Feast for the Eyes: Molecular gastronomy puts chemistry to work in the kitchen

Scientists all over the world are leaving their laboratories for kitchens. These scientists are chefs, and their science is molecular gastronomy.

Molecular gastronomy is best defined as the application of scientific tools and teaching—mainly chemistry and physics—to cooking. Scientists have become chefs, and chefs have become artists who explore why food looks and tastes the way it does—why a soufflé swells or why an under-cooked egg yolk runs. These food sculptors replace traditional spatulas, paring knives, and whisks with blowtorches, pH meters, and liquid nitrogen.

Chefs at the forefront of the molecular food movement, such as Grant Achatz of Alinea in Chicago, Ferran Adrià of El Bulli in Spain, and Wylie Dufresne of wd~50 in New York City, transform the once sensual act of eating into an intellectual dining experience. In fact, they deny the name “molecular gastronomy” and accept more willingly the names “avant-garde,” “experimental,” and “modern” cuisine.

Some modern food critics say the movement is too radical, the same way critics denied the Modernist art movement after the glory days of impressionism. Daring food combinations are hit or miss. Mustard flavored ice cream is either the most creative thing in the world or the most disgusting. There are rarely any opinions in between.

Feeling adventurous after the sudden weather change, I trekked to wd~50 (located on Clinton Street between Rivington and Stanton Streets on the Lower East Side) to try my palate at progressive eating. The restaurant décor was casual: wooden tables, wooden walls, wooden floors, and hanging art deco lights.

The food, however, was anything but casual. Forget a traditional breadbasket—wd~50 serves sesame crisps that are jagged, salty, and impossibly thin.

The visual and gastronomical delights continued. The impossible was made possible as warm octopus was compressed to look like a cobblestone street on which sweet saffron cake and pistachio paste could rest. Usually fresh, tangy, and bright preparations of raw octopus were supplanted by this sweet and savory dessert-like preparation.

The entrees only upped the ante. My lamb shoulder was served on a bed of pine nut “baked beans”—though made to look like baked Goya white beans, they were actually pine nuts. My friend’s entrée was even better than mine: what should have been classic pork ribs were deconstructed into neat cubes, indistinguishable from cubes of fried plantains and aligned in a perfect bridge traversing the plate.

Dufresne let the palate decide which was which. It reminded me of my kindergarten days playing with building blocks. With that dish, Dufresne earned the title of food architect.

Finally, instead of a wedge of cheesecake, my dessert was served to look like droplets. Each pineapple gelée-glazed bite-sized piece exploded with all the richness of a full slice. Dehydrated pineapple pieces (tissue-paper-thin slices, not to be confused with dried pineapple) sat next to pickled raisins for a dessert that activated all five taste regions.

The meal was topped off with petit fours that looked like chocolate truffles but were, instead, condensed milk ice cream in a chocolate shell with chocolate shortbread crumbs on top. It had the unmistakable heavy cream and dry cookie taste of Oreo, except that it was disguised as something resembling mochi, truffle, or bonbon.

Most visual deception leaves me feeling, well, deceived. wd~50’s deception is welcome. The food presentation is nothing short of art, and so I felt less deceived than challenged. Challenged to think about what it takes to construct a meal from the taste up: to have a meal look like one thing and taste like another.

Elyssa Goldberg is a Columbia College first-year. Feast for the Eyes runs alternate Fridays.