2006-11-03 12:28:43becco
Le Calandre 2006 (by becco) Part I
“The Michelin Guide is prone to recommend those restaurants performing impeccable culinary arts. It seems to me, however, that this practice may not precisely appreciate the gusto and wonderfulness conveyed by Italian cuisine. In fact, I am always happy to trade the “flawless dishes” for the cooking with acceptable shortcomings because of their sheer deliciousness while in Italy!” Haruki Murakami, Tooi Taiko
Two spectacular towers crimson and leaning against each other, greeted us from outside the windows of the train in which were traveling. The sleepy-looking Due Torri, Bologna’s unmistakable landmark, signaled our arrival in the city we were to make a transit stop in. As he ate a prosciutto sandwich for breakfast on the railway platform, my companion murmured, “I don’t get it: from Sicily to Padova? What on earth is on your mind?”
“Not much,” I replied. “It’s just that, by definition, a Michelin three-star restaurant is supposed to be ‘worth a journey.’” And that’s what we were doing.
In fact, the Michelin Red Guide, better known as Le Guide Rouge, is not the foody bible on which I rely while traveling in Italy. I prefer its local counterparts, such as the Gambero Rosso or Veronelli guides, since I have long been convinced that Italian cuisine is best understood by Italians. Not Americans, not Japanese and most certainly not a funny-looking French guy wrapped in tires. Naturally, I was excited and curious when I first became aware of the substantial differences among evaluation results given by Michelin and the local guidebooks, especially when it came to top gourmet restaurants in Italy.
Only five restaurants in Italy have been awarded three stars, the most prestigious rank in the 2006 Michelin Italy guide. These restaurants were supposedly worth our extraordinary journey across the Italian peninsula. Nevertheless, I was skeptical as to whether they would be the perfect dinning experience Michelin said they were. Michelin can lower its standards when reviewing restaurants abroad, which was exactly what Michelin New York did in its 2005 debut.
Shortly after the train rolled into Veneto province, we arrived in Rubano, a small town on the outskirt of Padvova. This unassuming restaurant and hotel complex was designated by a sign bearing the engraving “Ristorante Le Calandre” in gray with white contrasts. This world-famous Italian restaurant could easily be missed by travelers on this country road.
I took the advantage of our early arrival to enjoy paimutan , a light, delicate Chinese green tea, and various desserts at Il Calandrino, the bar and patisserie next to Le Calandre. Raffaele Alajmo, the manager of Le Calandre and the eldest son in the Alajmo family, was sitting on a couch and being interviewed by reporters. In the background I could see the inside of the restaurant. I must admit that what I saw did not match with my previous experiences in other three-star establishments. Customers, whom the bartender seemed have known for a long time, stopped by for a glass of crispy white wine, a bite of tart or due gusti of handmade gelato. Workers, still in their uniforms, pulled over on their motorbikes at the front door for a glass of frizzling prosecco and swiftly returned to the construction site across the street. To me, this scene was a vivid illustration of the sense of community that the Alajmos inherited from the Italian culinary tradition.
I was to confront this legend with excitement and anxiety. I had heard so much about the family and the restaurant’s prodigious chef, the “Mozart” of the kitchen, Massimiliano Alajmo. I even slightly regretted having tasted the dessert, for fear that it might ruin the completeness of my adventure, like an over-anxious reader who jumps to the last page of a novel to find out the ending.
Raffaele prepared us a special tasting menu of 13 coursers, comprised of the classics and the originals that would best demonstrate his younger brother’s technique and creativity. Massimiliano appeared and visited each table. When he unexpectedly made a silly face at my camera, I snapped a picture.
Heralded as one of the world’s gastronomic meccas, Le Calandre has stayed with a taste that is deeply rooted in local culture. The crystal used here is predominately of the Murano style, which has symbolized Venetian artistry for half a millenium. Astonishingly fresh and colorful local vegetables floating in clear glass jars decorated the table. Then came the amuse bouche and the hors d’oeuvres.
Lightness
The first two courses struck us with their lightness. The red shrimp and asparagus salad was sprinkled with gossamer almond flakes. Foam made from raspberry vinaigrette jointed the elements in configuration and taste within the dish. This I considered an ingenuous choice, since the foam not only increased the surface area that interacted with the palate, but also reduced the heaviness of the sauce itself.
Giardinaggio, the name of our second dish, means “gardening” in Italian. This bonsai resided in a smoothly bending, clear glass plate, with two rosy meatballs made from minced raw beef surrounded by petals of yellow and green. We picked up each bite with our fingers and dipped it into powdered rose petals, raspberries, or cassis. The beef, pre-seasoned with red Peru chilies, was not burning but moist, rich, piquant and with a hint of sweetness, which was perfectly balanced by the concentrated tastes of the powders.
Exactitude
The stunned expressions on our faces as we had our first bites of the sembra pasta must have amused the waiter, or he was he used to it? He approached us gently and told us that the word sembra means, “seem like,” therefore what we just tasted was not “real” squid ink pasta, but pseudo pasta made from hijiki (a seawead commonly used in Japanese cooking). Tossed with Sicilian bottarga and broccoli, the “pasta” tasted al dente, but smell of the sea took place of that of durum wheat.
However, I wouldn’t say that Massimiliano had completely joined the gang led by Ferrán Adriá or Pierre Gagnaire, Europe’s grand masters of molecular cuisine. His creation was not solely motivated by a desire to transmute the form or taste of his ingredients. Instead, his ambition was elevate traditional flavors to a higher standard, and this was most evident when it came his destruction and recombination of classical dishes, which he totally revolutionized.
His cappuccino, for instance, substituted coffee with cuttlefish ink. A layer of extremely smooth potato puree covered the mixture of ink and diced cuttlefish, which was topped with a creamy foam. We scooped the whole mixture for each bite, and the combination comforted our palates and soothed our souls with its pure velvety texture, while still retaining the distinct flavor of each ingredient. For the next dish, a risotto, no seafood or meat was added, only golden saffron rice and black licorice extract glimmering in the plate. Simple but luscious, the rice was cooked to perfection in both its taste and firmness. The sweet coolness of licorice ascended from the depths of our throats immediately after the rice hit, manifesting perfectly the guidelines of Italian cooking: simplicity, balance and the respect for materials.
Paradoxically, while one might be confused by their transformed contents and appearances, these traditional dishes, torn down and reconstructed by the imagination of Massimiliano, conveyed an even clearer idea of what the true spirit of Italian cuisine should be, to the greatest level of exactitude.
Speed
Without warning, our table scene flashed back to the Middle Ages, as a wooden cup containing a hot, clear liquid and a sprig of thyme was brought to us. This “five-quarters veal broth” was a consommé of veal offal, or the parts had been discarded from the whole veal, from which two-quarters were dedicated to the church and the other half to the nobility in early days. The “extra” quarter (hence the “five-quarters”) was the only part that ordinary people were allowed to consume at that time. Today, nothing could have done a better job waking up our palates for the following main course than this light but flavorful broth, especially with its hint of fresh thyme.
The “Zen” style of the wooden cup aroused my curiosity, so I asked, “Is the hijiki used to make our sembra pasta also a common material here in Veneto?” “Oh, absolutely not! Massimiliano brought this material and created his dish after his trip to Japan, where he was a visiting star chef in Tokyo’s New Otani hotel.”
Jing Xiang-Hai, the renowned Taiwanese poet, always insisted on convincing me in my high school days that “Einstein’s special relativity must be wrong. There exists at least one thing which travels beyond the speed of light. It’s the thoughts of we human being!” Interestingly, I thought of these words as I finished the broth with a quick sip, as if swalloing the past and present, the east and west. The contracted and entangled space-time parameters were still lingering in my mouth, and my rationalist’s snobbishness faded away.
Two spectacular towers crimson and leaning against each other, greeted us from outside the windows of the train in which were traveling. The sleepy-looking Due Torri, Bologna’s unmistakable landmark, signaled our arrival in the city we were to make a transit stop in. As he ate a prosciutto sandwich for breakfast on the railway platform, my companion murmured, “I don’t get it: from Sicily to Padova? What on earth is on your mind?”
“Not much,” I replied. “It’s just that, by definition, a Michelin three-star restaurant is supposed to be ‘worth a journey.’” And that’s what we were doing.
In fact, the Michelin Red Guide, better known as Le Guide Rouge, is not the foody bible on which I rely while traveling in Italy. I prefer its local counterparts, such as the Gambero Rosso or Veronelli guides, since I have long been convinced that Italian cuisine is best understood by Italians. Not Americans, not Japanese and most certainly not a funny-looking French guy wrapped in tires. Naturally, I was excited and curious when I first became aware of the substantial differences among evaluation results given by Michelin and the local guidebooks, especially when it came to top gourmet restaurants in Italy.
Only five restaurants in Italy have been awarded three stars, the most prestigious rank in the 2006 Michelin Italy guide. These restaurants were supposedly worth our extraordinary journey across the Italian peninsula. Nevertheless, I was skeptical as to whether they would be the perfect dinning experience Michelin said they were. Michelin can lower its standards when reviewing restaurants abroad, which was exactly what Michelin New York did in its 2005 debut.
Shortly after the train rolled into Veneto province, we arrived in Rubano, a small town on the outskirt of Padvova. This unassuming restaurant and hotel complex was designated by a sign bearing the engraving “Ristorante Le Calandre” in gray with white contrasts. This world-famous Italian restaurant could easily be missed by travelers on this country road.
I took the advantage of our early arrival to enjoy paimutan , a light, delicate Chinese green tea, and various desserts at Il Calandrino, the bar and patisserie next to Le Calandre. Raffaele Alajmo, the manager of Le Calandre and the eldest son in the Alajmo family, was sitting on a couch and being interviewed by reporters. In the background I could see the inside of the restaurant. I must admit that what I saw did not match with my previous experiences in other three-star establishments. Customers, whom the bartender seemed have known for a long time, stopped by for a glass of crispy white wine, a bite of tart or due gusti of handmade gelato. Workers, still in their uniforms, pulled over on their motorbikes at the front door for a glass of frizzling prosecco and swiftly returned to the construction site across the street. To me, this scene was a vivid illustration of the sense of community that the Alajmos inherited from the Italian culinary tradition.
I was to confront this legend with excitement and anxiety. I had heard so much about the family and the restaurant’s prodigious chef, the “Mozart” of the kitchen, Massimiliano Alajmo. I even slightly regretted having tasted the dessert, for fear that it might ruin the completeness of my adventure, like an over-anxious reader who jumps to the last page of a novel to find out the ending.
Raffaele prepared us a special tasting menu of 13 coursers, comprised of the classics and the originals that would best demonstrate his younger brother’s technique and creativity. Massimiliano appeared and visited each table. When he unexpectedly made a silly face at my camera, I snapped a picture.
Heralded as one of the world’s gastronomic meccas, Le Calandre has stayed with a taste that is deeply rooted in local culture. The crystal used here is predominately of the Murano style, which has symbolized Venetian artistry for half a millenium. Astonishingly fresh and colorful local vegetables floating in clear glass jars decorated the table. Then came the amuse bouche and the hors d’oeuvres.
Lightness
The first two courses struck us with their lightness. The red shrimp and asparagus salad was sprinkled with gossamer almond flakes. Foam made from raspberry vinaigrette jointed the elements in configuration and taste within the dish. This I considered an ingenuous choice, since the foam not only increased the surface area that interacted with the palate, but also reduced the heaviness of the sauce itself.
Giardinaggio, the name of our second dish, means “gardening” in Italian. This bonsai resided in a smoothly bending, clear glass plate, with two rosy meatballs made from minced raw beef surrounded by petals of yellow and green. We picked up each bite with our fingers and dipped it into powdered rose petals, raspberries, or cassis. The beef, pre-seasoned with red Peru chilies, was not burning but moist, rich, piquant and with a hint of sweetness, which was perfectly balanced by the concentrated tastes of the powders.
Exactitude
The stunned expressions on our faces as we had our first bites of the sembra pasta must have amused the waiter, or he was he used to it? He approached us gently and told us that the word sembra means, “seem like,” therefore what we just tasted was not “real” squid ink pasta, but pseudo pasta made from hijiki (a seawead commonly used in Japanese cooking). Tossed with Sicilian bottarga and broccoli, the “pasta” tasted al dente, but smell of the sea took place of that of durum wheat.
However, I wouldn’t say that Massimiliano had completely joined the gang led by Ferrán Adriá or Pierre Gagnaire, Europe’s grand masters of molecular cuisine. His creation was not solely motivated by a desire to transmute the form or taste of his ingredients. Instead, his ambition was elevate traditional flavors to a higher standard, and this was most evident when it came his destruction and recombination of classical dishes, which he totally revolutionized.
His cappuccino, for instance, substituted coffee with cuttlefish ink. A layer of extremely smooth potato puree covered the mixture of ink and diced cuttlefish, which was topped with a creamy foam. We scooped the whole mixture for each bite, and the combination comforted our palates and soothed our souls with its pure velvety texture, while still retaining the distinct flavor of each ingredient. For the next dish, a risotto, no seafood or meat was added, only golden saffron rice and black licorice extract glimmering in the plate. Simple but luscious, the rice was cooked to perfection in both its taste and firmness. The sweet coolness of licorice ascended from the depths of our throats immediately after the rice hit, manifesting perfectly the guidelines of Italian cooking: simplicity, balance and the respect for materials.
Paradoxically, while one might be confused by their transformed contents and appearances, these traditional dishes, torn down and reconstructed by the imagination of Massimiliano, conveyed an even clearer idea of what the true spirit of Italian cuisine should be, to the greatest level of exactitude.
Speed
Without warning, our table scene flashed back to the Middle Ages, as a wooden cup containing a hot, clear liquid and a sprig of thyme was brought to us. This “five-quarters veal broth” was a consommé of veal offal, or the parts had been discarded from the whole veal, from which two-quarters were dedicated to the church and the other half to the nobility in early days. The “extra” quarter (hence the “five-quarters”) was the only part that ordinary people were allowed to consume at that time. Today, nothing could have done a better job waking up our palates for the following main course than this light but flavorful broth, especially with its hint of fresh thyme.
The “Zen” style of the wooden cup aroused my curiosity, so I asked, “Is the hijiki used to make our sembra pasta also a common material here in Veneto?” “Oh, absolutely not! Massimiliano brought this material and created his dish after his trip to Japan, where he was a visiting star chef in Tokyo’s New Otani hotel.”
Jing Xiang-Hai, the renowned Taiwanese poet, always insisted on convincing me in my high school days that “Einstein’s special relativity must be wrong. There exists at least one thing which travels beyond the speed of light. It’s the thoughts of we human being!” Interestingly, I thought of these words as I finished the broth with a quick sip, as if swalloing the past and present, the east and west. The contracted and entangled space-time parameters were still lingering in my mouth, and my rationalist’s snobbishness faded away.