By Kevin Galaba
By Mark Antonation
By Gretchen Kurtz
By Cafe Society
By Mark Antonation
By Mark Antonation
By Jonathan Shikes
By Mark Antonation
I have no use for fusion cuisine, for the deliberate fuckery that comes of trying to jam two or three or five culinary traditions together on one plate, for the dumb manhandling of food — torturing it and forcing it into unnatural configurations of time or flavor or place.
Of all the ridiculous ideas to come from restaurateurs who were too bored or weird or high to just make a great steak, a lovely little pave of salmon, a spread of tekka maki or plate of chicharrones, fusion might be the worst. California cuisine was damaging to the American spirit and culinary consciousness for many years after it moved out of the charmed area codes where it was invented. The phrase "New American" became a hollow excuse for the deliberate abuse of root vegetables almost the minute it was uttered; "small plates" and tapas menus proliferated for one or two beautiful seasons before quickly being subsumed by the piling on of shady operators who used them as just another excuse to lower food costs and jack prices at the same time.
But fusion cuisine is particularly deadly — and just as impossible to kill. As a concept, it has teeth like one of those little sucker eels that stick on the backs of sharks, and in execution it's as addictive as crack cocaine. For chefs, taking two great cuisines (French and Japanese, say, or Indian and Chinese) and combining the best of both appears to be a perfect panacea to the ennui that sometimes sets in after years of cooking, say, only French or only Chinese. Forget the fact that French and Japanese are almost diametrically opposed in terms of mindset and style. Forget the fact that there is little or no historical precedent for the mingling of these two styles. Forget the fact that sashimi and béchamel go together like nuts and gum. Fusion seems like such a good idea that even as the marshals are coming in the front door, tagging equipment and stock for the bankruptcy auction, the chef in back is still wondering why no one liked his Bavarian-Korean cafe and biergarten...
Nine times out of ten, a fusion restaurant might just as well hang a sign on the door announcing to all and sundry its intention to suck even before the first plate flies clear of the galley. But Karma is the tenth restaurant. It's that rare exception that proves how an essentially bad idea can very occasionally work, balancing the half-dozen cuisines on offer through humor and lightheartedness and occasional flashes of true talent from the kitchen.
I wasn't prepared to like Karma, which had two strikes against it right from the start. First, Peter Hsing, ex of Wokano Asian Bistro, decided to put his fusion Asian restaurant in the former home of Min Min Chinese, a bizarrely freak-tastic Hello Kitty-themed Chinese restaurant, thereby robbing me of one of my favorite jokey touchstones for why Denver is awesome: Because we had our own Hello Kitty restaurant, that's why.
And second, when I tried Karma soon after it opened last summer, it was awful. Also empty. And weirdly off-putting because I had to sit in that empty dining room, trying to get through that awful plate of chicken Panang curry over rice that tasted both sour and bland at the same time, pretending I was enjoying myself while missing my favorite fake-happy-face lubricant — liquor, because Karma opened without a license. When I finally managed to escape, I was in no hurry to ever go back.
Still, I can't tell you how many times I have sworn to never, ever visit a certain restaurant again, only to be drawn back like Michael Corleone in The Godfather. In the case of Karma, I was pushed by peer pressure, too. People kept telling me how good the place was, about these great meals they'd had there, how glad they were that someone had finally started serving inari or bang-bang chicken in their 'hood, singing the praises of the Asian tapas menu. So finally I surrendered and returned to Karma.
The room felt different than I'd remembered it — slightly more alive, with a few tables occupied on a Saturday night, the vibe cooled out by lightweight world/house music burbling out of the speakers. True, the color scheme was still black-on-black (good for a nightclub, often misguided for a restaurant), but the feel was less generic Asian minimalism, less cold and more relaxing than the version in my memories. I'd forgotten some of the details: the waving maneki neko behind the counter, pictures of smiling Buddhas and woven mats on the bench-back banquette seats. And there was one important addition: Karma now had a stocked bar at the back of the main dining room. Fortified by company and a bottle of icy Tsingtao sweating in the July heat, I started looking over the menu.
And then I ordered curry again. This time, though, I skipped the Panang and went for a curry that was essentially four or five pork chops, removed from the bone, pounded thin, battered, fried and dumped into a vat of powerful, dusty yellow curry, deep with spices and teasing sweetness, fragrant even from a distance. Maybe it was because the kitchen had gotten markedly better; maybe it's simply tough to go wrong with a bowl full of pork chops. Whatever, my curried pork chops weren't just good, they were fantastic. Even as I was eating them, I was getting sad because I knew that eventually I'd reach the bottom of the bowl and then have no more curried pork chops.