Volt, age and currants: Part 3

Ohm’s Law
In electrophysics, a very basic interpretation of the  equation V=IR states that the strength of  a current conducted through a material is inversely proportional to the resistance of the material.  In other words, if there is a large amount of resistance, the flow of electric charge is weakened.  It is the foundation of Ohm’s Law.  In gastronomy, resistance can also dampen the flavors of a dish as well as the experience of eating it.  The  personality and style of a chef, the execution from concept to table, the service, the decor and the mindset of the patron, when he or she enters the restaurant, are all examples of resistance.

I was resistant to Volt.  Why?  It wasn’t because Chef Bryan Voltaggio had not accepted my friend request on Facebook.  Neither was it because of his reserved personality, which I had come to admire during his participation in Top Chef.  Instead, I was resistant to concept-heavy dishes.  I preferred high voltage ones, like those masterfully created by Chef Susur Lee.  His cuisine was a display of culinary chiaroscuro–a balance of modern fusion with traditional flavors (curry chicken and grilled polenta), of the interplay between lightness and shadows (the Korean style beef with its weight buttressed by airy potatoes).  If Chef Susur is akin to a Rubens or a Caravaggio, then I had perceived Chef Bryan to be a Duchamp.  While I can appreciate modern artistry, it is more challenging to admire it on my plate.  I was particularly resistant to the idea of having to interpret my meal.  Just tell me, through your food, what you want me to experience.  If a white plate is placed before me, and on top of it were  a spot of green, a smear of black, a poached egg, and foam — I would find it difficult to call the artist in the kitchen a genius.  The meal has to make sense; it must not be surreal.  The components must come together  cohesively (i.e. Does the foam elevate the dish?)  And lastly I must feel sated.  It is not about devouring a supersize serving portion.  Rather, it is the sensation of gratitude after a couple of bites–that somehow you don’t know what life was like before that dish–and at the end of meal, you have to close your eyes, purse your lips and say, “hm”.  No ohm. No resistance.

Would Bryan Voltaggio’s food win me over?  Or would it just leave me scratching my head and fishing a granola bar from my purse?

Let the wild rumpus begin!
It was  99 degrees and sunny at 1pm on Sunday, July 18.  Jenny, Tita Rica and I all wore our Sunday finest–albeit a bit shorter on the skirts and more revealing in the neckline.  We weren’t going to church.  We were on our way to Frederick, Maryland.  The only reservation available at Volt was for a 2pm seating.  It was disappointing.  Not only do popular chefs not, or rarely, cook at their restaurants anymore, but they religiously avoid the Sunday brunch.

From Tita Rica’s home, where we all met, the hour-drive was effortless.  The highway was empty.  Like schoolgirls, we giggled over the Chef and were thankful we left our husbands for the day.  As we were discussing the menu on the restaurant’s website.  My stomach suddenly lurched, then growled.

“Hungry, Li?”  Tita Rica asked.

“Yup.  I haven’t eaten anything.”

From beneath her seat, Tita Rica retrieved a small tote.

“Guys,” she said, “do you want some chocolates?”

My head whipped to the right.  She was opening the bag. “Tita Rica, we’re almost at the restaurant.  Chocolates! Are you kidding me?”

“But it’s Belgian, Li.  Oooooh, it’s just so good.”

The wrapper crinkled, as it was being ripped open.  The scent of dark chocolate tiptoed under my nose and stealthily floated up my nostrils.  Saliva filled my mouth.  ”No that’s ok.  I don’t want to ruin my appetite.”

“I’ll take some.”  In the rearview mirror, Jenny’s dark doe-like eyes widened; she was grinning.

I stared at straight ahead at the road and disregarded their moans of delight.

“Wow, Tita Rica, that was great!”  Jenny, the most disciplined, the most refined of the three of us, was smacking her lips loudly.  In a childlike voice, she asked, ” Can I have another one?”

“Sure!”  Tita Rica handed her another square.

“I have to say, that took the edge off my hunger,” Jenny rationalized.

Beside me, I heard Tita Rica rifling through her tote again.  ”Here, Jen, I have a nectarine.  Want this?”

A nectarine!  What else does she have in that little sac?  Pop!  Fizz!  Shhhh!  Apparently, she also had a can of mineral water, one for her.  She set down another cold, unopened can for whoever wanted relief from the heat.

“No thanks.  I don’t want to ruin the taste of the chocolate, ” said Jenny.  The chocolate, I thought.  What about your appetite?

Tita Rica took a bite out of the nectarine.  She turned back to Jenny and said, “It’s sooooo sweet! Soooo juicy! If you want one, I have another in my purse.”

Jenny thanked Tita Rica.  She then tapped me on my shoulder and said, “Li, you really should try the chocolates.  The peanut butter is a nice salty contrast to the …”

“Peanut butter, really, peanut butter?”  My stomach became a wild thing, roaring its terrible roar.

Well, one square couldn’t hurt, I thought.  ”Ok, Tita Rix, hand it over!”  Let the wild rumpus begin!

Finally, Volt.

Jenny and Tita Rica–outside Volt

Four squares of dark Belgian chocolate filled with peanut butter cream later, we were parked on a side street, around the corner from Volt,  in historic Frederick.  It was a short walk to the restaurant from the car, but the heat and the sun pummeled us, rather me.  Tita Rica, balancing herself on wedge heels and further hiking up the skirt of her dress, was immune to the heat. She never sweats.   Jen looked dewy; I credit the facial she had done that morning.  Her fifties-inspired orange and blue print dress swirled around her legs, as if a fan were blowing right at her.  And I, tightening my black wrap dress, whose ruffled neckline had fallen flat in the heat, was a sweaty mess.

Volt is a modern, high-concept restaurant inside a converted historic home —  a red, brick mansion with large half-moon windows.    The heaviness and traditional exterior was a marked contrast from its interior.  When we walked in, a hallway divided the restaurant into the dining area to the left and the bar and lounge to the right.  Towards the back were the bathroom and the open kitchen where Table 21 is also located.  The whiteness of the walls, light fixtures and tables created a clean and light feeling.  I felt cooler just looking at the decor.

The three of us were given the table at the front of the restaurant, by one of the half-moon windows.  Tita Rica and Jenny sat by the wall, in the shadow, while I was seated by the glass.  Sunlight streaming in further brightened the space.  We started with a long swig of pomegranate juice and sparkling water, then we poured over the menu.

The list of choices was imaginative and dynamic for a brunch.  It was settled that each of us would order the tasting menu and share a plate of brioche french toast with blueberries.  Our waiter–a rather taciturn Italian–was attentive, but didn’t smile.  I asked if the kitchen could substitute the halibut, in the third course, out for another protein.  I’m not a fan of that fish.

I smiled sweetly at our waiter and lied, “You see, I had halibut last night.  And I didn’t realize that it would be on your menu today.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.  Let me see what the Chef can do for you.”

All three of us raised our heads at the same time.  It was Tita Rica who asked, “the Chef?”   The pitch of her voice rose.  ”You mean, Bryan Vol-tag-gio?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Well, do you think you can tell him it’s my birthday,” asked Tita Rica.  “Maybe he can come out if he’s not busy and meet us.”

Our waiter drawled out, “I’d be happy to talk to the Chef.”

That sounded suspiciously like my mother’s response to us when we were kids and wanted something.  She would always say, “Let me talk to your dad.”  Translation: I highly doubt it will happen.

After the waiter left, Jenny leaned forward.  Her eyes narrowed into tiny slits–in the family, we call the look her death stare.  ”I can’t believe you lied.  And you used my excuse.”

Jenny and Paolo had eaten out the night before.  She had ordered the halibut.  ”Well, you weren’t going to ask, so I had to seize the opportunity.”

“Oh, man,” she pouted, prettily, “I didn’t want the halibut either.”

The waiter came back and reported that the Chef would be happy to create a new dish for me.  We all tittered at the gracious response.

“Well, Jenny,” I said, “you can have some of mine, ok”

She shook her head.  ”That’s ok, Li … unless, of course, it’s an egg dish, then I’ll definitely have a bit.”

Contained currents
Bryan Voltaggio is a proponent of the farm-to-table movement and supports local farmers and humane livestock owners. (Check out his website: http://www.voltrestaurant.com/).  His imaginative menu highlights fresh and seasonal produce.  The Chef is also known for his egg dishes, especially the ones slow-poached to 63 degrees.

Before our first course was brought out, three waiters– in brown sports jackets, dark tees underneath, brown slacks and brown Chuck Taylors–walked to our table.  Each carried a small plate with a scarlet teardrop sitting in the middle.  Our dour waiter flatly described the dish.  Before the end of the meal, I promised myself, I would make this waiter crack a smile.

Amuse bouche: Beet macaroon with foie gras filling

The amuse-bouche was a beet macaroon with a filling of foie gras mousse.   Typically, an amuse-bouche should take no more than one or two bites.  It is a teaser dish and is used to exemplify what the coming meal will be about.  Jenny and Tita Rica had already devoured theirs in seconds, but I continued to stare at mine–wondering if my palate would be duped by the beauty of it.

In a single bite, I devoured the 1 inch red teardrop.  Then, I grieved.  I wanted more.

The amuse-bouche was haunting.  The sugary essence of beet sang forth upon the first crunch of the cookie.  From within the teardrop, the more familiar  taste of foie gras emerged to comfort you against the beet surprise.  In that single bite, I understood the Chef.  Unlike Susur Lee, Bryan Voltaggio is not restrained, but contained.  To restrain means to hold back, especially on flavor.  His amuse-bouche, however, was contained.  One had to crack open the macaroon to experience the Viennese waltz between the beet and the foie gras.  In that small bite, the Chef stated his mission: Strong spices will not jolt you, but in the essence of the food will you feel the the strong undercurrents of emotion.  Those undercurrents are so powerful, they need to be contained.

Resistance is futile.
My resistance showed cracks after the amuse-bouche.  I was looking forward to the rest of the meal with renewed gusto.

yellowfin tuna tartare

The first course was a plate of yellowfin tuna tartare inside jasmine rice paper.  Whitefish roe mixed with wasabi, droplets of chili oil and cilantro garnished the dish.  On top of the roll, there was the dreaded foam, soy foam.

It takes an exceptional tartare to entice me to take more than one bite.  Often, tartares are heavy on dressing to mask the fish taste or very pungent.  Like a sharp steak knife, the side of my fork met no resistance.  It sliced through the soft rice paper.  I scooped up some of the  fish and swept up some of the garnishes and foam with it into my mouth.  We we were silent.  Jenny was smiling, eyes closed.  With each forkful, Tita Rica eked out odd noises: hmmm, whirr, ahhhh, pfffft.

I took another bite.  And then another.  Until my plate was finished.  I was sated.  Where have you been, oh tuna tartare, all my life?

Contained within the rice paper were silky cubes of tuna touched lightly by dressing.  In the dish, I felt the Chef welcome us into his restaurant.  Within the rice paper, he asked us to step in and take refuge from the heat.  He would take care of us.  Neither pungent nor acidic, the tartare was refreshing and fragrant. And yes, the soy foam elevated the dish.  It added the last bit of umami to an already sumptuous dish.  This was Tita Rica’s favorite of the five.

The second course that arrived was mine.  Pillows of goat cheese were drizzled with the nuttiness of brown butter and balsamic syrup.

Fresh goat cheese ravioli with balsamic butter and sage foam

The earthiness of maitake mushrooms and celeriac balanced the tang and toothsomeness of the ravioli with the sauce.  At first taste, I felt that the dish was better suited for early Fall or Spring.  Its heaviness made it an awkward chaser to the tuna tartare.  But as I persisted, I discovered freshness and creaminess of the goat cheese felt like a palate cleanser after the fish.  The most interesting surprise in that dish was the elegant combination of the butter and balsamic syrup.  This is the dish that broke down whatever resistance I had left.

Call me sweaty-pie.
With a kalamata olive roll, I wiped off the last of the sauce.  Then, I wiped off my brow.

“Why are you sweating so much, Li, it wasn’t spicy?”  dewy Jenny asked.  She pierced me with a question she really wanted to ask.

Tita Rica did so instead.  She leaned in and whispered, “Are you pregnant?”

“NO!”  I took deep gulp of my ice water and placed the glass against my wet forehead.  ”Sorry, I think, I’m just excited about the food.”

Our acerbic waiter came back to refill our glasses.  Tita Rica handed him her camera. “Would you mind taking our pictures?  But could you raise the camera above you and point the lens down at us.”

She wanted our pictures taken–but I was a sweaty mess.  It was her birthday, her privilege.  I wiped off any lingering moisture as well as any makeup.  On tiptoes, the waiter raised the camera, and said, “And why do I need to do this?”

I quipped, “To prevent double chins.  Sometimes, though, you need extra help from Photoshop.”

A thin smile crept through his taut features.  His resistance was cracking.

He examined the photo he took.  ”You’re all in the dark.  The light from the window behind you is throwing your faces into the shadow.”

Jenny, Tita Rica and I looked at each other.  No wonder I was so hot.  I was like an ant underneath a magnifying glass.  I moved away from the window, and immediately felt relief.

Tita Rica thanked the waiter and again asked if Bryan Voltaggio would be coming out.  ”We did drive 5 hours to get here and had not eaten 2 days to prepare for my birthday meal!”

“Let me see what I can do.”

Tita Rica pressed her lie, “After all, you only turn 25 once in your life, right?”

Crow lines deepened around the waiter’s dark eyes. “Well, I suppose.  I, myself, just turned 21.”  Then he walked away.

Expectations, Eggspectations
Chef Bryan’s misstep during that tasting menu was in serving another fish–the halibut–and placing it after the pasta plate.  I tried Tita Rica’s fish course.  Lightly crusted and flaky within, the halibut was perfect for a hot summer day.  But given the progression of flavors, it fell flat.  Instead, my pork tenderloin with pistachios was a better transition from the ravioli and later to the beef tenderloin.  The fruity undertones of the sauce on my plate echoed the tangy sweetness of the balsamic syrup from the earlier dish.

The fourth dish to arrive was the beef cooked with potatoes, lardons, and chantarelles.  It was a  sophisticated reinvention of the corned beef hash.  Bryan Voltaggio is a wizard at ensuring that his proteins are perfectly cooked–the halibut, the pork and the beef were all tender and moist.  I only wished that he had added one of his signature eggs to this dish or to the brunch tasting menu.  It would have been a better interpretation of traditional brunch fare.  What I did admire about this course was the restraint–not constraint–in not overpowering the plate with the taste of bacon.  The few lardons scattered in the sauce added the right amount of saltiness and crunch, enough to electrify the plate.

Textures of Chocolate
Last November, at the Metropolitan Cooking Show, I was denied the opportunity to try the dessert the Chef had demonstrated: Textures of Chocolate.  Our fifth course was my denied wish come true.  A serpentine , semi-firm chocolate ganache was garnished with malted chocolate, chocolate tuile, crumbled pistachio, pistachio ice cream, caramel and passionfruit sauce.  This was Jenny’s favorite of the five courses.

Textures of Chocolate

Unlike the dessert course at Zentan, Jenny easily finished her plate of chocolate euphoria.  She eyed Tita Rica’s half-eaten dessert.  ”Are you going to eat that,” she asked coyly.

“Oh no, I’m full!”

“Tita Rica!”  Jenny cried out loud. “What if Bryan Voltaggio comes out to greet you?  He’s going to be so offended.”

“But, Jen, I really can’t take in another bite.”

I waved my fork at her.  ”That’s because you ate the nectarine and the chocolates!”

“Do you think he’ll really be offended?  Can’t I just get the waiter to hide this?”

“Nooo!”  Jenny and I both exclaimed.

“Here, why don’t I help you?”  Jenny fished out one of the tuiles from Tita Rica’s plate.  ”Li, help her.  Help her.”

“But I’m full, too.”  I burped.

“No, we have to help her.  Here let me take some more from you, Tita Rix. Hmmm.  So good.”

We both stared her.  We didn’t recognize this creature in front of us.

“C’mon Li,” Jenny waved her fork towards the plate while swallowing more of the chocolate ganache. “Help her out.”

A bit afraid of the budding hedonist, I took two more forkfuls of the dessert.  Then, we all let out a collective sigh.  Finished.

Dark Chocolate, Heavy Cream
With a large meal behind us, torpor settled in.  For a quick jolt, we drank French-pressed coffee with a splash of fresh, heavy cream.  It was soon time to go home.  We despaired at ever seeing the Chef.  Thinking he might still come to the table, Jenny reluctantly went to use the bathroom.  Lightning quick, she was back, but he didn’t visit us.

“Hey, you know that the bathroom is across from the kitchen?  It’s so cool!”  She exclaimed upon returning to the table.

“Was he inside?”

Jenny shrugged.  ”I didn’t dare look inside the kitchen.”

Tita Rica and I both stood up and headed to the bathroom before the drive back home.  ”Should we meet you in front of the restaurant?”  I asked.

Just then, Jenny’s cell phone rang.  She looked down and back up again, “I’ll meet you here, if that’s ok, it’s Paolo.  He lost the grocery list.  This will take a while.”

Chef actually cooking.

After freshening up, we stepped out into the hallway.  The open kitchen was directly in front of us. Fortunately, I had my camera ready.  Tita Rica took it from me and looked inside the heart and soul of Volt.  Bryan Voltaggio was at the stove.  His back was turned to us.  Tita Rica snapped several shots of him.  We were content to drive away with a just a view of his back.  As we headed back to Jenny, a tall, smiling waiter stepped out from Table 21.

“Do you want to meet the Chef?”

“Yeeeeeesssss!” Tita Rica exclaimed.

“Noooooo, he’s too bus-bus-busy.”  I stammered.

“Come on, Bryan would be honored.”

He led us into the kitchen.  My legs felt numb, and all I could hear was a steadily growing thumping in my ears.  Thank goodness, my sister-in-law is a doctor.  I suddenly remembered she was at the table, re-listing the grocery items Paolo had to pick up.  The waiter pushed us forward so our backs were pressed against the service table.  Chef Bryan still had not turned. I signaled for the waiter to snap our pictures so that we could get out of the kitchen.

I inched closer to Tita Rica, posed, and then…she turned around and yelled, “Hey, Chef!”

Out of the corner of my eye, Chef Bryan faced us.  She continued, “Can you just pose with us for a second?”

A cold front descended over me in the hot kitchen.  I could not move.   I blinked, but a dense fog enshrouded my senses.  I smelled dark chocolate and heavy cream move beside me.  I took another deep breath.  He was there to my left.  I turned to face him, nodded my head and smiled and nodded my head again.

Tita Rica explained how we met him last November.  Oh no, I thought, please don’t mention Facebook.  ”We were at your cooking demonstration, but the kitchen ran out of the dessert.  We finally had it today.”

Relief.  I walked out as Tita Rica mentioned it was her birthday.

I looked back to see the Chef become Bryan–he pushed out from within the confines of his role and became a person who was so happy to hear we celebrated her day at his restaurant.  I saw his smile widen and a brilliance lighten his eyes.  I thought back to what the tuna tartare dish had captured, the happy essence of this man.

“Well, happy, happy birthday!  Enjoy the rest of the day,” he said jubilantly.

Resistance crumbled.
In the hallway outside the kitchen, the tall smiling waiter and our smaller, unsmiling one shook our hands.  We thanked them for a wonderful, warm and fun service.  Out of the blue, our waited grinned.

“Do you want a picture of me?”  He winked.

Our waiter grinned finally!

Back at our window table, Jenny shut off her phone and shook her head.  Oh, Paolo.

“What took you guys so long?”

“Sorry Jen,” I said, “we were busy bothering the chef.”

The normally composed lady burst forward, “What?!”

And so on the walk back to the car, we explained our disappearance.  She admonished us for not grabbing her and cursed her husband for losing the grocery list.  For a second time, she missed meeting Bryan Voltaggio.

“But we are coming back here to Volt, right guys?”  Jenny pleaded.

With all resistance gone, I said, “Yea, Jen.  In a heartbeat.”

Voltage, Current and Balsamic Syrup
Last Thursday, my husband and I threw a birthday party for my father-in-law.  He turned 71.  I analyzed the menu.  What would Susur Lee or Bryan Voltaggio make?  I’m a home cook, a mother, and a career woman.  This translates to just 1 hour before the party and not a lot time nor energy to devote to more elaborate dishes or preparation in the days leading up to the party.

What I gleaned from the Zentan and Volt experiences was that it was more important to let my personality and my love for my father-in-law–and for the family and friends who would be joining us–through.

So to my seared rib-eye steaks, I put together a garlicky, herbal chimichurri sauce as an accompaniment.  I encrusted the pork tenderloin with dijon mustard, sage, and thyme and slow cooked the meat.  I, then, paid tribute to the second course of the tasting menu at Volt.  I added pre-made mushroom ravioli to a sauce of eggplant and tomatoes.  Creamy goat cheese and basil dressed the pasta dish.  I reduced balsamic vinegar by three-fourths, creating a thick sweet syrup that I drizzled lavishly across the top.

I took to heart the lessons learned: Amplify the voltage.  Let the currents of flavor through.  Let the food speak for me.