I Shot JR

I Shot JR

Three years ago I learned of a strange phenomenon of modern life: taking pictures of one’s food.  It had of course been going on for quite some time before I noticed it.  I am sure it began here in Japan, where ubiquitous camera-equipped, and internet connected, cell phones, in the hands of compulsive photographers who happened to be obsessed with food, meant that an entire nation could no longer be content to eat food, instead they had to share the experience with the world.  I was raised in an era where taking photos in a restaurant would have been considered gauche, if not rude.  But I have snapped a surreptitious photo from time to time, and last night I decided to embrace the trend and shoot the whole meal.  The decision was prompted by the occasion: I was dining at Joël Robuchon.

Joël Robuchon, or JR, is the most starred chef in the world.  How many stars does he have?

Billions and billions! – Carl Sagan

Twenty-six – The Michelin Guide

Let’s split the difference, and call it two billion and thirteen and a half.

In Tokyo alone he has seven for his three restaurants: two stars each for the Atelier in Roppongi Hills, and the Galleria in Ginza; three stars, Michelin’s highest accolade, for La Table in Ebisu Gardens at The Chateau.  It was for the latter that I made a reservation last night.

I did not take a photo of the building.  You’ve seen castles before, and even dined in them.  While they are a proven winner in the food business, I think JR went wrong here, as I am sure he gets plenty of walk-ins expecting to find sliders and fries, and I was unable to find either on the menu. 

Speaking of menus, usually the price of set meals rises as you page from left to right.  Perhaps he was catering to the Japanese habit of reading things backwards, or perhaps he was trying to trick Westerners, but the menu last night had two pages, and the verso was higher-priced than the recto.  There was also a loose sheet with a special menu that was steeper yet, but the mid-priced set menu had the most items, and seemed the most interesting.  Here’s what the discerning diner was ordering last night.

You’ll notice that the menu is in French.  Happily, there is an English translation for each item, but sometimes these restaurants go all French, just to intimidate you.

Rule One: Never show fear!

As it happens, I know some French food terms, such as Le Boeuf (beef), Le Gorgonzola (Gorgonzola), and Le Pommes Frites (but you won’t find those at JR, they are at the other Castle along with Le Sliders). The rule also comes in handy when the chef decides to surprise you with a dish he learned in the jungles of New Guinea, or the Swiss Alps, something exotic such as “Tripe of Dog, with a garnish of Mustard Greens, and Quail Ovaries.” Just remember the rule:

Never show fear!

It was easy to relax, as I was sipping a glass of Bruno Paillard Champagne while making my selection.  I didn’t get a photo of the bottle, as it was whisked off in the Champagne cart before I could draw a bead on it, but it was definitely a bottle of the good stuff.

This didn’t look like “Amuse-Bouche Le Caviar,” but what was it: cheese, sherbet, or some other tidbit?

Still not sure … I took a forkful, rolled it on the tongue.

“Butter?” I asked the waiter.  He smiled to acknowledge the keenness of my palate. He knew he was in the presence of an experienced and discerning taster.

The wine steward offered the menu, but I declined, asking her to provide pairings.

She had some things to say about this wine, and all that followed.  Between you and me, they make all that up!  They use buzzwords like “nose,” or “smoky,” or “fruity,” and never say “forgot to remove gym socks before stomping the grapes.” Whatever she had to say didn’t matter; if the Champagne was good, this was Ohmigod!  And since they left the bottle on the table, when I finished the glass I figured I was meant to pour another.

Apparently not.  The waiter didn’t actually slap my hand, but he did pry the bottle from between my fingers, poured a begrudging taste into the bottom of my glass, and whisked the bottle away.

While drinking it, the caviar arrived. The menu says it is served “in a surprise tin.” Surprise! It has JR’s name on the lid. The caviar is on a bed of crabmeat.  Can you see the little spoon in the picture? Of course not, because I ignored it, or rather, failed to notice it, when I shot the picture, and when I picked up my fork and dug in. The waiter, back from confiscating the Haut-Brion, grabbed the fork and steered me to the spoon.  I had forgotten that you are not supposed to touch caviar with metal. I was committing faux pas, French for “eating with your paws, you dog!” with every course. But never mind:

Never show fear!

Three kinds of uni, JR recommending that I begin with the dish at nine o’clock, the one with “coffee-flavored mashed potatoes,” and continue counterclockwise through the sushi rolls, ending with the shrimp custard.  I could tell you that the foam atop the first dish was, according to the waiter, also potatoes, apparently whipped into a frenzy. I could also tell you they, the foamy ones, were very salty. And if I told you it all tasted great, I wouldn’t be lying. But I won’t tell you any of that.  One of the reasons I don’t write restaurant reviews is that I don’t know a darned thing about cooking.  Sure, I know that you fry or boil on top of the stove, and one requires water.  I know that you bake and roast inside the oven, and that “roasting” probably requires that the target be meat, as I have never had baked turkey or roasted muffins.  On the other hand, I have had roasted potatoes, so go figure.  I also know that sautéing something involves butter. The real foodies are all cooks, and turn up their highly tuned noses as they type: “The sea salt was from Corsica, when of course Maltese salt was required.  Further, the reduction of the veal stock …” Not only do I not know which salt is required, I don’t know how to “reduce” something, and don’t want to know.  Nor am I into emulsifying.  At least, not consciously.  Sounds bloody disgusting, it does!  Take a tip from me, if the waiter says, “How would you like your steak: a) Reduced; b) Emulsified; c) Sautéed, choose “c” every time.

Bread anyone? There was bread with bacon, bread with chestnuts, bread with bacon and onion, bread with cheese, bread with anchovies, and bread with I forget. I went with the second, third, and fourth.

They whisked this one away as soon as it posed for its picture. Didn’t they trust me?  Actually, I saw the waiter hastening to pour from it across the room.  It was a 2008, for those who keep score.

This was the pumpkin.  I was so busy following the waiter’s instructions to mix the ingredients – it was an interactive dish – I nearly forgot to take its picture.  I am not sure what the black rock was supposed to represent.

A new pairing.  They had placed a copy of my menu at the table, this with a list of suggested pairings, and I was curious as to why some wines such as the Châteauneuf-Du-Pape were listed, but others like this, or the Haut-Brion were not? “But we have so many!” I was told that the ones listed below were mere selections.  Either that, or they saw me coming!

Not quail ovaries, just one of the eggs hidden inside a raviolo.

I had no reservations; it was particularly good.

Take the shrimp at eight o’clock, dip it in the green curry at ten o’clock, then eat the aromatic condiment at four, and finish with the spicy broth and herbs at two, as shown below.

Oysters with a caper.  Not the style my wife prefers, but I could develop a taste for them.

I was beginning to be glad I hadn’t tried to down a second glass of every wine they brought.

Never show fear!

This was another dish you are supposed to smush up.  That’s Le Gorgonzola with le fruits.

Yes, time for more wine.

And more bread.  I didn’t take pictures every time they brought more bread (heated by the waiter after one’s selection) because you might get the idea I wasn’t sticking to my twelve hundred calorie a day diet.

Never show fear!

About time for more wine. My glass was empty.

The fish, a turbot swimming in “mussel cream,” though this mussel cream tasted nothing like Bengay.

The beef is coming, better get some red on the table.

But where’s the beef!  It reminds me of the old joke:

Waiter: “How did you find your steak, sir?”

Customer: “I shifted a pea, and there it was!”

And there it is!  With wagyu beef, that really is all you need.  Otherwise we might deduce that JR would be right at home in that other castled restaurant.

We did the beef, back to white!  (From 2008)

The risotto.

Cheese, thoughtfully grouped into mushy, blue, and stinky.  I like ‘em all!

But I stuck with these six. Ah, the self-discipline!

Ready for your close-up, ladies?

Naturally you need the right wine!  All the wines were sensational.  I have been served wines that were rated in the high 90s, and were quite nice, but if those were 98s, the average wine tonight was 113.  I like dessert wines, so of them all, I’d rate this Sauterne a 129, with the Larrivet-Haut-Brion that came as the first pairing a 126.  Those are bold ratings on a 100-point scale, by I stand by them.

A group picture.

Speaking of groups, there was a table of seven behind the man cutting the cheese. :-) At one point there were nine waiters serving them; seven in uniform held sliver serving trays while two ranking captains in suits distributed the dishes.

With the dessert courses.

Tea …

Jelly, sherbet, and mascarpone.  The thing that looks like an olive is filled with juice. The shell is chocolate, which you eat after drinking the contents.

Le Decaf …

Candy, anyone?

A modest selection.

If you are worrying because they stopped pairing wines, don’t.  I had three glasses of the Cognac.

After dinner mints …

The menu neatly wrapped to take home.

Table decorations they wouldn’t allow me to take home.

The sum of money they wouldn’t allow me to take home.

Never show fear!!!!

After all, who knows how much that is? It is foreign money, so those numbers could represent anything. If those were Zimbabwean dollars that amount wouldn’t even buy a gumball.  Unfortunately, those are yen, and I know what they buy. Luckily, I have a wallet full of these bad boys!

I did ask the waiter whether the staff minded my taking all of these pictures.  He smiled as he counted my money. And he smiled some more as he assured me that, no, they were fine with it.  It was the same smile he gave me when I tasted the butter.

They handed me a loaf of freshly baked (not roasted) muffins to take home. I must have looked like a man who needed the bread.