There is something magical surrounding the phrase, “Michelin star.” Images of small, delicate dishes garnished with salmon roe and saffron; black tie restaurants armed with swarms of servers; and chefs in pristine white coats come to mind.
Last weekend, I ate at my first Michelin star–rated restaurant, Alinea. Run by Grant Achatz, the restaurant is located in the North Side of Chicago and boasts not just one star, but three—the highest rating a restaurant can achieve. And indeed, it was the culinary experience of a lifetime.
It was not easy to get a reservation. Alinea allows guests to make reservations two months in advance, starting the first of every month. And, oh, how people battle for the spots! I called on the morning of July 1 for my September dinner. Nonetheless, it took more than thirty minutes of continuous calling before I could get a reservation.
Was it worth it in the end? Yes!
Proffering little more than a blank gray face to passersby, Alinea is a small and unassuming restaurant on the outside. I would have missed it completely were it not for the modest sign displaying its name. Upon my arrival, a doorman ushered me into a darkened hallway illuminated by red lighting. I paused, expecting smiling servers and tinkling glasses, warm candlelight filling the room—not a scene faintly reminiscent of a murder movie. I eyed the dead-end in confusion.
About halfway down the hall, a pair of doors automatically opened on my left. I entered. To my right was an intimate dining space replete with dark wood tones and modern art. To my left was a giant bustling kitchen. One could immediately tell that the focus of the restaurant was on culinary excellence.
The hostess, knowing who I was without glancing at the reservation list, guided me to a table, and not ten minutes later the adventure began.
Alinea is perhaps most well known for its deconstruction of flavors. Though each course was small, they were bursting with colors and tastes. A chef or server would present the dish, then give a quick explanation about the ingredients and influences. Presentation was larger than life. One course was served on seaweed-covered driftwood to emulate the ocean. Another involved mixing scorching hot and piercing cold ingredients together. That particular dish, “Hot Potato Cold Potato,” was startling; because of the temperature shock, I actually thought a needle had pierced me! Yikes. Several other courses required specific directions for successful consumption. “Black Truffle Explosion” had to be eaten in one bite, as it literally exploded the moment you sank your teeth into it. Another dish comprised a layer of snow that had to be scraped and not licked off, lest you wanted your tongue stuck to the metal. Yet another involved sucking lemongrass, cilantro, and cucumber liquid out of a test tube plugged with dragon fruit.
The most memorable course was the final one, a delectable chocolate mousse concoction that was created on our table (yes, on our table—no plates necessary!) by a chef. Drizzling bright, flavorful sauces (red pepper, bitter orange, banana) and sprinkling rum-soaked cake bits, freeze-dried banana, and gingerbread crumbs around the table, the chef created a colorful design that blurred the line between food and art.
The illustration was punctuated by small mounds of crème brûlée. Finally, a large block of chocolate mousse frozen by liquid nitrogen was placed atop the concoction, sending waves of fog across our table. I was absolutely flabbergasted by the behemoth of a dessert.
There were fifteen courses in all. I was full, but not uncomfortably so, in the end and walked out of the restaurant in a smiling, starry-eyed daze. Whether it was the to-die-for food or brilliant presentation, it was an experience that dazzled both my taste buds and conception of the culinary arts.
But, alas, it’s back to Bartlett for me.