the dining room and literalized the reciprocity between inside and outside; the incorporation of an arboreal centerpiece also obliquely gestures to the now-defunct Four Seasons, although I doubt any intentionality undergirds this association. Overall, I appreciated how interior and exterior coalesce around a shared modernist/minimalist aesthetic. But would the cuisine share this focus?

the modern view

View From My Table

The Modern Ceiling

Ceiling (Shades of Donald Judd)

At first, no it didn’t. I ordered the full tasting (listed as 8 courses, although I was served more) and for my first course, was greeted with one of the more decadent preparations I’ve ever received: a benevolent scoop of high-end, Caspian caviar with egg yolk and buttered brioche. (Here I’ll note from the outset that my descriptions have no doubt forfeited precision as a consequence of my oxidized memories of this February dinner.) A mild crema/aioli rested underneath the caviar and gilded the lily. Perhaps it goes without saying that this was one of the most delicious compositions I’ve ever eaten, although I’m not accustomed to a contemporary restaurant initiating this degree of decadent hedonism—in an age in which even desserts sometimes feature fennel or savory spices, I’ve noticed a prevailing sentiment wherein the yin of luxury or decadence needs to find a counterpoint with the yang of the acrid or acid; thankfully, The Modern bucked this tendency and presented this memorable plate.

Caviar The Modern

Caviar, Egg Yolk, Brioche

As a prelude to the bread service, I enjoyed a small croissant with a thick slice of Perigord truffle. As with the caviar preparation, the kitchen restricts this item to those partaking in the full tasting. I imagine that some might struggle to consume such a rich offering on the footsteps of the caviar course. My understanding is that the erstwhile chef, Gabriel Kreuther, brought a more decadent hand than the current chef, Abram Bissell. This croissant seemed like something Kreuther might have served, and the unfettered indulgence of these opening bites clashed with the dining room and modernist collection at MoMA. Put differently, if pictorial modernism claims to reject the optical confections of popular art in favor of ‘difficult’ works, one might levy a similar critique here and charge the croissant with proferring easy pleasures. Yet I have to qualify this critique with the appreciation that this was as delicious as the caviar preparation, and the two items alone justified the extended menu’s elevated price tag.

croissant the modern

Croissant, Black Truffle, Black Truffle Butter

The formal bread service included three offerings: pumpernickel seed, bagel with beef consommé, and cheddar roll. All were great, but the novelty of the bagel with consommé earned it favored status.

the modern breads

Bagel with Beef Consomme, Cheddar Roll, Pumpernickel Seed

The next proper course was raw tuna with a blood orange marinade, fennel bulb, and yuzu vinaigrette. The tuna continued the emphasis on luxury ingredients, although the fennel and yuzu really blunted the fattiness of the fish and curbed the general decadence of the cuisine to this point. I understand the impulse to counter the preceding courses—and this did—but to my mind the inclusion of both acid (yuzu) and bitter (fennel) went too far in the other direction. Bitter seems to enjoy a degree of reverence in the flavor pantheon, and I don’t share this celebration. To my mind, the acid of the vinaigrette mediated the fattiness of the fish and foreclosed the necessity for any other countering agent.

the modern tuna

Tuna, Yuzu Sauce, Blood Orange Vinaigrette, Fennel

Another luxury offering, Course 3 consisted of foie gras tarte accompanied by quince braised in white wine, and radicchio traviso. As a cold foie partisan, I appreciated that the chef went this route rather than searing the liver, which seems to be the default option during the winter months. I believe this preparation has been a signature of The Modern for some time (possibly antedating Chef Bissell), and it’s easy to see why, as the kitchen can simply swap the quince out for a separate seasonal fruit as the months progress. I could see this preparation pairing well with rhubarb during the spring or raspberry in late summer. In any event, the foie was perfectly prepared, with none of the visible tissue that stains the efforts of those with less foie facility. I don’t however, believe the radicchio earned its place, and its inclusion rehearsed the gratuitous bitter note that compromised the tuna.

20170216_185008 (1)

Foie Gras Tarte, Quince, Radicchio Traviso

The foie concluded the appetizer chapter of the menu, and lobster initiated the second act. It featured claw and knuckle meat, poached in sea urchin butter. Oven roasted cauliflower and a toothsome grain of some variety rounded out the preparation; I can’t recall what the green sauce consisted of, or its flavor profile. The sea urchin butter was a tour de force and a brilliant complement to the shellfish and cauliflower. I love cauliflower but often find it starchy and undercooked in restaurants—this same critique applies to Brussels sprouts as well—and so I took particular surprise and delight in finding the cauliflower roasted to the point of dissolving at the slight prod of the fork. And of course, the cauliflower absorbed the rich umami of the urchin to brilliant effect. Unfortunately, my compliments don’t extend to the lobster, which was (way) overcooked. My lone regret for this meal is that I didn’t send the lobster back, since with properly-cooked lobster, this plate would find its way on my hypothetical short list of favorite all-time dishes. Yet by this point, I’d developed a conversational rapport with my captain, and he presented the dish with such pride that I felt uncomfortable sending it back—in the same way one wouldn’t critique the culinary shortcomings of a dinner party host.

the modern lobster

Lobster Poached in Sea Urchin Butter, Roasted Cauliflower

The last fish was turbot, roasted on the bone and served with endive, morels, and a grain with a toasted texture. The fish isn’t visible in the picture, as it was wrapped in the green endive leaf. My only prior experience with turbot was at Sixteen, where Thomas Lents cooked the fish to a rarer temperature; Chef Bissell, by contrast, cooked it a bit longer, but still well within the bounds of enjoyability. The fish also paired quite nicely with the morels and the grain (and the endive wasn’t overly bitter), so this dish registered as another terrific effort.

the modern turbot

Turbot Roasted on the Bone, Endive, Morels

Closing out the savory plates was 100-day dry-aged ribeye, served with black truffle sauce and potato (my notes on this course may be incomplete.) Here we had a contemporary take on the beef-and-potato archetype, all geared around celebrating the pristine ribeye. This was the most intense beef I’ve ever had; my understanding is that the kitchen typically serves either a filet or a ribeye aged to a far shorter duration, and that the 100-day beef was a limited offering. This was terrific.

the modern beef

100-Day Dry-Aged Ribeye, Potato, Black Truffle Sauce

And so the savory chapter reached its conclusion. The rich beef found its counterpoint in the item that segued into dessert: coconut and shiso shell with tapioca caviar. I suppose “caviar” now qualifies as a euphemism for anything pearl-shaped, since this obviously wasn’t caviar in any traditional sense. Unfamiliar with shiso, I wasn’t prepared for its minty burn, but if this palate cleanser supplied greater intensity than most transitional courses, this was warranted in light of the concentrated beefiness of the prior dish.

the modern pre dessert

Coconut and Shiso Shell with Tapioca Pears

Pastry chef Jiho Kim greeted me to finish the cheese course tableside. He began by presenting the cheese enclosed in its package— “Tete de Moine”—after which he lifted the top to reveal the cheese and its intense odor. He then grated dark chocolate atop the cheese, and the juxtaposition cream and cocoa hues loosely mimicked the color contrast of risotto with shaved black truffle. I enjoyed the olfactory and textural counterpoint between the aromatics on the one hand and the ethereal consistency on the other. I can’t offer enough superlatives for this course—a fantastic preparation that straddled the line between a straight and composed cheese course.

the modern cheese

Tete de Moine, Shaved Dark Chocolate

The first proper dessert (or perhaps this was a second palate cleanser) was marshmallow and green apple sorbet. I typically find marshmallow cloying, but it paired to great effect with the sorbet, which was uncompromising in the best sense of the term.

the modern green apple dessert

Green Apple Sorbet, Marshmallow

To close, I received two desserts simultaneously: dark chocolate marquise with earl grey ice cream (the ‘official’ culminating dessert for the tasting), and a gift from the kitchen in the form of a hazelnut dessert that included truffle-spiked cornbread pudding. The latter was the clear winner and easily one of the most enjoyable desserts I’ve ever been served, even if—as with the beef course—the truffle exerted only a quiet presence. While the savory plates established a high standard, my highest compliments go to Chef Kim; typically, I prefer very traditional desserts, on the belief that experimentation within the domain of pastry typically yields diminishing returns. But Chef Kim’s desserts married technique and ingredients to rarified effect.

the modern hazelnut dessert

Cornbread Pudding Spiked with Truffle, Hazelnut Ice Cream

the modern dark chocolate marquise

Dark Chocolate Marquise, Earl Grey Ice Cream

Mignardises included dark chocolate salted caramel, and a milk chocolate spiked with pop rocks.

It occurs to me that there exist a number of grounds on which one could critique The Modern. For one, in an age in which the most cutting-edge restaurants (particularly in NYC) offer tasting menus of nearly double this length, this menu structure feels very traditional. One could point to exceptions, of course—Jean Georges, Le Bernardin, and Per Se come to mind—but Eleven Madison Park, Brooklyn Fare, and Atera go well beyond even a dozen courses. And the trajectory followed a relatively standard progression, beginning with caviar and progressing first to raw fish and meat, then to cooked fish, cooked meat, cheese, and desserts. At no point did the cuisine really challenge my idea of what food could look like, unlike past dinners at Moto or Alinea. One wonders whether Danny Meyer mandated this conformity, and what Bissell might engineer if he were independent of the Union Square group.

Yet there was creativity, and I don’t think we can point to sins of commission resulting from the protective watch of Danny Meyer. At each point, the kitchen began with a luxury item and applied a novel spin emphasizing the virtues of the prime ingredient in question—the foie with quince, the lobster with urchin, the turbot with the textural counterpoint of the toasted grain, and the aged beef with black truffle sauce. I’d categorize Chefs Bissell and Kim as more ingredient-driven than technique driven, which complies with my own preferences. I’ve called attention to unwarranted bitter notes, but overall, the cuisine demonstrated superior focus to the showy exploits of more technique-driven chefs. I attribute this achievement to the fact that these were complete dishes, distinct from the trend within fine dining to serve a flurry of 15 or 20 bite-sized courses—an approach that may (I speculate) derive from the venerable Japanese omakase structure, but which often results in the unfortunate consequence of feeling like a series of incomplete thoughts. In this sense, adherence to the traditional 8-course structure served as an affordance more than a constraint.

I’ll also note that this cuisine was certainly more creative than most art museums, which offer plates that don’t deviate from what can find elsewhere. In a recent trip to Kansas City, for example, I enjoyed a superb meal at Café Sebastienne (at the Kemper Contemporary Art Museum), where I lunched on halibut with grilled potatoes, asparagus, and salsa verde. The dish offered everything I wanted, but a sizable gulf exists between the inventiveness of the art installations at the Kemper and the safe comfort of the cuisine. While The Modern may not provoke the diner in the same way as Alinea, the many creative achievements across this meal speak to the kitchen’s ability to synthesize its voice with the conventions of fine dining; perhaps working for Danny Meyer and MoMA has presented Bissell and Kim with an imperative that they follow certain conventions, but this has resulted in a dynamic interplay between their own authorial voices and existing standards.

In closing, I want to suggest that this reciprocity between individuality and conventionality actually makes The Modern more of a modernist restaurant. This claim, of course, necessitates reorienting what we mean by modernist cuisine; in common parlance, modernist cuisine refers to technique-driven food that breaks from traditions. In this spirit, the Modernist Cuisine website offers 10 guiding principles, among which is an emphasis on “creatively breaking culinary rules.” Other imperatives include the virtue of expanding what the diner believes to be food, principally through scientific experimentation and unorthodox techniques. However, I would argue that what we commonly refer to as modernist cooking is actually something closer to “avant-garde” cooking; food that initiates a kind of ontological indeterminacy—raising the questions of “is it food?” or “is it fine dining?” is more avant-garde than modernist, going beyond the standard deviation for experimentation accommodated by the modernist signifier. Within the fine arts, after all, modernism has always referred to a more restrained degree of experimentation than “avant-garde”; where the avant-garde is defined by propositionality (i.e., the logic that something is art because the artist proposes it as such), modernism is irreducibly bound by tradition, so that the artist respects preexisting rules in order to rethink them (rather than rupture them) as he or she sees fit. I’m not trying to initiate a hard binary between modernism and the avant-garde, since the two intersect to the point that artists have degrees of both. At the same time, recognizing the definitional distinction between modernism and the avant-garde lends taxonomic clarity and offers a pathway through which to think through and identify the degrees of experimentation in contemporary fine dining. This is all a long way of saying that The Modern, with its restrained creativity, is an archetypal modernist restaurant (more than an avant-garde one)—and therefore, singularly synchronized with the museum in which it resides.

Dos Urban Cantina (Chicago, IL)

I first learned of Dos Urban Cantina during a meal at Topolobampo in November of 2015. Startled by the elision of Jennifer Jones’s name from the menu credits, our server confirmed that she had left to start Dos Urban Cantina with her husband, Brian Enyart (himself a longtime Rick Bayless alum.) The name struck a harsh chord; “Dos Urban” evokes the kind of cartoonish Mexican cuisine that’s all too common in this country. The phonetic proximity between “Dos Urban” and “Dos Equis” doesn’t help matters, either, and indeed, “Cantina” unwittingly positions the restaurant within the generic framework of the Mexican watering hole. How, I wondered, could a serious restaurant emerge from the silly wrapping of this woefully-misnamed venture?

That I was willing to suspend disbelief speaks to my admiration for Jennifer Jones’s talents. Having enjoyed her desserts at roughly ten different meals at Topolo, she was responsible for many of my most memorable desserts, including “Vida, Muerta, y un Tazon de Chocolate,” a chocolate offering that ranks as perhaps my all-time favorite. Even her ice creams, of both fruit and chocolate variety, resonated as exquisite examples within their category. Given these past experiences, it wasn’t hard to muster enthusiasm for this restaurant, weird name aside.

Located in Logan Square—prime hipster locus of Chicago—I was expecting a rather cramped interior. So it came as no small surprise to see a dining room with ample space between tables, not unlike what one might find at a Michelin 2- or 3-star establishment. Most of the tables were filled with families dining, and the dining room produced mixed signals: on the one hand, the sizable gulf between tables fostered the hushed seriousness of a fine dining temple; at the same time, the many children filling the dining room blunted this severity.

Apropos of my remarks on the table spacing, I should also note that Dos Urban’s dining room bears few of the other attributes associated with Mexican restaurant dining rooms. Many Mexican restaurants in Chicagoland, for example, boast macabre touches—skeletons and skulls, for example—whose exoticism complements the somewhat mysterious character of Mexican cuisine, with its hyper-saturated moles belying scores of ingredients. Meanwhile, the brick walls and chocolate-colored booths at Dos Urban feel ‘safe.’ Here it’s worth noting that the other two of the restaurant’s four owners (Enyart and Jones being the first two) have backgrounds with Lettuce Entertain You. This may be confirmation bias, but I can’t help but feel that there’s a certain LEY flavor to the space, by which I mean a ‘lite’ quality that avoids all manner of drama.

Having loosely monitored its progress over the past year, I’ve noticed an array of structural changes to the menu. The originating menu forwent the standard 3-course structure, instead adopting unusual diacritic flourishes. For example, larger menu items were listed in boldface and in a larger size than the smaller plates. These touches must have posed untenable interpretive hurdles, as the design has been overhauled to feature 3 intuitive categories: small plates (roughly appetizer size), family-style sharable dishes, and desserts.

On its website, Dos Urban trumpeted the family-style offerings, which included cochinita pibil, chicken in mole negro, and a whole sea bass. My sense, however, is that these are crowd-pleasing concessions to timid diners who were previously jaded by the less-familiar plates. For the restaurant’s more distinctive offerings, one is best advised to restrict attention to the smaller plates, and so my brother and I ordered 3 each, as well as a dessert. Our server gave our choices her vote of confidence and hinted that the small plates offered the clearest route to a memorable meal. This essay focuses exclusively on my dishes.

I began with “Roasted Winter Squash: brown butter tamarind glaze, walnut pipian, chile escabeche.” Unlike Topolo, sauces are not finished tableside, yet the clean layers—walnut pipian at bottom, then squash, then chile—still carried precision. This was a fantastic dish for those, like me, who love sauces. Others might find themselves taken aback by the surfeit of sauce, resulting in a dish that straddled the line between squash plate and squash soup. As I suffer a relatively low spice tolerance, I was pleased to find that the chiles emitted a slow heat that never overwhelmed the palate. I am aware, of course, that some might consider this to be another inauthentic concession to the timid palate—although it does irritate me that, in certain circles, “authenticity” finds itself conflated with degree of spiciness.


Winter Squashes: Walnut Pipian, Chile Escabeche

I then selected “Goat Albondigas: black mole, masa gnudi.” Obsessive-compulsive customers may question the curious asymmetry between meatball and gnudi, with 6 of the former and 4 of the latter. The Mexican-Italian fusion worked conceptually, although the meatballs were too tough for my liking. I understand that the intention may have been to juxtapose the albondigas against the silky dumplings, but I would have preferred softer meatballs. Perhaps using pork, beef, or veal might have paid dividends. The mole rescued the dish, but only makes me fantasize over how memorable this would have been with plusher albondigas.


Goat Albondigas, Masa Gnudi, Mole Negro

The most substantial of my savory plates was “Grilled Mushrooms: maitake and shimeji, Oaxacan red mole, chestnut cornbread.” As with the meatballs, this has been on the menu since the restaurant’s inception and must be emerging as a signature dish. One really has to love mushrooms to appreciate it (as there wasn’t much to offset them), and as a mushroom fan I was in my comfort zone. The mole and cornbread brought a nutty accent that complemented the earthy mushrooms. I could see some people finding this dish boring or perhaps lacking a proper centerpiece, but I could not have been happier. As with the squash preparation, the generous portion of sauce brought this composition to the precipice of being a soup, and I was able to linger over the delicious flavors.


Grilled Mushrooms (Maitake and Hon Shimeji), Chestnut Cornbread, Oaxacan Red Mole

I finished with “Rompope Sundae: pecan polvoron, pear and jamoncillo.” This was just delicious, and the pecan polvoron, pear, and jamoncillo demonstrated Jones’s facility for integrating contrasting textures. To her credit, Jones has resisted the urge to over-experiment that currently pervades pastry programs; I’ve grown tired of the widespread attempts to incorporate herbs and other savory elements within the domain of pastry, almost invariably to the detriment of the desserts. Even so, it’s hard not to feel as if Jones is limiting herself here. Below, I’ve displayed this dessert alongside the aforementioned dessert from Topolo a few years ago, and I just don’t see that this sundae showcases the same degree of ambition. Where “Vida, Muerte, y Un Tazon de Chocolate” presented a focused study in chocolate, the sundae proffered easy pleasures that didn’t necessarily speak to the presence of a master pastry chef. I will also note that the other options (apple crisp and chocolate cake, for example) were no more ambitious.


Rompope Sundae, Pecan Polvoron, Pear, Jamoncillo


Vida, Muerte, Y Un Tazon de Chocolate (Topolobampo, c.2012)

Overall, three of four dishes were quite delicious, a high batting average indeed. Yet I feel that the sundae captures the spirit of this restaurant, namely the sense in which it provides delectable cuisine that never risks challenging the diner—and I say this having ordered what I’d consider to be some of the more ambitious offerings. Fans of Topolobampo, a restaurant that has upped its ambitious ante in recent years, are likely to find their hopes unrequited. I will return when I want delicious Mexican, but not when I’m looking for gastronomic challenges or want to probe deeper into Mexican cuisine. Jones and Enyart are skilled culinary artisans, but lack Bayless’s anthropological charge. I still think highly of Dos Urban Cantina, however, especially as it manages to overcome its most unsavory appellation.

Vie and North Pond (Fall 2016)


North Pond Dining Room

This post revisits Vie and North Pond with the primary aim of exploring how the two paradigmatic farm-to-table restaurants illuminate what “farm-to-table” means as a taxonomic marker. Or put differently, the question motivating this post might be phrased thusly: does “farm-to-table” signify an actual cuisine, or a method through which to execute a cuisine?

Certainly, farm-to-table carries certain generic attributes: prioritization of local, micro-seasonal ingredients; simple, often rustic preparations; transparent disclosure of ingredient provenance, with an expectation that purveyors engage in humane treatment of animals; and culinary handiwork stressing ingredients over technique, simplicity over complexification. These qualities have of course been commoditized, with grocery stores and restaurants alike well-attuned to the surplus value conferred by farm-to-table and adjacent keywords like “fresh,” “farm-raised,” and “free-range.” But is this enough to constitute a proper cuisine? After all, Rick Bayless uses seasonal, humane ingredients to produce Mexican cuisine. Given that the aforementioned keywords may be applied toward any cuisine, are we best off conceptualizing farm-to-table in loose, methodological terms, referring more to the ingredients one uses (or perhaps, one’s attitude toward ingredients) than the dishes one composes?

Within Chicagoland, Vie and North Pond register as ideal sites through which to open this investigation. After all, Vie was named a Top 25 Farm to Table Restaurant in the country by Best Life Magazine. Meanwhile, North Pond appears in Zagat’s list of “Chicago’s Best Farm-to-Table Restaurants.” I refer to these lists this not because I see merit in ranking restaurants along these or any other lines, but because the designation speaks to the collective image of farm-to-table as a cuisine, and to Vie and North Pond as archetypal examples. Yet after 5 meals at North Pond (1 recent, 4 further removed) and 4 at Vie, I consider both among my favorite restaurants in Chicago, but also consider them to offer evidence for farm-to-table as more of a method than a cuisine. What follows carries a more definitional than evaluative focus, using recent meals at Vie and North Pond to explore—on an admittedly limited scope—what we mean when we talk about ‘farm-to-table’ in the restaurant context.

It should be noted that neither Vie nor North Pond advertises itself as explicitly farm-to-table; the North Pond website introduces the cuisine of its chef, Bruce Sherman, as follows:
“Chef Bruce Sherman holds true to the Arts and Crafts ideal in the culinary philosophy of North Pond restaurant. Drawing inspiration from the local market, he utilizes exceptional ingredients at the height of their season. Whenever possible, Chef Sherman supports small local farmers and treats their products with respect in his kitchen. The path from earth to plate remains clear and his cuisine reflects the decor of the dining room – complex layers of subtle craft beneath a simple decorative style.”
The verbs deployed—“utilizes” and “treats”—allude to farm-to-table as a procedure, deployed to achieve an isomorphic relationship between dining room and food; rather than executing a preexisting cuisine, the implication is that Chef Sherman serves his own distinct cuisine, indelibly informed by not only local ingredients but the physical space of the building.

Vie, meanwhile, introduces itself as follows:
“Named after the French word for life, offer(ing) contemporary American cuisine inspired by Western European cultures and rustic fare. Chef and Owner Paul Virant opened Vie in 2004 and focuses on year-round seasonal eating and housemade pickles and preserves. Locally grown, artisan ingredients from Midwestern family farms are showcased.”
Local ingredients and purveyors are foregrounded here, but utilized toward the production of contemporary American and Western European cuisine. In sum, North Pond and Vie make reference to farm-to-table attributes, but farm-to-table remains procedurally-determined, suggesting that the common tendency to think of farm-to-table as a cuisine owes as much or more to the food media and the dining public than to the ways in which chefs define and market their craft. My recent meals at both restaurants confirm this conclusion.

These meals occurred during late Summer and early Fall, with a common rubric of ingredients on display. Menus falling on the late summer end of the spectrum featured much seasonal produce, including sweet corn, berries, summer squashes, watermelon, and tomatoes. The early fall meal, which took place at Vie, included hen-of-the-woods mushrooms, fall squashes, and brussels sprouts. Both North Pond and Vie offer tasting menus, yet my sense is that the focus remains on a la-carte. As this was a brunch at North Pond, we ordered from a 3-course prix fixe, in which each course carried 4 choices; at dinner, the standard shifts to 4 courses. At Vie, the expectation is that each diner experiences a traditional, 3-course endeavor.

Both North Pond and Vie welcome the diner with bread; Vie also includes an amuse bouche and mignardise (North Pond might also for dinner, but not brunch.) At our last meal, we were treated to an especially outstanding raw fish preparation.


Raw Fish Amuse at Vie

My North Pond appetizer was griddled tuna with feta cheese, watermelon, and a sauce whose components escape my memory. I’m not sure why they call this “griddled tuna”—which evoked images of cooking it diner-style (my first association when I think of the griddle is of pancakes and burgers)—especially as our server indicated that it was prepared on a plancha, and thus grilled more than griddled. The fish was cooked longer than I like, as I generally favor tuna raw. It was also a relatively lean piece, and I wished for a more luxurious cut, closer in hue to the watermelon. My chief gripe, though, lies with the unsavory combination of a small portion and long list of ingredients. As this was a brunch app, I wouldn’t expect a grand portion, but the consequences of scale shouldn’t just get rationalized under the pretense of this being a midday meal. I couldn’t harmonize the ingredients and each bite felt more like a gamble than a foray; should I eat the tuna with the watermelon, feta, and sauce all together, or try to marry the ingredients in another fashion? There wasn’t an opportunity to taste the tuna by itself and see whether eating it with the other ingredients improved or compromised its merits. I’ve encountered this same problem in restaurants serving voluminous tasting menus, contributing to my general preference for a la carte.


North Pond: Griddled Tuna, Feta, Watermelon

By contrast, Vie serves sizeable appetizers that solicit exploration. Below I’ve included pictures of a ribollita soup; an octopus dish prepared escabeche style (with lots of paprika), with chorizo and new potatoes; and a sweetbread preparation that included a memorable black garlic glaze. The octopus and sweetbreads were off the menu by the time of my third meal at Vie, leading me to order the soup instead, but it was no less enjoyable.


Vie: Octopus Escabeche, Chorizo, New Potatoes


Vie: Black Garlic Sweetbreads, Zucchini, Onion Rings


Vie: Ribollita Soup, Grilled Sourdough, Cranberry Beans, Sausage, Swiss Chard

I would be hard-pressed to locate any limitations to these appetizers, which presented simple, straightforward flavors and graceful cross-pollination of humble (potatoes, egg, sourdough) and luxurious (octopus, sweetbreads) ingredients alike. This was neither comfort food nor fine dining proper, but rather their glorious marriage.

Chef Virant doesn’t just synthesize the prosaic and the luxurious, however; these appetizers also brought the local and the global into contact. Ingredients like octopus and paprika, not to mention ribollita soup, assume European roots, and black garlic is a staple of Korean fare. These aren’t farm-to-table dishes in any pure sense of the term, but dishes that use fresh-from-the-farm ingredients (as well as other non-local ones) to produce plates with strong ties to the Midwest, Europe, and Asia. What results is not so much cultural pluralism, but rather a more synthetic approach that weaves cultural influences together toward plates that defy facile taxonomic relegation.

We also ordered charcuterie on a recent visit, which included a country-style pate, as well as headcheese (tete de cochon) and bresaola. Each was enjoyed, and while there appeared to be few other tables ordering charcuterie, this is a necessary menu item for a restaurant that prides itself on its butchering.

Vie Charcuterie: Pate, Tete de Cochon, Bresaola

Vie Charcuterie: Pate, Tete de Cochon, Bresaola

North Pond draws from an equally broad array of cuisines. My main course, for example, was an Indian-style whitefish, which included an exemplary yogurt crust. On each visit, the kitchen has shown great facility with all manner of seafood, from shrimp to trout to whitefish to cod. The cauliflower was pickled, which isn’t my preference, but I enjoyed the spinach coulis. A bland cracker (behind the fish) lent a superfluous accent, easily overcome by the pleasures of the fish.

Whitefish, Pickled Cauliflower, Spinach Coulis

North Pond: Whitefish, Pickled Cauliflower, Spinach Coulis

I’ve ordered two main courses at my recent meals at Vie: first, slow-cooked lamb leg with lamb sausage, toasted hominy, and blueberry; and second, walleye pike with paw paw vinaigrette, Minnesota wild rice, hen-of-the-woods mushrooms, and caramelized fennel. The walleye was easily one of the most enjoyable dishes I’ve had all year. I’ve become increasingly fond of freshwater fish, especially with its delicate texture punctuated by a subtle crust such as this one. Rice, particularly wild rice, isn’t something I’d go out of my way to order, but it absorbed the vinaigrette to great effect. As a great fan of wild mushrooms, I couldn’t have asked for a more fitting accoutrement than the seasonal ones on display.

Walleye, Minnesota Wild Rice, Hen-of-the-Woods Mushrooms, Paw Paw Vinaigrette

Vie: Walleye, Minnesota Wild Rice, Hen-of-the-Woods Mushrooms, Paw Paw Vinaigrette

While the lamb leg was nicely done and the blueberry and toasted hominy both seasonally appropriate and brilliant textural complements, I could have done without the rather bland sausage. Chef Virant proves quite fond of two-way preparations: chicken breast was advertised alongside its sausage, while the pork dish featured multiple cuts of the pig. I understand that such dishes foreground the kitchen’s butchering skill, but in general, I find two-way preparations amount to a reductive ‘squaring’ of the protein that compromises focus, foreclosing the greater-than-the-sum-of-its-parts sensation afforded by memorable dishes.

Roasted Leg of Lamb, Lamb Sausage, Toasted Hominy, Blueberry

Vie: Roasted Leg of Lamb, Lamb Sausage, Toasted Hominy, Blueberry

I also have to make note of Chef Virant’s rather unusual (euphemism) plating technique. If we compare the lamb, for example, with the whitefish at North Pond, both compositions possess a general abstraction (although “abstract” means something different in relation to gastronomy than it does in the fine arts, given that there aren’t “figural” culinary compositions.) Yet North Pond achieves abstraction without forfeiting precision. By contrast, my lamb at Vie suffered aesthetically on multiple counts, from the bubbling blueberries and hominy to the generally monochromatic study (compare this to North Pond, which makes great use of color, as evidenced by the watermelon and spinach coulis.) My critique isn’t that the dish is stacked high—more 3-dimensional than most restaurants—but that the whole thing looks rather sloppy, and not beyond the compositional talents of the home cook. Certain dishes, including the ribollita, are more aesthetically inviting, but these exceptions only prove the rule. Simply put, I admire Chef Virant’s palate but not his palette.

I’m not aware of a separate pastry chef at North Pond or Vie, and at North Pond in particular, desserts retain the accretional aesthetic of the savories. I ordered caramel profiteroles with champagne sorbet and a host of other ingredients, including blackberries. The horizontal fanning of the ingredients carried visual appeal, and while it wasn’t easy to harmonize the ingredients, I had fun enjoying the different ingredients (especially the sorbet) on their own.

Caramel Profiteroles, Blackberry, Champagne Sorbet

North Pond: Caramel Profiteroles, Blackberry, Champagne Sorbet

At Vie, we ordered a chocolate-hazelnut-raspberry dessert, with caramel poured tableside. The mason-style jar resonates as a salient prop at Vie, a restaurant that has built much of its reputation on canning and preserving, but while the tableside finish added drama, a more traditional serving vessel might have allowed for easier consumption (I struggled to scrape the dessert out.) This is a very minor critique, though, and I’d order this again in a heartbeat.

Chocolate, Hazelnut, Raspberry, Caramel

Vie: Chocolate, Hazelnut, Raspberry, Caramel

A refrain throughout this essay has been the deployment of regional and international ingredients and preparations, even within two restaurants known for farm-to-table tendencies. Rather than dogmatic adherents to a particular farm-to-table cuisine, Chefs Sherman and Virant resonate more as deft synthesizers of disparate culinary influences. To be sure, they use local ingredients to a greater degree than most chefs, which contributes in no small part to the pleasure their food imparts; yet it still feels to me as if farm-to-table refers more to the ingredients they use than to the dishes they produce. Indeed, I’m not sure I could actually name a farm-to-table “dish,” the way one could with Mexican, French, or even molecular gastronomy (hypothetically, sous-vide steak with a cauliflower foam, falls within molecular gastronomy.) Of course, no cuisine is born in a vacuum and cuisines are never entirely stable, but I still feel as if farm-to-table refers more to a method—to a principle of using primarily local items—than to a cuisine all its own. In a sense, farm-to-table is too amorphous to allow for a distinct cuisine, since ingredients that are farm-to-table in one region will by definition not qualify as such in another region. The institutionalization of farm-to-table as a cuisine would necessitate a canon of dishes that its relational constitution precludes. Beyond this distinction, though, few chefs, particularly at the fine dining level, confine themselves to all-local foood.

If Chefs Sherman and Chef Virant don’t produce farm-to-table cuisine per se, then which cuisines do they execute? Virant may refer to his cooking as “contemporary American” with “Western European” influences, but these categories are so ambiguous—not to mention that he draws from broader influences, such as the black garlic in the sweetbreads—that I don’t think we can align these chefs (or indeed, most chefs working today) within a set cuisine. Certainly, there are chefs who do cook within a particular cuisine, including Rick Bayless (Mexican) and Jean Joho (Alsatian), but these feel like rare examples. A cuisine requires an institutional presence and a history that most chefs today resist.

All of this is to say that the contemporary chef produces his or her own cuisine, rather than adhering to an extant heritage. Through this dynamic, we may observe the parallel trajectories of the culinary arts and the fine arts. That is, I wonder whether the postmodern decline of medium specificity evidenced through contemporary art—cause for celebration or critique, depending on one’s view—finds a corollary in the general resistance to conform to a particular cuisine. Trends, dominant methods (of which farm-to-table is one) and groupthink still abound, but the stability of cuisines and artistic mediums seem to have atrophied, with chefs free to borrow from different cuisines at will in exercises of culinary promiscuity. In many, if not most cases, the chef’s own vision supersedes the constraints imposed by a culinary tradition, so that Paul Virant and Bruce Sherman cook their own cuisines, just as Grant Achatz and Curtis Duffy cook theirs. I don’t mean to suggest that these chefs don’t face their own constraints, and I admire anyone who can operate a kitchen and restaurant given all of the moving parts involved. But rather than misidentifying farm-to-table as a cuisine, we may be better off conceptualizing it as a method through which to express the authorial cuisine of the chef.

Fuel (Lewiston, ME)

Fuel Dining Room

Fuel Dining Room

In previous blog posts, I’ve elaborated on the dynamic wherein the fanciest restaurant in a college town becomes a kind of ‘default-fine dining’ outpost. That is, such restaurants would not qualify as fine dining were they in large cities, but advance a standard deviation in the (perceived) generic hierarchy by virtue of their relative exclusivity. These restaurants depend on the patronage of students and staff, and are where search committees take prospective faculty to dinner following job talks. Fare characteristically includes baseline luxury ingredients (filets of beef, duck), nicely-prepared but without taking the diner out of her comfort zone.

Perched in close proximity to Bates College, Fuel is the Lewiston, ME example of this genre. While I consider these college town restaurants to benefit from a captive audience, one still has to admire the longevity of Fuel in light of Lewiston’s economically-depressed condition. Expanding the geographic horizon, Central Maine has proven a most challenging region for anything pricier than the pub or chain; neither Augusta nor Waterville boasts a restaurant of Fuel’s (still modest) ambition or price point. As an undergraduate, I twice dined at Fuel, but this was a number of years ago and so the Robert Indiana exhibit at the Bates Art [Gallery] motivated my family and me to venture off-the-beaten-trail to this now well-tenured Lewiston institution.

By Lewiston standards, Fuel claims a prime location, situated on the relatively busy, but not particularly attractive, Lisbon Street. Yet the dining room stands at a far remove from the street—no windowside tables or natural light (a couple of outside tables are available, though I can’t imagine anyone choosing to dine al fresco in such a setting.) This segregation from the street registers as a slightly aberrational gesture, particularly given the undramatic mise-en-scene of the dining room; with its low ceiling and narrow confines, the space feels as if it may have been a banquet hall in a prior incarnation. Decorating the walls are (reproductions of) French lithographic posters in the Lautrec style; this is pleasant-enough (if a trope), but also called attention to the contrast between the dynamic iconography of the posters and the relative blandness of the space.

Fuel bills itself as a “modern French bistro,” but in Maine, “bistro” has become an ambiguous signifier, co-opted to refer to anything from upscale, chef-driven cuisine to gastropub fare. Perhaps as a result of such elasticity,  very few restaurants in Maine serve bistro cuisine in its native context. So, Fuel distinguishes itself from other restaurants in this state by staying relatively faithful to proper bistro fare, offering such dishes as braised pork shank, steak frites, charcuterie, and escargot. Other dishes, such as the burger, French onion soup, and fries, claim French provenance but have obviously been absorbed by American cuisine. Fuel seems to frame the pork shank as its signature dish, declaring “A dish that truly defines our French Country heritage. Using all aspects of traditional French cooking, we sear the shank, then slowly braise it in red wine, aromatic vegetables, and balsamic vinegar. The braising liquid is strained and reduced to make a rich, flavorful sauce. The shank is fall-off-the-bone tender, and served atop Brussels sprout, bacon, and sweet potato hash.” This dish isn’t earning high marks for creativity, but the granularity of the description reflects a serious approach, as well as, perhaps, an attempt to educate the diner uninitiated in French cuisine.

With advance notice, one may order a four-course tasting menu. I understand that the chef may not have the time to compose a tasting menu a la minute, but requiring advance notice also suggests that perhaps the menu doesn’t showcase the best of what this chef has to offer. This suggests that what we have isn’t a case of an auteur chef developing his voice in spite of external constraints, but rather an instance in which the chef’s ambition has acquiesced to the exigencies of surviving in this setting.

For this midsummer meal, pork shank seemed too heavy, although there weren’t many light offerings either. I shared the charcuterie plate with my dad, and my mom chose the beat salad. My dad went with the burger for his main, while my mom and I chose mustard-glazed salmon with lentils. We also added the broccoli appetizer to augment the main courses.

Warm bread with butter made for a great opening.

Fuel bread

Fuel Bread Service

The charcuterie consisted of four cured meats: duck prosciutto, coppa, speck, and fennel sausage. Only the duck prosciutto was actually cured in house, and it was the highlight. The gaminess of the duck shone through, tempered by black pepper that accented the sides of each slice. We were very satisfied with the meats and the generosity of the presentation, although some other textures would have been welcome; I would expect a charcuterie plate to include a terrine or pate, for example. The intensity of the duck also would have benefitted from a berry compote, rather than the texturally-incompatible dried fruits accompanying the meats.

Fuel Charcuterie

Charcuterie: Duck Prosciutto, Speck, Coppa, Fennel Sausage (with Dried Fruits, Cornichons, Dijon Mustard, Crostini)

The beat salad boasted red and golden beets, adorned with a champagne vinaigrette, candied walnuts, blue cheese and baby lettuces. The opacity of this dressing challenged expectations, but my mother expressed her satisfaction.

Fuel beet salads

Red and Golden Beets, Champagne Vinaigrette, Blue Cheese, Baby Lettuces, Candied Walnuts

Here we have the salmon, a generous (~10-12 ounce) portion atop a lentils. The menu listed this as “Glazed with Dijon and bread crumbs,” and while more than serviceable, I’m not sure this was successful. Cooked to medium temperature, the fish was cooked more than my preference, and while the bread crumbs offered textural contrast, they overpowered the mustard. To my mind, a more enticing preparation would forgo the bread crumbs altogether, prepare the fish to a rarer temperature, and achieve a mustard crust. Ostensibly the lightest course on the menu, this became very dense. The heaviness of this course was only amplified by the lentils, and the dish became boring. Ordering the broccoli (pictured below the salmon) proved a savvy move insofar as it lightened the salmon and lentils, although the chickpeas rehearsed the starchiness of the lentils and bread crumbs. On its own merits, the broccoli dish was quite nice and we enjoyed that the chick peas seemed to have been treated with chili oil, but the overabundance of chick peas actually resulted in a rather heavy dish.

Fuel Salmon

Salmon with Dijon and Bread Crumbs, French Lentils


Fuel Broccoli

Broccoli, Parmesan, Chickpeas

Fuel offers an 8-ounce, ground ribeye burger. Served with cheddar, fried onions, and horseradish mustard, complementary textures and flavors made this a favorite with my dad.

Fuel Burger

Ribeye Burger, Horseradish, Fried Onions, Cheddar, French Fries

Dessert options included pot de crème, profiteroles, crème brulee, and my choice, apple tarte tatin. I ordered the tarte a la mode, while my parents chose the crème brulee with grand marnier.

The tarte boasted a classic texture, although it was served with maple syrup that proved a bit cloying. My preference would have been to serve this with caramel. The real misstep here, to my estimation, was serving this with chocolate ice cream, which overwhelmed the dessert, as chocolate is wont to do. Considering that the menu did not specify chocolate ice cream but rather mentioned simply that the tarte could be served “a la mode,” why would they serve chocolate? I find this particularly baffling in light of the fact that this was the only fruit-based dessert on offer, so we may conclude that to order this is to deliberately eschew chocolate. A satisfying dessert, but forgoing a la mode would have been wiser and cheaper.

Fuel Tarte Tatin

Apple Tarte Tatin, Maple Syrup, Chocolate Ice Cream

Fuel Creme Brulee (2)

Creme Brulee, Grand Marnier

My conclusion is that Fuel serves comfortable cuisine free of gratuitous complexification. Certain components, such as the bread crumb crust and chocolate ice cream were unwarranted, but perhaps reflect capitulation to a local palate. As for Fuel’s enduring popularity, the restaurant seems to have hit on lucrative cross-pollination between French cuisine and pub fare. A menu item like steak frites, for example, carries a kind of ‘double consciousness’—existing as both highbrow cuisine (by Maine standards) and meat-and-potato pub grub. Consequently, Fuel purports to provide a certain luxury (through declaring a French orientation) without taking the diner out of her comfort zone. Better appreciated within the college town genre than within the broad category of French cuisine, we emerged from this meal satisfied with the cuisine and content with the knowledge—not at all intended as a backhanded compliment—that this was the best we could have eaten on this evening, in this town.

Salero (Chicago, IL)

Salero Dining Room

Salero Dining Room

Salero arrived in Fall of 2014 and its website announces its mission in clear terms: “Welcome to Spain in Chicago’s West Loop.” Visually embedded within this greeting is an aqua asterisk symbol, similar to the Michelin star icon. This may lead the uninitiated to infer that Salero has garnered a Michelin star (it hasn’t); or we may read this as ornamental augury—a wishful foreshadow of Michelin recognition in the upcoming year. The website, then, begs the following: how, exactly, would Salero transport us to Spain? And is there the promise for culinary greatness?

While this restaurant is a relative newcomer, its chef, Ashlee Aubin, isn’t. In addition to the usual platitudes (an investment in eating local, on the relationship between food and community, and the forth), his website bio indicates that he spent four years at Zealous, which no longer exists but seems to have been a paradigmatic locus for early aughties fusion. Aubin then spent a year at Alinea, and the website credits Grant Achatz as Aubin’s chief mentor. Most recently, he headed the kitchen at Wood Restaurant in Chicago, a respected eatery but without the Spanish concentration Salero declares; this left me wondering whether Spanish cuisine was indeed native to Aubin’s culinary vision.

Locating Salero presented no challenges, since it occupies a small space adjacent to Blackbird and Avec, both of which I’ve dined at in the past. Our early reservation netted us the option of indoor or outdoor seating; arriving before my companion, I chose the former. Were I in Maine, I might have gone al fresco; at Salero, however, to dine outdoor is not to enjoy a prime layer of real estate, but rather to come into physical contact with Blackbird and Avec, the restaurant’s formidable competition. With exposed brick and wood, as well as wooden chairs and tables unadorned with cloth, the indoor dining room registers as fashionable, yet not particularly comfortable (perhaps these attributes are correlated.) One can see from the photo above the substantial variance in luminosity between the blinding sun outside and the dark interior milieu; combined with the nearly empty early evening dining room, the space felt almost cavelike (I imagine, however, that the exposed brick makes for a noisy late evening scene.)

Our server performed an efficient menu description, her presentation made all the easier by the absence of nightly specials. I was disappointed to find that jamon iberico had been replaced by cheaper serrano ham, which is delicious but relatively ubiquitous. Many dishes still caught my eye. Despite the Spanish focus, Chef Aubin accents his menu with touches extracted from a broader spectrum of European fare—harissa, foie gras, and orecchiette pasta, for example. I have no problem with such cultural borrowing; a nationally-specific focus need not entail the outright exclusion of other cuisines. I chose grilled octopus as a starter and whole lubina for my main. My companion chose differently, but I only tried my dishes and so I’ve limited this report to my plates.

A foodrunner stopped by with good bread, which I neglected to snapshot.

The octopus came with radicchio, escarole, and a croquette filled with tete de cochon. I don’t find the composition particularly attractive, perhaps because of the relatively monochromatic interplay between the reddish hues of the octopus and those of the lettuce and croquette. If there was aesthetic overlap, the taste proved just the opposite, and I couldn’t harmonize everything. The croquette wasn’t a bad match for the octopus and while the octopus was slightly overcooked, it remained within the bounds of enjoyability; yet the harshness of the lettuce really besmirched the complementary flavors otherwise at work.

Octopus, Radicchio, Tete de Cochon Croquette

Octopus, Radicchio, Tete de Cochon Croquette

The lubina was the real star of this meal, served with rouille, potato sticks, and charred escarole. I could have done without the latter (especially after the escarole and radicchio from the course prior), but this seems to be the age of bitter lettuces and so its presence may have been inevitable. The fish was cooked perfectly and the kitchen dexterously filleted it so zero bones littered the composition—often an issue with whole fish preparations. This dish had everything: a well-prepared protein, textural contrast, and an appropriate sauce. Given the youth of this restaurant, I imagine that Chef Aubin is mediating between overhauling his menu as the season dictates and hitting upon signature dishes; I hope this course claims signature status as it was a real tour de force.

Whole Lubina, Sauce Rouille, Charred Escarole, Potato Sticks

Whole Lubina, Sauce Rouille, Charred Escarole, Potato Sticks

To conclude, I ordered churros, served with salted whipped chocolate, and milk jam. These lacked the more dense sugar coating of the decorated version at Xoco, yet we may perhaps attribute this to a difference between Mexican and Spanish churros. The churros were satisfying, but lacked the modicum of sweetness that I enjoy in a dessert.

Churros, Salted Whipped Chocolate, Milk Jam

Churros, Salted Whipped Chocolate, Milk Jam

My hasty, one-meal conclusion is that Salero’s cuisine isn’t vastly different from what one finds at other West Loop spots, particularly Spanish-inflected restaurants like Vera and Avec (there may be others as well.) Certainly, those two restaurants remain anchored in small plates, distinct from the 3-course experience of this meal; all the same, Salero’s forte doesn’t seem to involve serving atypical ingredients, but rather configuring those ingredients into a more conventional dining experience than its competition. Salero might do well solidify its niche through offering more luxurious Spanish ingredients. The most high-end ingredient was foie gras—what does it say about an upscale Spanish restaurant when its chief luxury ingredient derives from another cuisine? I have no objection to foie gras being served, but the absence of iberico ham feels like a lost opportunity.

It was also a mistake, I think, not to produce a more distinctive décor, perhaps with more Spanish artwork. In other words: if Salero purports to transport its diner to Spain, national specificity is achieved through cuisine alone (unlike Topolobampo, for example, which represents Mexico through cuisine, décor, stemware, and so on.)

Fortunately, in Chef Aubin, Salero possesses a worthy chef who produces plates that are attractive to both eye and tongue. I can see that the middling octopus preparation has been replaced by a more compelling preparation, and other dishes invite return visits. Salero may not achieve a proper Spanish experience, nor even a singular experience within the West Loop, but the skilled preparation of my fish leaves me optimistic that Salero should manage to avoid getting muscled out of town by its more famous neighborhood competition.

Niche (St. Louis, MO)

An investigation into St. Louis fine dining restaurants won’t generate many results, but the city lays claim to a few high-end destinations. The best-known of these is Niche, whose executive chef, Gerard Craft, stands fresh off winning the James Beard Award for Best Chef in the Midwest. My brother and I have eaten at Niche on several occasions over the last 6 months and so have developed a degree of familiarity with the cuisine and staff; unfortunately, the academic year exerted too many demands on my time to chronicle those earlier meals and so this post will have to suffice.

Niche has resided in its current location on Forsythe Street only recently, and at our first meal, the GPS led us to the old location. The dining room boasts a spectrum of brownish hues and an attractive open layout. The only aspect of the interior design that leaves me wanting is the floor; in lieu of hardwood floors, I believe Niche uses one of those cheap floor mats designed to simulate the look of real wood. I imagine this fabric goes unnoticed by most, particularly since the lighting is relatively low, and so I doubt they’re planning to overhaul the floor anytime soon.

Niche features a refreshingly transparent menu structure, with no blind tasting progressions. One chooses from either a 4-course prix fixe or a longer tasting menu comprised of dishes from the prix fixe. The prix fixe features a grid of three options for each course, so at any point in time, the restaurant offers 12 courses from which to choose—this is compact enough to suggest that nothing is on offer just to take up room. There are also some ‘snack’ offerings to punctuate the opening chapter of the meal. We always go with the prix fixe as that is now my favorite format in which to dine—long enough for a variety of flavors, but with course selection still in the hands of the diner.

Before ordering, we were served gratis cocktails (mine was non-alcoholic, my brother’s was not.)



One of the big calling cards of this restaurant is their policy of sourcing everything from a 300-mile radius. According to the website:

“To take the common and remind you how beautiful it can be. We look to the past to see what was here long before us and we look to the future to see what might be possible. As chefs we are never satisfied and always evolving. We are more in awe of a carrot or potato, grown by one of our trusted farmers, than we are by a white truffle flown in from Italy. To us, this is what defines cooking in Missouri.”

Conceptually, this is easy to admire and clarifies that Niche isn’t just copying what restaurants in other states are doing. But, this isn’t Conceptual Art we’re dealing with; the high degree of geographic specificity also raises the same question that any other farm-to-table restaurant poses: would the cuisine benefit from a wider geographic base? At any rate, this is not a seafood restaurant (the only fish I’ve seen on offer is trout)—lots of root vegetables, grains, and poultry instead. We began by ordering the potato beignets with a smoked trout dip, as well as house-cured ham and cheese bread. For the prix fix courses, I chose the swiss chard dish, then a mushroom course, and the lamb as my main dish. Dessert was pecan financier My brother went with a butternut squash soup and then the same mushroom preparation. His main course was a local ribeye, and then the same dessert.

The first items delivered were ‘tea’ (a pork broth) and English muffins topped with house-made camembert.) When one is served a deconstructed tea like this, it’s hard to know the spirit in which it is presented. Was this a genuine act of hospitality or an ironic joke? At Alinea, this would certainly have been the latter, served with a sneer. At Niche, it felt more genuine—a joke for us to enjoy, but also a welcoming gesture at the start of the meal. Sadly, while the English muffin was great, I couldn’t handle the tea—way too one-note with the fattiness, and the broth had coagulated anyhow.

Pork 'Tea'

Pork ‘Tea’

English Muffin, Camembert

English Muffin, Camembert

Niche prides itself on its bread offering, which makes good use of local grains. In this article, the sous chef went so far as to claim that “I think where we’re at now, the bread tells as much of a story as any other dish on the menu.” The bread was awesome and enhanced by the accompanying butter and fleur de sel.

Wheat Bread

Wheat Bread

Next were the potato beignets and charcuterie. This latter offering was served with cheese bread, which my brother likes but which became rather redundant with the bread service. I’d still recommend either of these offerings.

Potato Beignets, Smoked Trout Dip

Potato Beignets, Smoked Trout Dip

The complete title for my first plate was “Swiss Chard: egg yolk, fromage blanc, green garlic.” This was plenty rich without the egg yolk (poured tableside), which took everything to another level. I knew from experience that Niche has great facility with vegetables and this was another winning preparation.

Chard, Fromage Blanc, Egg Yolk, Green Garlic

Chard, Fromage Blanc, Egg Yolk, Green Garlic

My brother always orders soup to start and he enjoyed this one. Given that this was mid-April, butternut squash soup was a bit out of season (replaced with asparagus not long thereafter.) Ordinarily, squash soups can get a bit sweet, but this one was spiked with local miso (and pecans), which cut through the cloying flavors. Very good.

Butternut Squash Soup, MO Miso, Pecan (pre-pour)

Butternut Squash Soup, MO Miso, Pecan (pre-pour)

The mushroom are the only plate that never leaves the menu and this execution was great as usual. Oyster and maitake mushrooms are plated on a bed of grits, alongside a chorizo/butter/paprika sauce, carrots, and a superfluous herbal garnish. We love this rich and complex way of foregrounding the mushrooms.

Local Mushrooms: Chorizo Spices, Carrot, Polenta

Local Mushrooms: Chorizo Spices, Carrot, Polenta

Next were blackberry popsicles; my brother’s was enhanced with bourbon.

Blackberry Popsicles

Blackberry Popsicles

My lamb course offered loin and (if memory serves) sweetbread. The composition here didn’t carry the same level of precision as the other offerings and there was a lot going on here. Everything was perfectly-executed; this brought a sigh of relief since on occasion, meat has been overcooked in the past (also, just parenthetically, fish has been over-citrused.)

Lamb Duo: Carrot, Yogurt, Black Walnut

Lamb Duo: Carrot, Yogurt, Black Walnut

The steak was served with potato, onion, malt, and ramp hollandaise (poured tableside.) Niche has always done an awesome job sourcing their beef and this was cooked sous-vide at the requested medium-rare. Very satisfying.

Ribeye: Potato, Onion, Malt, Ramp Hollandaise

Ribeye: Potato, Onion, Malt, Ramp Hollandaise

We each ordered pecan financier for dessert; this was served with a bourbon anglaise, blueberry, and meringue. The preparation sounded interesting, but the anglaise had some kind of elemental technique that solidified the cream—a major disappointment as everything was dry. This preparation rehearsed my frustrations with the pastry program from past meals, as they invariably mar the desserts through gratuitous techniques. To a certain degree, this complaint applies to the state of desserts right now, which seem overly obsessed with techniques and deconstruction. I’ve remarked on this in past blog posts, but pastry programs have become disproportionately more abstract and technique-driven than savory, to the point of diminishing returns.

Pecan Financier: Whiskey Barrel Anglaise, Blueberry, Meringue

Pecan Financier: Whiskey Barrel Anglaise, Blueberry, Meringue

A couple of candies ended the meal.

If the dessert rehearsed extant frustrations with the pastry program, the rest of the meal reprised pleasures that compel us to return every other month or so: a dexterous hand with vegetables, top-notch steak preparations, and gracious service. Remaining grounded in hyper-local ingredients has not compromised the cuisine. I’d also say that Niche’s cuisine and culinary ethos comport with what has come to mean “contemporary American” cooking: on the one hand, a principle of spatiality that involves excavating local ingredients, to the point of also growing local variants of international staples; and on the other hand, a principle of temporality shown through the careful selection of time-honored Missouri ingredients like grains and earthy vegetables. The executive chef seems to be aiming for these principles, remarking in reference to the localism of the recent winter menu that it “gives the restaurant a sense of time and place; it gives a sense of the winter of Missouri in 2015.” Yet as the quote cited early in this post makes evident, the emphasis on time and place is dialectical, bringing past and present together and even placing Missouri ingredients in dialogue with international cuisines through, for example, the Missouri miso included in the soup. Niche might confuse first-time visitors since the uber-local focus perhaps suggests a simple culinary approach rather than the technique-driven cuisine on display at points in this meal, but a clear culinary voice still governed this meal. Of course, we knew in advance that red meat and vegetables were areas of strength and so there is always the chance that ordering other items might have resulted in less sanguine impressions. But with its regional focus and culinary foray into Missouri’s past and present, Niche occupies a worthy place in ‘contemporary American’ fine dining.