Slow = 10 wines, 8 courses, 4 hours, and 1 happy diner

I haven’t posted to this blog in a while—I’ve been tied up with a few other projects and have been trying to take advantage of as many long evenings as possible before the sun starts setting earlier and earlier. There has been a lot that I’ve had my eye on in the past few weeks that I do want to write about; however today my priority is once again food.

I’ve been reading Slow Food: The Case for Taste, by Carlo Petrini, the founder of the Slow Food movement in Italy, and stumbled upon a delicious passage in chapter one that I think deserves sharing; if for nothing else, the passage again reminds us of the delicate connection between food and the environment. The context of the quote is Petrini’s description of the evolution of his organization and the thoughts and objectives of its members:

“By now the overall intent and approach were well defined. The ‘arcigoloso’* was an alert consumer, filled with curiosity, who wanted to take part first hand and to learn; he or she frequented restaurants and wine cellars; shunned pseudoscientific presumptuousness and black-and-white pronouncements, respected the work of those who chose the food trades, and displayed tolerance. She participated in initiatives like the Fraternal Tables that undertake to bring aid to various parts of the world afflicted with war, famine, and poverty, because in the new millennium those who have grown, along with Arcigola Slow Food, to relish eating require two essential qualities: generosity and respect for the human environment. She is jovial and optimistic by nature and is able to communicate these qualities in daily life, and especially at meals: you can’t enjoy good food and be greedy and ungenerous at the same time. Nor can you be a gourmet and not care about the environment: people like that wind up as dupes, exalting food and cooking that are clever but phoney”

[* Arcigoloso is the name given by Petrini to members of the Arcigola Slow Food. According to Petrini, “The name Arcigola is a play on words: “Arci” comes from ARCI [Associazone Ricreative Culturale Italiana] but is also a prefix meaning “arch-,” and many founding members had a connection to the magazine La Gola (“la gola”=appetite for, enjoyment of, food; gluttony), so “Arcigola” suggests “ARCI-Gola,” and also “archappetite” or “archgluttony”]

Reading this description, I couldn’t help but instantly decide that this was exactly how each meal should be approached—with curiosity, respect, generosity, and awareness (for taste, but also for how food is prepared, where it comes from, and who you are enjoying it with). Luckily, I soon had a delightful opportunity to put this attitude to the test.

I had a dining experience last night that not only far surpassed every other experience I’ve ever had (combined) in being absolutely phenomenal, but that also embodied all of the wonderful aims of the slow food movement.

Partly in celebration of my parents visiting and partly because I have been pressured to go for some time, I made a reservation for four at Nine-Ten restaurant in La Jolla. I’ve written about my experience with wine at Nine-Ten previously, however no previous experience could compare to what I am about to describe.

The chef’s at Nine Ten produce what can only be described as elegant and ambrosic combinations of flavors, textures, and visual delights. Their menu emphasizes local produce from local farms, which changes often depending on availability of ingredients. The kitchen staff, I’ve been told, rotates taking daily trips to local farms for ingredients, such as Chino Farms in Rancho Santa Fe (who don’t have a website but their address is listed at the end of this post for San Diego-area readers), ensuring that only the freshest ingredients hit the table. What this means is that the food is not only fresh, but also mouthwateringly delicious. The chefs, inspired to tailor the menu to what is in season, are constantly working to create new dishes with more sensational tastes.

We knew the evening started out well when the Sommelier stopped by our table shortly after we had just taken our first taste from the bottle of wine we ordered, a 2002 Grenache from France. “That is absolutely one of my favorite wines,” he eagerly conveyed, “and you are very lucky as it’s the last bottle we have.” Shortly after, while we were savoring our luck and the tasty Grenache, a waiter came by with a complementary “taster” from the chef: a tidy puff pastry filled with creamy crab and potato filling. Little did we know this was only the beginning of an eight-course, four-hour event.

Next we found ourselves sitting in front of two dishes we had selected from the “First Course” menu. I managed to convince the table to try the fig and truffle salad, which consisted of marinated fresh figs from Chino Farms layered with delicately shaved truffle slices, set atop equally thin pancetta and drizzled with truffle oil. Any hesitation on the table’s part when ordering—“figs, really?”—was instantly forgotten when we all took our first bite. The combination of flavors (salty and sweet, woody and fruity) and textures (succulently soft, slightly crunchy, deliciously tender) made you want to savor each bite for as long as possible. This dish was paired with a pinot noir that seemed instantly refreshing and somehow complemented each of the distinct tastes on the dish. It was going to be hard to forget this dish as the dinner progressed.

The other dish on the table was a baby beet salad with roasted baby carrots, toasted walnuts, candied baby fennel, arugla, and champagne vinaigrette. While I again had had to do some persuading to order the beets, this time when the dish arrived, it wasn’t able to win over the anti-beet contingent at the table. Beets have a pretty strong flavor, and while the walnuts and champagne vinaigrette complemented them perfectly, they still tasted like beets. However, the table was pretty happy with the wine pairing with this dish: a sparkling chardonnay from France. Personally, I enjoyed the beets, and was also happy to learn a bit from the sommelier about what makes a champagne a champagne (grapes from the Champagne region). Of course, we were all pleased to find that even not-technically-champagne sparkling wines still were full of bubbly delight.

As we bottomed-up our champagne glasses of non-champagne, the kitchen was preparing our next round of deliciousness, again two dishes we had selected from the menu. These, the “Second Course” dishes, were what our waitress claimed were some of the “hidden gems” on the menu—smaller-sized dishes with intense flavors and combination of tastes. She was certainly right.

We first tasted the Maine scallops, which were served pan seared atop a slice of comfit roma tomato which was in turn atop a thin shaving of baby squash, all topped with piccolo basil, cherry tomato relish, and garnished with a black olive puree. I can only describe the precise deliciousness by repeating the first words emitted upon taking the first bite. “Oh my god this is the best thing I ever tasted,” a statement which could only be followed by murmurs of agreement from full mouths, as we all savored the delicate scallop and tart tomato balanced atop our tongues. This dish was accompanied by a chardonnay, which our sommelier explained was paired to combat the slightly bitterness of the tomatoes with the buttery creaminess of the wine.

The chardonnay itself was not to be ignored—we were served a 2003 Molnar Family Poseidon’s Vineyard Chardonnay, which was particularly described to us in terms of the environment in which it was created. The vineyard itself is named to pay homage to the god of earthquakes for creating the Mayacamas mountain range, which provides the terrain for these grapes. However, the wine itself is not only a product of the Napa land on which the grapes were grown; it is specifically aged in Hungarian Oak Barrels crafted in Budapest by the Molnar family and shipped to California to give the wines a distinct flavor. The flavor is further made complex by removing a small percentage of the wine from the Oak to store it in steel, providing just a hint of citrus and acidity. Who knew so many elements could play a part of one delicious wine?

We only reluctantly moved on to the next dish (after sipping the rest of the chardonnay and contemplating how many scallops we could have eaten if given the option). Yet, of course the next dish turned out to be equally as tasty as its predecessors.

Our taste buds took a dramatic turn from the light buttery flavor of the scallops to the deep, woodsy flavor of house made paperdelle pasta with wild mushrooms and veal stock, tossed with fresh herbs and the natural mushroom au jus. Our sommelier decided not to provide us with a wine for this dish, as he promised it would pair perfectly with the Grenache that was already on our table. While others noted how right the sommelier was, I kept quiet, contemplating the wonderfully complex mushroom flavors in my mouth, trying to pinpoint how exactly I would describe them. (I couldn’t). I can only attempt to convey their sweet earthiness, with the savoriness or umami that isn’t quite describable with words.

After lingering over the last tastes of the wild mushrooms as they dissolved in my mouth, we took a moment to revel in how amazing the meal had been so far. Thinking back on the five dishes we had been served, I realized the sweet figs, delicate scallops, and savory mushroom pasta had been far and away the most amazing and intense flavors I had ever tasted. I smiled at this, and realized it was exactly how a meal should be—the discovery of absolutely mind-blowing tastes, the delight of novel combinations of foods, and the unhurried pace of a multi-course meal where nothing seems more important than the present.

Once we had been left to contemplate our experience so far, our waiters returned bearing more dishes, and set beside us another duo of artistically adorned plates. The first consisted of a line drawn across the plate dotted with tiny agnolotti—small crescent-shaped pastas filled with a creamy cheese and chives. Each agnolotti sat atop a sliver of bell pepper or a baby artichoke heart, and was accompanied by an absolutely astounding parmesan foam. The dish, we soon discovered, was created by the chef mere nights before, when a fury of creative genius kept him in the kitchen until one a.m., until he was able to satisfy himself with an approximation of perfection. Due to this, our sommelier did not have a wine to provide, as he felt he hadn’t yet had the chance to evaluate the complexities of the dish in light to find its ideal partner. (A process which I decided would be a phenomenal challenge to undertake).

Beside the agnolotti dish was a bowl of Truffle Risotto with truffle oil, with scattered slivered truffles delicately balancing on top of the creamy starch. The risotto was perfect—a harmonious combination of silky sauce wrapped around firm granules of rice to produce a texture and consistency I had never fully experienced. This was risotto perfected. Our attention, however, was briefly drawn away from the risotto itself to concentrate on the slivers of truffles adorning the plate, as it seemed we might not have the opportunity to eat truffles again for decades. The crisp slivers melted as they touched your tongue, providing a hint of woodiness along with a shiver of delight.

We took our time savoring these two dishes, with the disappointing awareness that we were beginning to feel the faintest hint of fullness. However, we were not to be deterred, for our entrées were about to arrive.

Before our plates were delivered to the table, we were delighted to receive a surprise visit from the sommelier. Noting that our main entrées ranged from delicate halibut to domineering steak, he approached our table with four different wine bottles in hand. Proceeding to pour each of us a different glass of wine, we found our experience had now become the best of both worlds: we had obtained the camaraderie of sharing a bottle, but need not compromise by drinking a wine that did not pair perfectly with our entrée. Even my father, who expected the heavy-ish Grenache to pair perfectly with his New York steak, was provided a heavy cabernet that performed even better.

My Hudson Valley duck breast arrived atop grilled escarole and lavishly draped with almond foam. To its side a row of baby turnips and Thumbelina carrots swam in a stream of deep purple bing cherry & basil puree. I was poured a 2002 Oregon pinot noir, which as promised, served as a light accompaniment to the dark breast meat. The surprise part of my meal, however, was the delicate turnips, which seemed to have a hint of vanilla and provided a refreshing palate cleanser between bites (this, I discovered, was particularly helpful when demanding a forkful of everyone else's meal).

Across from me, a generous portion of roasted northern halibut, draped with Chino corn, and chanterelle mushrooms was served to my mother. The plate was shared with Yukon gold potatoes, and a sweeping pour of turmeric corn puree rimmed with balsamic glaze. This was paired with 2005 sauvignon blanc from France; 2005, we were told, being an exceptional year for sauvignon blancs in France, producing wines of a caliber not seen in the region since the 1960’s.

Next might have been my favorite looking plate of the night, with a massive New York steak of corn and grass-fed beef draped with a mixture of pickled corn and onions, towering over the most delicate looking fingerling potatoes, which were lined up in a row like tiny soldiers marching across the plate. Atop what appeared to be the lead soldier was perched the most petite vegetable I have seen—an infant potato no larger than a pinky fingernail. It was one of those presentations you feel guilty for touching, and there was something about the dichotomy of giant and midget on the same plate made you want to smile. So did the description of the cabernet (80%) merlot (20%) blend that was paired with this dish, which was described as being both “fatty” and “chewy,” which perfectly mirrored the qualities of the beef.

Finally, next to me was the second steak dish on the menu, two thick slices of a Prime Flat-iron set atop caramelized torpedo onions and a cipollini onion puree with confit garlic. This shared the plate with haricot vert (green beans), red wine sauce, and a potato accompaniment that was as far opposite from the previous dish as the definition of potato could stretch: a single, enormous cut of a perfectly crisp Yukon potato. Once again, the creative dichotomy made me smile. This steak was also paired with a cabernet, from a vineyard in an area of Napa that I believe the sommelier claimed was soon to have it’s own appellation (actually American Viticultural Area, or AVA) defined.

This, I again pause over, as the concept of “appellation” links what we consume to its origins. The word (originating from the French) implies that different regions produce different grapes (or cheeses, or other food products) due to the different conditions of the soil, climate, and elevation. The idea stems back to the 15th century, and has over the course of time been used to link the quality of the grapes to the conditions of the land. In the US, new AVA’s are defined when it can be proven that within the boundaries of a certain area, there exists a unique set of conditions that yield a particular grape. Serious wine lovers (of which I don’t yet claim to be) use appellations as one of the major criteria when purchasing wine, as often it is known that the particular characteristics of an area will yield a great grape.

But back to our delicious food. Most of the time, you feel your meal is complete after you put as much of a dent as you can into your entrée. Tonight, however, this was not the case. After expressing to each other how perfectly we felt our wines accompanied our dishes, and after relishing not only the array of textures and flavors on our own dishes but sneaking tastes of everyone else’s, we set our forks and knives down, although not for good.

Soon two more dishes appeared from the kitchen, this time far more petite than the previous course, offering us just a taste of some of the potent flavors we had missed from the menu. This, I discovered, was a brilliant move, allowing us to experience two additional intense bursts of flavor in just a few additional bites.

We first sunk our forks into a port wine braised short rib that pulled apart on contact, set atop more wild mushrooms, and surrounded by white truffle emulsion and herb oil, topped with deliciously brilliant potato foam. If the short ribs pulled apart on contact, it was only to have the bite dissolve in your mouth upon entering, literally causing you to sit back and shut your eyes for a moment of contemplation before swallowing. The potato foam challenged the delightful parmesan foam that was served earlier in the evening, pulling a close second in terms of the delight of tasting flavor removed from it's expected consistency.

The second dish caused a similar reaction, with tender smoked and braised pork belly presented next to polenta made from heirloom corn (from Anson Mills), topped with , black eyed peas, and slivers of okra. Anson Mills, I just have to note, is a small company dedicated to “the preservation of Southern heirloom corn, rice and wheat—and the artisan milling practices associated with them.” Heirloom varieties are heralded by the slow food movement, becoming increasingly important as farms merge with corporations, and varieties of crops are being bred for resistance, shelf life, and profit margins. Any kitchen that goes out of its way to incorporate heirloom varieties on its menu certainly gains my support.

After finishing these two delectable bonuses, we received a much-anticipated visit from sous-chef Chris Bleidorn. Grinning as he sat down next to us, he need only read our faces to find how we liked our food. Of course, he wasn’t done serving us either. With a bit of hesitation, we agreed to take a look at the dessert menu, and with no hesitation, decided we needed not one, but two desserts (after all, we had tasted at least two options of every other course, why should we stop now?). However, before desert was delivered, our waitress came over with a cheese course, which, Chris managed to slide in. With two tasty cheeses accompanied by candied walnuts and homemade herb crackers. we now felt like kings, (perhaps Bacchus?). Finally, when we felt we might not be able to eat another bite, our dessert was delivered, and our eyes lit up at the elegant cheesecake topped with champagne grapes and the not-often-seen beignets served with lemon gelato, candied lemons and candied mint. Speaking of Bacchus, I distinctly noted that the Grenache, which had managed to linger in our glasses, having been ignored throughout the other courses, seemed to now take on a hint of the qualities of port—strong and slightly sweet, the perfect, albeit unintentional, accompaniment to our final bites of this absolutely unrivaled meal.


Chris, I honestly don’t know what to say, not only in terms of our gratitude for this experience, but also in terms of your talent, creativity, and, in terms of that fig salad, genius. Don’t be surprised that we're already looking for the next opportunity to swing by…

For those in the San Diego area, Chino Farms is open to the public and can be found at:

Chino Farms Vegetable Stand
6123 Calzada del Bosque
Rancho Santa Fe (off Via de la Valle, S6), CA

The hours I was able to find were as follows, although without having yet made a visit there myself, I can't confirm them:
Fall/Winter: Tuesday-Saturday 10-4; Sunday 10-1
Spring/Summer: Tuesday-Saturday 10-5.

One last note: I'm pretty sure I'm missing a few details here and there, especially in terms of wines, which I hope to fill in with the help from my table-mates. Until then, I apologize for any slight inaccuracies, but I wanted to share this experience as quickly as I could.