海角大神

I settled back on my couch and cracked the elegant 鈥淎linea,鈥� the gloriously polished, gorgeously photographed cookbook from the Chicago restaurant of the same name 鈥� an establishment that鈥檚 been called America鈥檚 best. I expected an intriguing education and a challenge.
Instead, it was clear before I even hit the essay titled 鈥淗ow to Use This Book鈥� (it didn鈥檛 come until page 37) that 鈥淎linea鈥� wasn鈥檛 for me: I laughed. Worse, I snickered.

I hadn鈥檛 navigated more than a few lines into one typical recipe before tripping over these instructions: 鈥淔reeze for three months.鈥� (That was the easy part).

Another recipe 鈥� actually, 17 recipes in one 鈥� called for juicing fennel, curing foie gras and emulsifing it with soy lecithin, dehydrating and torching onions, and procuring fresh fennel flowers. And that was before we even dealt with the squab that was the dish鈥檚 main event.

I wanted the storyline behind the book鈥檚 intricate flavors and creations. (Why did we burn the onions? Why should the candied watermelon cube be placed precisely at the 3 o鈥檆lock position on the plate?)

The 鈥淎linea鈥� cookbook is a textbook rather than a storybook, though, one that went beyond reality into鈥� what? I already knew Alinea relied on 鈥減ost-modern鈥� chemistry in its kitchen, and on wildly original flavors and textures, but this was something else. Studying the brilliantly abundant photos, some abstract arrangement as much as food, all I could think was that the book must be art.

So I called a former colleague, art critic Regina Hackett, and asked her to take a look. We set the coffee-table tome down at a local Subway. She admired the 鈥渃hic鈥� cover and started paging through. Soon, her engaged interest changed to a scowl.

"Is it art?" I asked.

She judged the stylish, young white men dominating the kitchen and dining room photos, the mannered, almost industrial tones, the food that seemed so cold and distant from its origins, the clever preparations that, for her, brought everything to mind from volcanoes to spit.

"I think it's supremely self-indulgent,鈥� she said. 鈥淧ure style. That is not art. Art has some soul in it, even when it's incredibly minimal it has soul."

So I wasn鈥檛 the only one who couldn鈥檛 connect with the book. But I wanted to lug it one step further, and there I hit 鈥淎linea鈥濃�檚 true niche. It was in the kitchen of Spur, a new Seattle restaurant that has won wild fans with splashy, chemistry-enhanced creations such as a deep-fried Bearnaise sauce.

Co-owners Dana Tough and Brian McCracken didn't need to look at my copy of 鈥淎linea鈥� when I walked in holding it under my arm 鈥� they already had their own on Spur鈥檚 kitchen bookshelf, cover already gone and pages well-thumbed.

"We jumped on this right when it came out," said Tough.

Did the book speak to them, I asked?聽 "We find recipes in [the Alinea book], and they inspire us to mess with those and come up with something different," said McCracken.

"What [chef Grant Achatz] is doing here is all revolutionary," Tough said. "It's all trying out new things, and seeing where he can take food.鈥� The book 鈥渉elps us lowly chefs around the country to come up with other things ourselves."

Even the price 鈥� $50, stunningly inexpensive for a book of its production level 鈥搘as a treat for the young restaurateurs, endowed with more creativity than cash. The price break must have been, Tough thought, 鈥渟o that chefs could buy it.鈥�

The book鈥檚 audience was smaller than I had first pictured, but it was there. The book was more than the lab notebook it seemed to me, or the pretentiousness it broadcast to Regina.聽 For the two young chefs, it was a heady hit of inspiration, on every page.

Rebekah Denn writes about food at www.eatallaboutit.com and is a regular Monitor blogger.