Third course: sous-vide Alaskan king crab that is really double-sous-vide crab because the crabs were boiled whole, sectioned, the meat removed, then re-vacuum-bagged and slow-cooked again for eight hours at some ridiculously low temperature along with some frozen beurre blanc, a sprig of thyme. The plate is the same white plate used for the cheese course, the linear arrangement of elements no less beautiful. The crab is set atop warm, piped parmesan mayonnaise, dotted with green peas, shiitake mushrooms and thyme. On one end, there's a single dot of brilliant red sriracha, in the middle a puddle of carbonated cantaloupe jelly (which I hadn't liked during the tasting and don't like any better now) and on the other end, two squares of roasted melon and spearmint leaves, robbed of their most vital juices, turned into a clear amber gelée and stacked like breath mints.
After three bites of the crab/thyme/mayo/pea/shiitake combination, I have to call for Ian. He sits down next to me on the banquette, beaming because he can see the flush in my cheeks, the tears standing out in my eyes.
Mark Manger
Ian Kleinman is cooking with gas – liquid nitrogen, to be exact – in the kitchen at O's.
Mark Manger
An ice sculpture of Ian Kleinman's hand holds the day's sorbet.
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10600 Westminster Boulevard, Westminster
Hours: 7 a.m.-10 p.m. daily
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"I know, man," he says. "I know."
It is the best crab I have had in my life, the best English peas, the best shiitake mushrooms ever. It is an absolute wonder of science and cuisine, of processes I barely understand, of chemicals whose names I can't remember. The crab melts on my tongue like butter, only butter made of crab. The peas have been marinated under pressure, or maybe marinated while frozen. The shiitakes are merely roasted, but roasted to the ideal state of chewy-tender, dry and concentrated doneness. Perfect. I try to tell this to Ian. He just nods, says thank you and slips away, back into the kitchen, his lab, his playground of the future.
After the crab, anything else would be a letdown. I think a blow job and a salad made of hundred-dollar bills would be a letdown. Unfortunately, I don't get to test this theory, but instead move on to the dessert course: a beet meringue topped with almond yogurt turned into ice cream, bits of seared quince and a bed of pine caramel made from tufts clipped from the branches of a pine tree growing right outside the dining room — terroir in extreme. I follow that with a glass of Robert Hall port and a good cigar while I sit beside the fire on the patio.
After a while, Ian huffs down in a chair beside me, and we talk. He tells me that he's tired, that his wife is pissed at him because he isn't home enough and because, working twelve or fourteen hours a day, he isn't getting to see his little girl at all. He says he's going to take a vacation, starting tomorrow. He's taken pictures of all his plates, left prep instructions for his cooks. Tomorrow, they'll be the ones freezing their fingertips, sculpting the gelée, making the caviar — but only if people order the tasting menu, which is never a sure thing.
Last week, Ian sold just seventeen tasting menus. The week before, twelve. There are nights when he and his crew turn 350 in the dining room and not a single person goes for anything overtly molecularly gastronomical — except for the flashy tableside sorbet, which has always been a solid seller.
But even without ordering the tasting menu, the diners at O's still experience molecular gastronomy. Bits of it are scattered all through the menu — asparagus served with the same nitrous-fired parmesan mayonnaise he uses on the crab plate, short ribs done sous-vide — even if Ian doesn't call attention to them. Which is the way to do it, he insists. Have one, freaky, intimidating and bizarre menu full of crazy Mr. Wizard shit available for the adventurous, then take the best things from that menu and incorporate them into the regular board. That's how this new cuisine is going to become acceptable, he insists, how it's going to work. You can't give the people meat paper or fruit caviar until they've gotten hip to sous-vide; you can't get them hip to sous-vide until they've come to accept slow-poaching and immersion blenders. As with anything, there's a process, and though Ian has always been something of a rebel (serving seawater gelée and wasabi popcorn that turned everyone's mouths blue at Indigo; trying to start his own soup company by carrying around samples in a black briefcase and showing them to chefs in parking lots, laying the case on the hoods of cars like some kind of weight coke dealer and asking if they had a microwave he could use), he's growing up a little, thinking more, planning for the future even though, in his kitchen, the future is already here.
"You know how it is," he says. "Being a chef, it's all about the tricks you know. It's all about being the guy who knows more, who does something first. Well, now I've got a whole new bunch of new tricks I know. When I want to cook something, I can just cook it." No longer is cooking about grilling this, searing that. It's about instant freezing and chemicals that have been the tools solely of the food processors for too long. It's about reimagining absolutely everything. "There are no rules, you know? We can do anything."
