Restaurant Review - it is a game that should be played right.

This sudden arrival and departure of the afternoon rain messed up my Sunday plan.  So instead of shopping for new furnishing pieces, I decided to stay in and organize my book collection. 

On my not-too-big bookshelf in Shanghai home, there's an entire row dedicated to gastronomical reference, including one of my personal favorite, Ruth Reichl, and some other foodies who seem so dimmed out under the comparison with Ms. Reichl's sharp yet honest words. 

I used to be very into restaurant critiquing during my first few years in Shanghai. This all started after reading Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphire, where this New York native food critique did her reviews in disguise of various characters in order to test out the venue's true quality. There are so many aspiring new critics out there who review restaurants for different intentions, some does to fulfill personal satisfactory, some does to do a little showing off. But no one does it like how Ms. Reichl rocked the foodies' world 15 years ago with her famous review for Le Cirque. 

October 29, 1993 Restaurants By RUTH REICHL Being a new restaurant critic in town has its drawbacks: there are a lot of restaurants I haven't yet eaten in. But it also has its advantages: there are a lot of restaurants where I am still not recognized. In most places I am just another person who has reserved weeks in advance, and I still have to wait as more important people are waltzed into the dining room. I watch longingly as they are presented with the chef's special dishes, and then I turn and order from the menu just like everybody else. One of my first interests was to review the cooking of Sylvain Portay, who became chef at Le Cirque late last year. Over the course of five months I ate five meals at the restaurant; it was not until the fourth that the owner, Sirio Maccioni, figured out who I was. When I was discovered, the change was startling. Everything improved: the seating, the service, the size of the portions. We had already reached dessert, but our little plate of petit fours was whisked away to be replaced by a larger, more ostentatious one. An avalanche of sweets descended upon the table, and I was fascinated to note that the raspberries on the new desserts were three times the size of those on the old ones. Food is important, and Mr. Portay is exceptionally talented. But nobody goes to Le Cirque just to eat. People go for the experience of being in a great restaurant. Sometimes they get it; sometimes they don't. It all depends on who they are. Dinner as the Unknown Diner  "Do you have a reservation?" This is said so challengingly I instantly feel as if I am an intruder who has wandered into the wrong restaurant. But I nod meekly and give my guest's name. And I am sent to wait in the bar. And there we sit for half an hour, two women drinking glasses of expensive water. Finally we are led to a table in the smoking section, where we had specifically requested not to be seated. Asked if there is, perhaps, another table, the captain merely gestures at the occupied tables and produces a little shrug. There is no need to ask for the wine list; there it is, perched right next to me on the banquette where the waiters shove the menus. Every few minutes another waiter comes to fling his used menus in my direction. I don't mind, because I am busy with the wine list, but I have only got to page 3 before the captain reappears. "I need that wine list," he says peremptorily, holding out his hand. I surrender, and it is 20 minutes before it returns. (Women and wine are an uncomfortable mix at Le Cirque; at a subsequent meal the captain insists that he has only half bottles of the Riesling I've just ordered. When I prove that he's mistaken, he glares at me.) Still, persistence is rewarded. The list is large and good, and has many rewards for the patient reader. Given a little time, I unearth a delicious 1985 Chambolle-Musigny for $46. We sip our wine and listen to what is going on at the tables around us. This is easy; those of us seated around the edges of the room have absolutely no privacy. While the captain tells our neighbors about Mr. Portay's $90 degustation menu ("You know he was the sous-chef of Alain Ducasse at Le Louis XV in Monte Carlo"), we listen eagerly. But ordering it, we are to discover, is not smart. It is the middle of June, and our "seasonal menu" turns out to be a lot of brown food. The vegetables are mainly carrots, turnips and radishes, and we have potatoes in three out of five courses. Still, the first course, sauteed foie gras with white peaches, is so good that the memory of it carries us through most of the meal. The sweet, soft fruit is a brilliant pairing with the rich meat. I like the next course, too, curried tuna tartar. Encircling the silky chopped fish, which has just the perfect touch of spice, is a lovely mosaic of radish slices. But would a really great restaurant send out these pale and flabby pieces of "toast"? We are considering this when the captain appears and informs us that a table has opened up and we will be permitted to leave the smoke zone. The move should make me happy, but when the busboy trails us to our new table, shoves our crumpled old napkins into our hands and dumps our used glasses onto the table, I can't help feeling disgruntled. Then the parade of brown food begins. First halibut with mushrooms on soggy rounds of potatoes. Atop the fish, a single sprig of chervil waves forlornly, the lone spot of green. I am unimpressed with the dish, but I am baffled when the chef follows it with more fish and potatoes. Potato-wrapped black bass in Barolo sauce has been a standard at Le Cirque since Daniel Boulud's days; in Mr. Portay's hands it is as good as ever, the fish soft and tender inside its crisp coat, the sauce a rounded complement. Unfortunately, this wonderful fish only emphasizes how dull the previous one was. Next there is tenderloin of lamb on a bed of pureed potatoes. It is a fine dish, if not particularly exciting, but it is certainly not the thing you're dying to eat in the first hot weather. Desserts don't make any concessions to summer either. The chocolate souffle cake with whipped cream is excellent, and I like the latte cotto, a sort of light lemon custard served with marinated berries. But watching the people at the next table tucking into tarts filled with summer fruits, and gorgeous sorbets and creme brulee sheltered beneath an enormous dome of spun sugar, I feel cheated. The food hasn't been bad, and there was certainly a lot of it. Still, as I pay the bill I find myself wishing that when the maitre d' asked if I had a reservation, I had just said no and left.

You see, when reviewing a restaurant, we must first understand that we are not reviewing just food nor the fame, these are lifeless physicals that are not meaningful until what surrounds them blows a whiff of life to awaken.  Fames and names become only a way to address the experience, and a good critic is able to put those aside. A good critic is a story teller, and he/she must be a damn good one in order to paint a vision for the readers, the weight of the door, lighting at the reception bar, the smell of the air as you first enter the venue, color of the food anchoring with what serves it, mai'tre d''s alertness and fluency in knowing her menu du jour 101. A good critic is also good with seasons and mechanics. What I mean by that, is sharing with readers what is appropriate to eat in specific seasons, and architecture/mechanism of a dish. Greatness of a dish only turns out with the flavor and balance it deserves, when constructed with the right mechanism. It's a fine balance between physics and chemistry, not a battle between seasonings. 

Taking my brunch dish yesterday from El Willy for example, 60 degree soft poached egg with pan seared foie gras cubes, and julienned black truffle was far from success. The carmalized onion bed that the egg was served on overkilled the delicate earthiness of black truffle. The addition of fois gras cubes was nothing more than a useless and flamboyant touch. The texture was a mismatch with the eggs and truffle. In the end, this dish had failed to capture the fairy-ness that an eggs and truffle dish should carry. The flavor was with too much weight, leaving insufficient freedom for the truffle aroma to pass through the entire meal. If only the onion was replaced with porcini mushroom, foie gras replaced with just a simple sliver of parmessan, I would consider ordering it again. Service to me, is defined by more than just attitude.  A waiter could be snobby and cold, as long as he is able to translate the dish with fluency, and respect the dish with his every touch... Overall, the experience did not live to its RMB 235 price. 

Sometimes a restaurant has to live with the local ingredients and available wine labels a country imports in. But there are ways to do it well or do it horribly. To me, El Willy has too much room for improvements, so are most of the restaurants in China. Earlier I had mentioned a passion for food critiquing in the earlier years of living in China. But after trying almost all the restaurants you can think of in Shanghai, my journey stopped two years ago after unearthing the most laudable gastronomical experience. This gem is Daniel Boulud's Maison Boulud in Beijing. The experience began with a very New York Fine Dining style manager, who was more than familiar with testing restaurant guests by the way they accept his first offering of table. I walked in with no reservation, so he naturally informed me of a possible two hour wait. I responded to him that I was a fan of Daniel Boulud in New York, and it would be an important experience for me to compare the two in terms of their ingredient usage and adaption of local availability. He made the checking gesture again, and informed me in less than 5 minutes that they had a table for me. 

Of course, being well practiced at this fine dining game with mai'tre d' myself, I was prepared to see a less than premium table offered the first time. I was right, it was a table for two at the side of the restaurant and too close to their cash stand. I politely rejected the table, handing the ball back to the restaurant manager for the second time, by simply letting him know that this was an impossible seat for me. He smiled, he knew the game. I smiled back at him, and looked forward to his response. The restaurant that night was in fact a full house for sure, which makes this game all the more fun. His next response will show me how important he viewed at me as a guest, and determines the kind of services I will receive for the rest of the night. 5 minutes later, I was brought to one of the best table in the center of the restaurant. I gave all the credits to my fur and alligator clutch that night, well, maybe a little to my knowing of the game. 

white asparagus was crisp and tender, with a trail of freshness from the garden. Quail consomme was clear and sweet, every sip was a burst of complex flavors.  Nothing was too overly dressed, and was paid with the highest respect that any fresh ingredient should deserve. Dinner was followed by a personal cheese board and basket of fresh out of the oven lemon ginger madeline plus the basic petite fours. To my surprise, after the dish, under the welcoming path opened by the restaurant manager, there was the famous Daniel Boulud. I was greeted and introduced to him, and he asked me how I enjoyed the dinner with his usual beam of warmth. I was incredibly delighted and honored to have been treated with such high respect. And of course, our desert and cheese board were waived off from the bill per Daniel's command. 

The experience didn't end here. The next morning I had discovered to have left my business card case at the restaurant, and after calling them at 9 in the morning, it was delivered to my room at Ritz Carlton after one hour. Superb services, and well worth a bill of RMB 1600. This was a great lesson for me, that one would only get the right everything when you play the game right in this superficial and competitive world of critic.