This is the second half of my two-part review/applause of Le Lan, a French-Asian restaurant in River North. The first half is here.
For entrée, Patrick's blue nosed grouper wrapped in banana leaf was the winner. To begin with, it was an eye candy: the deep green of the fresh banana leaf, vermilion of the Thai red curry sauce and creamy yellow of the fingerling potatoes danced in a large, simple, white bowl. Yet the flavors were sweeter (figuratively, that is) than the look. The grouper was firm and supple, the fingerling potatoes earthy and sweet. The Thai red curry might have been the best I've ever had. And I spent about one fifth of my life in Bangkok. (Well, that was when I was a skinny little kid, but still.)
My choice from the day's specials was an interesting one: grilled scallops in smoked tomato sauce, served with coarsely minced pork belly. The scallops, though fresh and naturally sweet, were far too salty for my taste. The absolute redemption was the pork belly and the smoked tomato sauce. Combined together, the paté like pork belly and the smoky tomato sauce tasted like a very good barbecue; only that the pork had never been on a Weber grill. "It's a deconstructed BBQ," we laughed, while admiring the almost magical non-BBQ BBQ on our tongue. Despite the excess salt in the scallops, the dish was delicious, and made me want some freshly steamed white rice (which is a compliment in a Japanese context).
The dessert was a feast in itself. Our Tuesday prix-fixe included dessert, so we ordered one each; pineapple napoleon for Patrick, Vietnamese coffee cake for me. And on top of these, the restaurant gave us an off-the-menu crème brûlée with a nice message scribbled across the plate with chocolate. The three previous courses weren't humongous, so we had enough room for our own desserts, but the complimentary dessert was a bit much (although the gift made me very grateful). Of course we finished it all--it was one of the best crème brûlées in my life; rich but light, sweet but refreshing.
Patrick's pineapple napoleon was actually made with layers of wanton with very fine custard cream. The caramelized pineapple bits were very good, and the sweet-tartness went wonderfully with the suggested port (I forgot the name), but what totally made this playful dessert was the aromatic sage sorbet. My Vietnamese coffee cake was more substantial than Patrick's dessert. Three small squares of coffee cake (baked with Chinese five spice mix) were accompanied by thick zig-zag of chocolate mousse, which was fantastic. As a chocolate mousse addict, I had to restrain myself hard so that I won't start doing my happy dance, right there in front of everyone (though our server witnessed a bit of that earlier). Here and there in the chocolate mousse track was bits of caramelized hazelnuts and pecans--I could eat those crunchy, nutty, bitter little things all day long!
When we stepped out into the evening, the gray sky harbored some threats of impending storm. We strolled up Clark Street for a couple of blocks, waited for a bus for a while, and decided that the occasion was special enough to justify a taxi splurge. From the Lake Shore Drive, we could see a huge number of white boats--some tiny, others sizable--heading toward the Navy Pier area, where pre-July-4th fireworks were in preparation. The beaches were similarly jam-packed with people waiting for the fireworks. The taxi driver and Patrick discussed the congregation of the boats for a while. I went through our fantastic dinner in my head, and hoped that Le Lan would be around years to come, so we'd be able to make the yearly visit our gluttonous romantic ritual.
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Le Lan
749 N. Clark St., Chicago, IL
312.280.9100
Le Lan's Tuesday prix-fixe is such a deal. At $38, you get a soup or salad (which are as inspired as any entrée--no standard-issue "house salad" here), an entrée and a dessert. A simple addition of these three courses could cost more than $45 off the normal menu. We added an appetizer (Wagyu carpaccio), two glasses of wine, a glass of port to the prix-fixe, and came out with a tab of around $125 before tip. Tuesday is the day at this superb French-Asian restaurant.
With something to celebrate, Patrick and I made a hasty reservation (about three hours before the actual dinner time) at Le Lan, a French-Asian fusion restaurant in River North, a day before the Independence Day. The restlessness for the beer-and-grilling celebration ahead was already in the air when I rode the Red Line to downtown. I waited for Patrick for a while in front of a hot dog shop next door, feeling somewhat like a prosxxtute in my Chinese dress--just because I'm not used to wearing a dress, I think. When he showed up, we walked into the narrow yet airy dining room.
Our dinner in the green-themed stylish restaurant was beyond great; many of the dishes were epitomes of sophisticated mingling of different cuisines, executed with incredible expertise. Especially before the dinner rush hit, the service was extremely friendly and nearly impeccable. I didn't bring my camera so I can purely enjoy the meal, so there won't be any photographs, but I'll try to describe the dishes as best I could.
For our occasion, the restaurant gave us free glasses of champaign (I forgot what brand) to start us up. The champaign was dry yet flavorful, more to my taste than my wine of choice, Kung Fu Girl Riesling, which was a bit on the sweet side. (Yes, I admit I fell for the funny name.) Champaign was followed by a small, rectangular dish with two tiny steamed buns. The buns were shaped like cinnamon rolls, with what I believe to be Sichuan peppercorns sprinkled on top. A sweet, flavorful dipping sauce accompanied the buns. I tasted ten men djan (Chinese sweet miso), a bit of vinegar, soy sauce and maybe sugar. The steamed buns were absolutely adorable: white, smooth skin, fluffy inside and such a tiny size.
Though we went for the $38 Tuesday prix-fixe menu, which includes a soup or salad, an entrée and a dessert, we were too curious to skip the renowned Wagyu Beef Carpaccio. The award-winning carpaccio was a neatly arranged, paper-thin cuts of wagyu, with microscopic pieces of jicama, courtons, chives (a hair-thin kind we call "asatsuki" in Japan, I think), trout roe and red peppercorn sprinkled on top. Next to the beef slices were three triangles of scallion pancakes and a splash of balsamic vinegar. Although the sweet-and-nutty scallion-and-dried-shrimp pancakes might have overwhelmed the wagyu at times, balsamic vinegar worked wonderfully with the beef. We mainly ate the scallion pancakes alone, occasionally wiping the sweet-and-tart balsamic vinegar with them. With the sesame-oil flavored pancakes, the balsamic vinegar behaved like aromatic vinegar (香醋, aged and fermented vinegar with dark amber color, often used as dipping sauce for steamed buns). I loved the addition of asatsuki as well, for it reminded me of flavors I used to in Japan. Also the occasional trout roes changed the melt-in-your-mouth beef flavor into something more oceanic--a fun twist.
Patrick ordered seared tuna salad with pickled daikon vinaigrette. The tuna on a glass plate was very fresh, firm and flavorful--nothing like the nightmarish tuna from a few weeks ago elsewhere. The marinated Japanese cucumbers and wakame (seaweed) was a nice touch, but what impressed me the most was the vinaigrette. Though the use of pickled daikon in vinaigrette was a novel idea, the stock base they used in the vinaigrette tasted just like the bonito and kombu stock the respected Japanese restaurants make every day. Called dashi, this stock can be extremely satisfying even with a smallest amount of added condiments, if done right. And Le Lan did it right. Clean, subtle yet flavorful, his might have been the best dashi I've tasted outside of Japan.
I picked an heirloom tomato salad, which may have been my favorite of all the courses, though the competition was tough. Three slices of different tomatoes were topped with sautéed pea pod (which I think was 十六ササゲ, a type of cowpea in edible pod), poached shrimps, eggplants, and sprigs of mint and other herbs. What blew me away was the eggplant. Infused with nam pla (Thai fish sauce) and sugar (maybe palm sugar?), the creamy eggplant pieces melted in my mouth, accentuating the delightful acidity of the tomatoes. I could eat a bowl of rice with just three pieces of this eggplant--which is a great compliment if you're a Japanese cook. With colorful tomatoes (each with distinct flavor), eggplant and peas, this was a wonderful salad at the height of the summer harvest season. (And again, I was pleasantly surprised to see how Le Lan's cooks could combine so many different Asian ingredients cooked so many different ways in a single dish and still hold everything together!)
Obviously I'm still halfway through the meal--but I think this is long enough, so I'll return tomorrow with the second half of the wonderful dinner.
We Japanese love to massacre modify different Western cuisines to make them suit our taste. (You might remember the soy sauce-based mushroom spaghetti I wrote about a while back.) One of the frequent victims is the Italian food--there are quite a few spaghetti dishes that you don't see anywhere outside of Japan, or outside of Japanese cooks' kitchens. We might add miso to a simple tomato sauce to give it an extra depth of flavor. "Natto," fermented soybeans, also makes its appearance in spaghetti dishes. We might even use "shiokara," various seafood, often squid, marinated and fermented in its own innards (I know it sounds gross, but a good one can be fantastic) as a base for the sauce.
Though I'm not a huge fan of "natto spa," as this type of spaghetti is often called, I am deeply in love with another perennial Spaghetti Giapponese: spaghetti with spicy pollack roe. Spicy pollack roe, originally from Korea, is raw pollack roe preserved in salt and red chili, and is usually eaten with a bowl of rice or as an accompaniment for sake. Mentaiko, as it's called, can be a little bit daunting for someone with an aversion to oceanic flavor (I had to overcome my initial revulsion, too, since mentaiko smells pretty fishy), but once you get over it, it can be quite addictive. Mentaiko loses some of its wild fishiness when it's cooked, so spaghetti with mentaiko (or "mentai spa" in short) is one of my favorite dishes that involve this ingredient.
I don't know who invented the "mentai spa," but it's a pretty simple dish. In fact, I might venture to say that its simplicity faithfully reflects the simplicity of Italian pasta dishes. The main ingredients are the spaghetti, mentaiko, butter, soy sauce and nori (seaweed you find wrapped around your "maki" sushi). It's simple, but the fishy, salty mentaiko, the fatty, rich butter and the aromatic nori blend extremely well with each other. And it's ridiculously easy to make; it's one of the easiest meals to cook, even if you don't know how to cook at all. Indeed, there's no knife involved, either, other than the butter knife you might use to transfer the butter from the butter case to the pan.
Spaghetti with Spicy Pollack Roe (for one)
First, boil the pasta in plenty of water with a pinch of salt. While the pasta is cooking, squeeze the pollack roe out of its thin skin. To get the tiny roe out of the fragile skin, I like to cut one end of the roe sack and pull the sack between two chopsticks tightly held together, but if you aren't used to using chopsticks, you can also do this by breaking the sack open and scrape the roe out with a spoon. When the pasta is al dente, drain the water from the pot, remove it from heat, and add butter, pollack roe and soy sauce. Mix well. The pollack roe cooks by the heat of the pasta. Place the pasta on a plate and top it with shredded nori and shiso leaves, cut into thin strips.
The other day I made this spaghetti for lunch, for the first time in many, many years, and totally fell in love with it again. The punchy heat and fishiness of the mentaiko had morphed into incredibly delicate hint of spice and oceanic flavor, and the butter's dairy richness held it all together. (Just writing this makes my mouth water... Ah!) For folks out there with higher seafood tolerance, I highly recommend this Japanified Italian recipe. Oh, yeah, you should eat it with a pair of chopsticks, too!
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Mentaiko can be found in freezer cases in Japanese or Korean markets. They may come in fancy packages, since they're a bit more expensive. (I think I bought mine, a fake-wood box of 7 oz for $12 or $16.) They're expensive, but you really don't need a ton of them to give flavor to your dishes, so a relatively small package should last you for a while. I got mine at the H Mart (801 Civic Center Drive, Niles, IL).
Pitting a quart of cherries is a lot of work, is what I learned yesterday. Well, "learned" may not be the best word, for I'd figured that would be the case, but still, I didn't realize how much time it took to cut these beautiful, ruby-red orbs in half and dig out their pits embedded in the soft, translucent flesh. The tart cherries were so juicy that the bright-red liquid ran down my fingers, past my wrists all the way to my elbows. I had to periodically stop the work and go wash myself in the kitchen sink.
We'd picked up the tart cherries at, yep, you've guessed it, the Green City Market. One of the farmers said it was their first cherry crop, but I couldn't believe it; the market was literally piled with cartons of plump cherries of varying shades of red. The morning light that danced on their glossy, round surface was a photographer's delight. If they'd been only starting, I couldn't imagine what it'd be like when the cherries are in full season. Eying at the beautiful display of tart cherries in a stand, Patrick reminded me of the Dufour Pastry Kitchens' frozen puff pastry dough we'd picked up a few months ago at Whole Foods.
"Do you want a cherry pie?" I teased asked him.
"Cherry pie! Yummm!" was his answer. Watching the familiar, tastiness-induced smile spread over his face, I finally got over the apprehension that I might ruin the special pastry dough that carried the hefty price tag of almost $12 a small package. (I'm a much better--and experienced--cook than a baker.) But the day of fear was over. The dough needed to be used before it went stale anyway, so now was the time. Cherry pie it was. We picked up a carton of tart cherries, wandered around some more in the breezy market and went home.
I didn't bake the promised cherry pie right away. For one thing, we went out to a prairie preserve in the afternoon, and I was exhausted by the time we got home in the evening (though I did cook dinner, using the fresh produce from the farmers market, for which I gave myself a pat on the back). Sunday was not that different, though our destination was more urban than natural. By Monday, though, I was restless; the cherries must be quickly losing their sweetness and flavor even in the fridge. The pie had to be made. I couldn't waste both the pastry dough and the cherries. I put aside whatever premonition I had over my not-so-great baking skills, set up a pitting station by the computer monitor, put on Mr. Incredible, and started pitting. (The animated feature turned out to be a mediocre choice for the task; it relied more on visual information than I'd remembered it, and I quickly lost track of what was going on in the retired hero's world as initial dialogs were supplanted by loud thuds, thumps and ka-booms.)
As the milk for the custard slowly warmed up on the stove, I studied the dough package. The ingredients list was positively promising: the first ingredient was butter (which was verified by the 120 calories coming from fat out of 170 in one serving). The rest were wheat flour, water, salt and lemon juice. Very clean. When the custard was done, I unfolded the pastry dough on a floured cutting board and cut them into four large rectangles. I'd said "pie," but it was going to be turnovers (for my lack of patissiery skills). I slapped on the custard on one side of each rectangle and placed halved cherries in neat rows on top. Some of the egg whites left from making custard, which only calls for egg yolks, was used to seal the folded pastries. Even with the day's cooler temperature, the pastry dough behaved surprisingly well. It didn't stick to the cutting board, knife or my hands, and didn't lose its shape as quickly as it could have. This seemed even more surprising when we bit into the finished turnovers--I had no idea how a dough so buttery and delicate could stay so obliging for such a long time.
When they came out of the oven, I couldn't believe my eyes (and my nose): the pastries looked like they'd been baked by a professional patissier, with its sides almost bursting out in golden strata, little dribble of hot-pink cherry juice still bubbling here and there. And most of all, the fresh, buttery aroma of the pastry shell itself. I regretted my decision to bake them when Patrick was out at work--it would have been such a treat for him to inhale that fresh-off-the-oven goodness. When he came home, though, we shared a turnover, reheated in the toaster to perk up the slightly moistened shell. We had one each this morning, for a sumptuous breakfast. I'm guessing that we'd have to fight hard to decide who's going to get that one remaining turnover on the counter. They turned out to be as tasty as they looked. You might believe it if I told you that I got them from some expensive, fancy bakery tucked away somewhere in a up-and-coming neighborhood. But then again, they did come from an expensive bakery (in New York, of all places)--the dough was professionally and expensively made, the cherries grown by dedicated local organic farmers, and the eggs and milk in the custard also organic, if not local. Each turnover probably cost us about $4 or so just for the ingredients. But was it worth the price? Absolutely. I'd pit those cherries again and again, and stir gallons of custard till my arms hurt, if only to fill that amazing pastry shell.
...I have to admit, though, I'm in complete awe of those people, amateur and professional, who not only pit their cherries but also make their own pastry dough from scratch. That's just a lot of work!
In the desolate food scenery of Chicago's downtown (unless you have lots of change to spare, or you love old-fashioned stake houses), Avec's interesting and reasonably priced food is a rare find. And it goes well with the vast range of Mediterranean wine the restaurant offers. I realized its existence during my short slave work (read: unpaid internship for English majors) with a women's magazine. According to the reviewer, the restaurant's concept sounded pretty cool. I made a mental note to pay a visit.
The first time we went there, we fell in love. The decor was beautifully clean and minimalist, with a long wooden counter and a long communal table stretching all the way to the back of the long and narrow room. At the end of the long room was a wall of various glass cubes, adding just enough splash of color to the otherwise natural/woody color scheme. The idea is that the space is communal, where you squeeze into your share of the bench, with your elbows almost hitting your (equally delighted) neighbors. Conversation may not take place between total strangers, and it may not be a small Mediterranean village outside of the large glass window, but the possibility is still there. (I especially enjoyed eavesdropping on the conversation next door, and watching people in slightly hip clothing.)
And of course, the food was fantastic. I especially loved the crostini with puréed horseradish and parsnip, topped with arugula and shavings of parmesan-like cheese. So, when we went back to Avec the other day, I was eager to have that crostini again.
Now, part of Avec's concept is that the menu constantly changes, presumably to accommodate the ingredients in season (as well as to give the regulars little surprises every time). As such, the menu didn't have the parsnip crostini any more. (It was replaced by bruschetta with roasted beet.) The lesson: come prepared to be surprised, and don't form too emotional of a bond with any one item on their menu. (Of course I learned the lesson too late; I'm now determined to try replicating the crostini myself.)
Before I recovered from the initial shock of the loss of my beloved parsnip crostini, Patrick and his sister ordered a carafe of Italian white. Made from Pecorino grapes, Caldora was a wonderful white. It was very crisp and very dry, but had a subtle, citrus-like aftertaste. It wasn't on the menu, so we owe this pleasant surprise to our waiter. (We also owe it to the vintners as well, who have revived the cultivation of the rare, endangered Pecorino species of grapes.)
After a careful discussion, we settled on four of the small plates. Avec offers small ($4-12) and large plates ($12-18), which are perfect for sharing. Each small plate is about the size of a smallish individual entrée, so the larger the party is, the more you get to try. The first to arrive was the escarole salad with smoked pork and black eyed peas, with sherry vinaigrette. The smoky pork was quite wonderful, but I would say that the crusty, focaccia-like bread that came with it was even better.
The smash-hit of the night was the whipped brandade, a creamy, dip-like dish from France. A bit of research yielded that brandade is made with rehydrated salt cod, milk, fresh cream and (sometimes) potatoes. Our version has a bit of olive oil drizzled on top, and came with little slices of garlic bread to scoop up the hot, creamy goodness. The salt cod gave it enough oceanic flavor without overwhelming the concoction with fishiness, and the richness of the fresh cream was rather sublime. Considering how many calories and how much cholesterol this blasted thing must harbor inside, we probably shouldn't be eating this too often, but I could eat that thing every day, all day long. (Maybe not, to be honest--I'm not good at too much grease--but it was very good.) We would have licked the cazuela clean, had it not been so hot, coming right off the burner.
We also had house-made red wine sausage with pistacio and black grape relish (served with rosemary polenta) and Tasmanian trout "steak" with chili ginger sauce. Both were very good, but I'm omitting the details to keep the post within a certain length. Avec is a little brother of the people who run the renowned Blackbird (a few blocks down the street from Avec). At Blackbird, innovative, seasonal entrées go for about $30-35. I'm sure Blackbird has awesome food, but at that price range, it's a birthday-dinner kind of place. Avec isn't: the check for the three of us, which included four small plates, two carafes of wine, three coffee and a dessert (caramel coffee cake with espresso ice cream) was around $85, and we were quite happily full.
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Avec
615 W. Randolph St., Chicago, IL
312.377.2002
Blackbird
619 W. Randolph St., Chicago, IL
312.715.0708
© Copyright 2007 - All Rights Reserved. Don't even think about trying it!
