Go to Town: Town by Bryan Nagao

Town by Bryan Nagao opened in 2018 in Taipei, but I didn’t set foot in the restaurant until late last year. The main reason was when the restaurant first opened, I heard conflicting reviews of the restaurant from friends and family; the negative outnumbered the positive ones. As the buzz died down after a few months of the opening, friends gradually stopped mentioning about Town. And I kind of forgot about the restaurant. 

In the summer of last year a friend asked me to join him for dinner at a newly opened restaurant in Taipei. Unbeknownst to me, chef Nagao was in my dining party. When Nagao sat down my friend said to me, “You must know Bryan”. Actually I didn’t and never tried his food. But I enjoyed eating with Nagao and told him I would visit his restaurant. In November I ate at Town for the first time. A couple of months later I went again and tried a slightly different menu. In short, I enjoyed both of my dinners.

Town is located on the third floor of a four-story building on Xinyi Road, diagonally across the street from the original Ding Tai Fung. The restaurant does not have an entrance directly off the street. But the signage on one of the doors of the storefront suggests there is one. The first time I was there I was confused as to how to enter the restaurant. To get to Town, one actually has to walk through the length of the ground floor cafe counter, pass the stairs going to the second floor, and look for a glass door on the left. The short corridor leads to a small elevator. The elevator door on the third floor opens to a transitional space that doesn’t engage the diners. The entire entry sequence is a bit awkward. 

The rest of the interior design is much better considered. Before getting to the receptionist stand, one walks past the open kitchen on the left. This is a nice feature. The guests get to meet chef Nagao at the green marble pass with the heat lamps and see how their food is made. As expected, the open kitchen is clean, bright and professional. The chef can welcome the guests before taking their seats in the dining hall, as if they are coming to his home. Nagao used to split his time between his restaurants in Hong Kong and Taipei. Since Town in Hong Kong closed in March 2019 and the pandemic hit in 2020, Nagao is spending all his time in Taipei. Therefore, when one walks into Town one is likely to see Nagao in the kitchen. 

The floor plan of the building consists of two structural bays of equal width. The public dining room occupies one bay and the two private rooms take up the other. Each bay has a balcony overlooking Xinyi Road. While I never see anyone on the balcony it is still nice to have floor to ceiling glass on one side of the room. The public dining room has a center aisle with seating on two sides. One side consists of three circular shaped green banquettes with round dark grey marble tables, while the other side has square tables and blue chairs set up for parties of four. The tables are nicely space. 

The various light fixtures in the public dining room are all in spherical glass shapes: wall mounted next to the square tables, table mounted in between the banquettes, and ceiling-hung above the receptionist stand. The three round tables each has an additional round metal lamp above them. The ceiling above the round tables even has circular alcoves that echo the shape of the banquette. The circular shapes are contrasted with the herringbone wood flooring. It is clear that a lot of thoughts were put into the design and the overall ambiance is quite pleasant. 

For both of my dinners I was seated at the first round table. The marble table and the lamp above have a retro feel as they reminded me of the Tulip table by Eero Saarinen and Arco lamp by Achille Castiglioni produced in the middle of the twentieth century. The silverware were placed on one side on a metal ledge. The table setting was pleasant but the placement of the menu was a bit awkward. The menu was tucked slightly under the top of the napkin. The napkin is folded into a rectangle with a width that matches the menu. The alignment of the menu and the napkin was clearly intentional but didn’t enhance the visual appearance of either. 

Town is open only for dinner and serves one menu for all the diners. The format is a tasting menu with nine courses plus amuse-bouches to start and mignardises to end. Four out of the nine courses have two different dishes for the diners to choose. The main savory course has three to four choices and carries different prices depending on the ingredients. As the season changes so does the menu. The menus at Town actually reminds me of the menus by Thomas Keller, which uses quotation marks pervasively. The menu refers and twists traditional flavors and technique. Any food lovers would be happy to read the menu that show the depth of Nagao’s knowledge and his ease of playing with the vocabularies of different cuisines. 

Dinner started with a couple of amuse-bouches. At my first dinner I was served a gougère and a waffle topped with foie gras mousse. The gougère was good but would be better if it was warmer; this is not easy as the puff is not large. The waffle was also good but a bit sweet. The flavor profile didn’t quite wake up the palette as I expected an amuse to do. In fact it dulled the appetite a bit. At my second dinner, the gougère appeared again, but the waffle was replaced by a crab tartlet topped with a sliced of black truffle. The crab was fresh and sweet and the truffle gave the flavor an earthiness. It was a delicious bite of food and made even better with a glass of champagne. 

After the amuse-bouches, a Parker House roll was brought to the table wrapped in paper. The bread was warm and served with smoked pistachio butter. I was happy to see an American bread. While the bread was nice, each diner got exactly one roll and no more. The bread plate was taken away after the bread was finished. The portion of the butter was generous and the flavor was interesting, but I wished there was more bread to spread it on. Perhaps Nagao is following the more recent trend at fine dining restaurants such as Per Se and Eleven Madison Park, where bread is listed on the menu, treated as a course, and each diner gets just one. 

Nagao didn’t seem to have a fixed format for the first course. At my first dinner it was a choice between lamb tartare or quail. At my second dinner it was scallop or red prawn. Some chefs set up their tasting menus with a first course that’s light, acidic, or with raw seafood, and then move into the heavier dishes. Nagao did not and instead produced dishes that were strong and full of flavors. For instance, the scallop I had was served with 36-month jamon from Cinco Jotas, chestnuts, and a soubise sauce. The dish was delicious and well made. The portion was small but just right; any bigger would be too heavy to start the dinner. 

The second course was a custard which Nagao produced different variations with different ingredients and sauces. The first one I had was with crab, oxtail marmalade, and onion jus. The second time it was with abalone, caviar and chicken jus. The custard is another good dish that was packed with flavors. The dish was also very beautiful especially with the blue bowl. The wooden spoon provided to eat the dish with was a nice break from the ubiquitous stainless tableware. 

However there was no pause on flavors. The third course that followed was a beef tripe and sweetbread with ragout. I like offal and I believe Nagao does as well. I enjoyed eating this dish. But I wouldn’t mind having some bread on the side to sop up the sauce. 

A soup was the fourth course. While I knew from the menu that it wasn’t something light such as a consommé or vegetable soup, I didn’t expect a full body bouillabaisse. At my two dinners, Nagao made the fish soup with different toppings; once with scallop and cauliflower, and the other with shirako and rouille. The soup was hearty and very flavorful. 

The fifth course was a pasta. There were two choices and one of them was uni tagliatelle that carried a supplemental charge of NT$220. The uni was served whole and sat on a small bed of pasta with slivers of jamon Iberico. I really enjoyed this dish, however I wished there were more pasta. On my second dinner I had a small bite of my dining companion’s uni pasta and it was a bit too salty. The ingredients, uni, Iberico ham, and cured pork fat were all salty to begin with so they could easily make the dish over seasoned. My friend’s pasta was also not hot enough. Since the pasta and the uni were not tossed in a hot pan, the temperature of the dish was not easy to control. This dish was really delicious when it was executed well. 

For my second dinner I tried the ravioli with peas and black truffle. The dish tasted as good as it looked. 

The sixth course was a seafood. At my first dinner I had an abalone with foie gras, house-made XO sauce, radish, and grapefruit. The dish was well executed and good but I wanted a bit more balance of flavors. 

The main savory dish was the seventh course. The portion for this dish was larger than the previous courses. There were three to four choices. The choice also determined the price of the entire dinner, ranging from around NT$2,480 to NT$2,880. Each of the main course also came with a side dish. I’ve tried three of the main courses and all of them were very good. At my first dinner I had the slow-cooked suckling pig, which was a reference to Kalua, the traditional cooking method in Hawaii. Since Nagao grew up in Hawaii, this could be considered a version of his hometown cooking. The pork was beautiful and reminded me of the Meat-Shaped Stone at the National Palace Museum. The side dish was a pork fat rice that was very delicious and reminded me of the rice dishes in Cantonese cuisine. 

At my second dinner I had the beef tongue with a side dish of beef cheek pie. It was another very nice dish that was well executed; just look at the sheen on all the sauces. However, the dish was almost a bit too much of a good thing. I wanted more contrast and balance to the high fat content of the beef tongue. I also ate half of my companion’s lobster with green Thai curry. My friend felt the lobster was under cooked, but I thought it was perfect. The flavor was interesting and very good. The side dish was a small lobster roll. All the main courses had many components and required a lot of work. They were well made and showed the range of Nagao’s cooking. Based on the main courses, it was hard to pin down Nagao’s style as he didn’t limit himself to any particular type of cuisines nor flavors. 

At both of my dinners I chose to have the wine pairing. There were two options and the prices were reasonable: 4 glasses for NT$1,280 or 6 glasses for NT$1,880. I enjoyed the conversations with the sommelier. She chose wines from a wide range of areas, including Alsace, Hungary, Austria, and Sicily; there was also sake from Japan. I agreed with her the wines from Alsace went well with Nagao’s food. I was happy to see her pour wines from Alsace and Austria because people in Taipei don’t drink enough from these regions; usually there’s too much focus on Bordeaux and Burgundy. 

The eighth course was a combination of a cheese course and pre-dessert. Similar to Thomas Keller, I suspect Nagao likes cheese and wants to serve it without bringing a whole cheese cart into the dining room. Instead of having a stand alone composed cheese course as Keller does at Per Se, Nagao combines the cheese with an ice cream or sorbet on top. This is an interesting idea that I don’t think I’ve encountered before. I had the Taleggio cheese and celery lemon sorbet and the Brie with black truffle ice cream. 

The last course was the dessert and both times I had the chocolate mousse flavored with Longan and served with grape sorbet. The flavors were wonderful and I liked the combinations. But the hazelnut chip on top of the mousse was crisp at the first dinner and less so on the second. After the desserts there were two mignardises to accompany the coffee or tea. The mignardises were well made and a nice way to end the dinner. 

The service at my two dinners was very nice and the experience was very pleasant. The noise level at the restaurant was not high and I felt comfortable lingering at the restaurant. 

One of the problems with Town is consistency. I had the uni pasta and the chocolate dessert at two separate dinners and the qualities ranged from great to so-so. Perhaps there were simply too many components in the dinner and the ambitions of Nagao were not matched by the capabilities of his staff. Nevertheless I have a hard time understanding why Town is not in the Michelin Guide Taipei. Everyone knows that Michelin places a great emphasis on consistency. While this may preclude Town from getting a star, but surely Town deserves a Plate recognition. 

Dining at Town begs the question, are there too much flavors? This is a question I never imagined I would ask in Taipei. The diners in Taipei have a tendency towards blandness, demanding chefs to use less salt and less sugar. As such, often times there are simply not enough flavors. Town is just the opposite. From the first course to the last, Nagao doesn’t let up with the packing of flavors. And since his flavor profile tends towards salty, sweet, umami, and less on acidity and bitter, there is the danger of palette fatigue. The flavors are big and direct but after several courses one craves for more contrast, balance, and subtleties. 

It is also possible that some of the palette fatigue is my own doing. Like a moth to flame, when I see dishes with tongue, sweetbread, foie gras, jamon, and uni on the menu, I will order them. The two menus I had were also for the winter time and it was the season for heavier and more hearty food. 

When one eats at Town one gets Nagao’s personalities on the plates. Did every dish work and deliver the wow effect? Not necessarily. Were all the flavors engineered and balanced precisely? Not all the time. But what’s wonderful about Nagao is his unique ideas and interesting combinations of flavors that one won’t find elsewhere in Taipei. He uses his experience from different parts of the world and put his own spin on the different cuisines. He understands the culinary traditions but is not bounded by them. Call it fusion or whatever term one likes, Nagao is doing his own food and it is a very good thing.

Mini Madeleines

The dinners at Restaurant Daniel in New York City always end with some mini madeleines. Fresh out of the oven they are such a delight. While I may not remember some of the dishes I ate at Daniel, the mini madeleines are etched in my memory. These little cakes are pure delights. Even when I was full after eating all the courses, I could always still devour several mini madeleines. 

Since I cannot travel to New York City anytime soon I decide to make the mini madeleines myself at home. The recipe for the madeleines is in the book, Chef Daniel Boulud, published by Assouline in 2002. However I prefer to use the recipe by Dominique Ansel in his first book, Dominique Ansel: The Secret Recipes, published by Simon & Schuster in October 2014. The reasons are Ansel’s recipe is more detailed and the quantity of ingredients are given in grams instead of volumes (tablespoons and teaspoons). Furthermore Boulud’s recipe is probably not the one used at the restaurant. For instance, the recipe calls for the mixed batter to be rested for just one hour. Typically a batter with baking powder benefits from resting overnight. 

Ansel was the pastry chef at Restaurant Daniel from 2006 to 2011. He once said, “I had eight items on the dessert menu when I was at Daniel, and do you know what people remember the most? The madeleines at the end of the meal. People couldn’t get enough of them. If there is one item that I have made over and over again, it is madeleines. Every night, every table, madeleines, madeleines, madeleines.” 

Ansel still serves the little cakes at his eponymous shops in New York City. He bakes them à la minute. In other words, the customers have to wait for around five minutes after the order is placed. Just like at Daniel, the madeleines are served hot and need to be eaten right away. The madeleines are time and temperature sensitive confections as the texture of the cakes will change after only a few minutes out of the oven.

Madeleines are not hard to make and Ansel lists the recipe in the beginner’s section. The recipe doesn’t require any special equipment except for the madeleine mold. I bought the 20-mini madeleine nonstick mold from Williams Sonoma. The recipe doesn’t require a standing mixer, just some whisking by hand. Ansel’s recipe is available on the MasterClass website and he even demonstrates parts of the recipe in a short video. Ansel’s recipe is very easy to follow. I deviate from the recipes in a few places. The recipe calls for melting the butter, brown sugar, and honey in a medium pot over low heat. But sometimes I just use the microwave instead. Often times, I only use lemon zest instead of lemon and orange. After whisking the wet ingredients to the dry mixture, I don’t cover the bowl with a plastic wrap. Instead I prefer to just pour directly into a large uncut piping bag and place it in the refrigerator to rest overnight.

On the next day or the following day (the batter keeps well for a few days), preheat the oven to 350°F with convection. This is the only annoying part of the recipe for a home baker. It actually takes a lot longer to preheat the oven than to actually bake the madeleines. When the oven is ready, pipe the batter into the molds, roughly three quarters full. The amount of batter required in each mold of the pan is the only part of the recipe that is not super precise and takes some practice. The madeleines take around 5 minutes to bake in total. Once the pan is out of the oven, the best way to unmold the madeleines is to just bang the pan against the counter. Afterwards, dust powder sugar through a sieve on top and eat immediately. 

When I taste the mini madeleines, they bring back memories of my meals at Restaurant Daniel in New York City, Maison Boulud in Beijing, and Dominique Ansel Kitchen in New York City. It’s amazing how a little flour, sugar, egg, butter, baking powder, salt, lemon zest, and honey can create such magic.

It Is Not What It Is: RAW by André Chiang

The glass front door is still deceptively heavy. The transparency of the material belies the effort it takes to open the door and enter restaurant RAW. The disconnect between perception and reality does not end at the front door but continues throughout the experience of the meal. Eating at RAW is not what it seems to be.

I haven't been back to RAW in five years. The main reason is it is simply too hard to make a reservation, arguably the most difficult in Taipei. Under the direction of Taiwanese celebrity chef André Chiang, the dining room at RAW is always full. Even the Covid-19 pandemic and the ban on foreign tourists in Taiwan have not slowed the business down. The other reason I haven’t returned is I am ambivalent about my previous dining experience. I don’t feel the strong urge to dine at RAW again. Recently at the invitation of a friend I have finally returned to RAW to dine for the second time. 

RAW of 2020 is a different restaurant from five plus years ago when it first started. Now the restaurant has two Michelin stars instead of none. Does the restaurant provide a two-star dining experience? The price of the menu has almost doubled since the restaurant first started. Is a meal there now twice as good as my last visit? The answers to both questions are, in short, not really.

Stepping inside I see the interior hasn't changed much. The space is well maintained and everything still looks new. I still like the design except for the text by George Calombaris on the concrete wall near the entry. The space at the front of the restaurant remains empty but recently has found a new purpose: for diners to sit down, fill out their travel histories, and have their temperatures checked. 

While RAW still looks and feels the same as when it opened in late 2014, the circumstances have changed significantly. Five-plus years ago, Chiang was still cooking everyday and chasing Michelin stars at his eponymous fine dining restaurant in Singapore. RAW was just an outpost in his home country and designed to be a bistronomy. In 2016 Restaurant André received two Michelin stars in Singapore’s inaugural Michelin Guide. At that time, there were rumors that Chiang was originally slated to receive just one star. The rating was changed to two stars at the last minute due to the lobbying of the Singapore authorities. The story is unconfirmed but certainly intriguing.

In October of 2017, Chiang abruptly announced he was closing his flagship restaurant in Singapore and “returning” his Michelin stars. Moreover he was leaving Singapore and moving back to Taiwan. To signal his complete disinterest in the Michelin stars, Chiang even asked Michelin to exclude RAW from the upcoming 2018 Taipei guide. This request was strange given Chiang’s entire career and reputation were built on the associations with the Michelin Guide. His personal library in Singapore contained a collection of Michelin Guide of France spanning decades. Was Chiang really breaking up with Michelin?

Chiang knew how to play hard to get. To no one’s surprise, when Michelin launched the guide in Taipei, they ignored Chiang’s request and awarded RAW with one star. Thumbing his nose at Michelin didn’t have any negative effect; actually just the opposite. One year later in 2019, Michelin upgraded RAW to two stars and decided the restaurant is just as good as Restaurant André was in Singapore. 

In Singapore Chiang was working in the kitchen full-time and got two stars. In Taipei, he gets two stars even when he doesn’t even want any. Instead of being on his feet all day in Singapore, he just cooks for his mom and wife at his home in Yilan, an hour drive outside of Taipei. Chiang is a smart man and must be laughing all the way to the bank. He is the most famous Taiwanese chef in the world. Michelin in Taipei needs him. 

Moving from Singapore to Taiwan means RAW has become the main signature restaurant of Chiang. RAW is also a restaurant he almost never cooked in and still doesn’t. Since the restaurant’s opening, the person running the day-to-day operation has been his trusted Chef de Cuisine Alain Huang. Chiang simply designs the menu and Huang executes the dishes on his behalf. However, I am surprised at how little input Huang seems to have on the menu. After I finish my recent meal, I ask Huang about some of the decisions on the dishes, he seems to suggest they are all made by Chiang. 

There used to be only one menu at RAW, NT$1,800 for 8 courses and everyone ate the same dishes. The socialist nature of the restaurant is no longer present. Now there are three choices: NT$1,850, NT$2,680, and NT$3,500. The pricier menus come with more courses and fancier ingredients. Since a meal at the restaurant is so hard to come by, my friend and I opt for the most expensive menu. I want the whole experience. 

Prior to dining at RAW I have already saw the pictures of the dishes on many websites and publications. Just about all of them simply regurgitate the press release from the restaurant: how the new menu is all about the celebration of spring and the increasing awareness on sustainability. Chiang is a master of publicity and he knows the media in Taiwan love and crave access to him. The media in Taiwan are essentially his mouthpieces. They don’t question or review his food.

The eleven-course spring menu starts with a nice and delicate green strawberry tart. However, the season for strawberry in Taiwan is not in spring but winter. Why start the spring menu with an unripe strawberry? The accompanying ice has a nice and subtle flavor but is too much in terms of portion. After the third bite I am bored and don’t want to finish it.

The second dish is very interesting, a salmon collagen with wasabi presented in a cocktail dish with chopsticks. It’s a pretty dish. A cup of fish soup is served on the side. The texture and flavors are very good. 

The third course is an escabeche which is served in a small rectangular tin with a bread on the side. I only wish the restaurant would provide a bit more bread. Why not be a bit more generous? Escabeche is a dish that originated from Persia and is now commonly found in the Mediterranean coast of Spain. It is basically a way to preserve fish or meat in vinegar. Eating this dish reminds me of my trip to Barcelona. This is another nice dish with great flavors. However, I don’t know why escabeche represents spring or Taiwan. It feels like a dish that Chiang just wants to make.

After we finish the course, a loaf of bread is brought to the table. Since we order the most expensive menu, the bread is included. The bread seems to be the same as the one on my first visit and remains quite nice. I still don’t know whether the bread is made in-house or not. 

The fourth course is a salad with various spring leaves, seaweed, and mackerel served on the side. I enjoy the dish. The vegetables are fresh and delicious and the dressing is very flavorful. I am ambivalent about whether I need the mackerels or not. They are served on an ice pack inside a styrofoam-like bento box. The presentation is unappetizing. 

The next course is a cold pasta inspired by the Italian Spaghetti alle Vongole. Chiang makes the kitchen braid the pasta and the vegetable for a great visual effect. I don’t understand the use of almond cream which clashes with the marinated cockles. The dish looks better than it tastes and is designed to be on Instagram. The temperature of the dish is also not appealing.

As if one dish of vegetables is not enough to celebrate spring, the kitchen brings out another dish of vegetables; this time lukewarm instead of cold. The vegetables are topped with a truffle cream sauce, which I don’t understand at all. If the menu is an ode to spring, why use an ingredient from winter? Putting aside the idea of representing spring, where does one get good truffle at the end of April? Not from France, Italy, nor Australia. The scent of the truffle seems artificial. Would a world famous two-Michelin star chef choose to use truffle oil for a dish? 

After six courses, I am hoping to finally get a dish that is hot. But my wish does not come true. RAW is a restaurant of cold and lukewarm food. You will never hear the phrase, “be careful the plate is hot” from the server. The only food that is hot to the touch is the bread. But bread should not be served hot as it disguises the quality. Also anyone who makes crusty bread knows that the bread needs to cool down for the crust to develop. If a diner is eating hot bread in the restaurant it is because the kitchen has reheated the bread. 

The last two savory courses are both done with fresh pork. I wish the restaurant would not repeat an ingredient for a tasting menu. I suppose we can’t expect restaurants to be like the French Laundry where ingredients don’t repeat over the course of a meal. Moreover, while fresh pork is a meat the Chinese like to eat, it is not an ingredient associated with spring. Before the ubiquity of refrigerators, pigs were slaughtered in the winter and mostly cured to preserve for later. If RAW is suppose to be all about being in tune with the seasons, why not serve lamb or chicken that is more representative of spring?

The first pork dish is essentially a meatball. Every component is well executed and the plating is beautiful and photogenic as always. However, by the time the dish arrives on my table it is not hot enough. This is a disappointment as it reduces the enjoyment of the food significantly. 

The second pork dish is a play on the three layers of pork belly. Instead of an outside skin, a thick layer of fat, and lower portion of pink meat, there is only a layer of pork made from the pigtail. The other layers are made with Chinese yam and mozzarella. The “crackling” on the top is made with peanut which isn’t as nice as a real pork skin and just sticks to my teeth. The sauce is made with peanuts. And there is a dollop of mediocre caviar which seems to be there just to pad the price of the menu. On the side is a “salami” made with fig. It is as if Chiang is just messing with us on purpose. He knows full well that spring is a season for cured pork but he purposely makes it with an inverted flower. Again, the “salami” is more interesting in concept and appearance than taste. This last savory course is the only dish of the meal that I fail to finish. I don’t like it at all. The server says this is a way to eat less meat. But how about making the dish delicious so I will finish the food instead of wasting it. 

After the disappointment with the last savory course, the two desserts that followed can’t come fast enough. The first one is a study on tofu. The server brings over a large house-made tofu to the table, but that’s just a show piece presented to all the tables in the room. The second dessert is Chiang’s take on the traditional red “turtle” cake. The cake is delicious. Both desserts are excellent and I enjoy them very much. The last time I was at RAW, the dessert was a disappointment. This time the desserts are the highlights of the meal.

While the food at RAW has some high and low points, the service is substandard. RAW should be glad that the Michelin Guide doesn’t consider service as part of the criteria for awarding stars. When one dines at a Michelin two-star restaurant, one expects a certain level of professionalism. For instance, the services at the two-star restaurants Jean Georges or Daniel in New York City are impeccable. The front of house staff are not only experienced but very knowledgeable. In contrast, the servers at RAW feel like they either just graduated from culinary school or they are interns. They cannot even set the cutlery properly on the table. They are not trained and simply memorized a script to repeat to the diners. They also have zero awareness of the diner’s needs.

The servers are lackadaisical. My friend’s napkin falls on the floor, the server takes it away but doesn’t replace it. My sparkling water is refilled with flat. The drinking glass for the beer is removed before the bottle is emptied. The server asks to remove the bread before the main course. What’s the hurry? Does the dishwasher need to go home early? What if I want to sop up the sauce when the main course is served? The runner brings the food on a tray, but there is no server to deliver them to the table. This happens more than once. At the second time I ask the the runner to not wait for a server and just bring the food to the table. I hate to see the food idling and dying due to bad service. 

When the warm vegetable dish is brought to the table, I ask the server where does the truffle come from given we are at the end of April? She says she doesn’t know but would get back to me. A while later, she comes to our table to serve another dish and I ask her again about the origin. She only says the restaurant uses truffle from France, Australia and China. So I ask again where do you get the truffle in spring? Again, she says she would ask the kitchen. Towards the end of the meal, I ask the server for the third time and she still doesn’t know. I suppose this question is not part of a memorized script or it is some secret. Eventually the Chef de Cuisine comes to our table and says the truffles are not fresh but preserved in oil from the winter. He doesn’t explain why an ingredient associated with winter is required to prepare a menu for the spring. I am also tempted to ask don’t you have pre-shift meetings? Why don’t you train your staff to know where the food you are serving come from?

The menu of RAW changes with the seasons. Every time the change takes place it is like a cultural event in Taipei. If you hang around with hipsters, you probably will hear the phrase, “Have you tried this season’s menu at RAW?” Eating at RAW is similar to attending a fashion show to see the latest trends. The clothes on the fashion runways are often times styled more for effect and the media instead of wearability and beauty. The primary concern of the cooking at RAW is also for concepts and publicity instead of deliciousness. Unfortunately the spring 2020 menu at RAW does not express a coherent set of ideas. The dishes don’t form a good story nor celebrate the season. The diners at RAW are just paying money to participate in Chiang’s whimsical experiments. 

Chiang has become the face of the Taiwanese food scene. Promoted by everyone, including himself, Chiang is the golden boy and can do no wrong. But eating at RAW, I cannot help but wonder if this is just like “The Emperor’s New Clothes” by Hans Christian Andersen. The only difference is Chiang is not just the emperor but he is also the weaver. He is one of the smartest chefs in the world. He seems to be knowingly parading nonsensical food to the public. Every season the people await his new creations, snatch up the reservations, and applaud after the meals. 

This doesn’t mean RAW is a restaurant to be avoided. If I am a tourist coming from abroad, I would certainly want to eat at RAW to see what all the fuss is about. While I don’t like every dish, I do appreciate the creativity. Experimentation always comes with the possibility of failure. If one doesn’t fail then perhaps one is not daring enough. RAW remains an interesting place to have a thought-provoking meal. RAW is just not a place to have a delicious meal that makes you want to come back the next day to eat it again.

logy or -logy

Multi-course no-choice menu, touting of Taiwanese ingredients cooked with Western techniques, open kitchen with a Taiwanese or Japanese chef in his (always a he) thirties with Michelin-star restaurant pedigree, small wine list, and no discernible pastry chef, these are all part of the formula of a Michelin-star restaurant in Taipei. In recent years, not only does this formula work with the Michelin inspectors, but it is also embraced by the diners (especially the young) in Taipei. The restaurants Impromptu by Paul Lee, Mume, RAW, Ryugin, and Tairroir all employ some parts or all of the formula to become very successful.

Restaurant logy opened in the middle of November 2018 and received a Michelin star in April 2019. This has to be one of the shortest time between opening and garnering a star in the history of the Michelin Guide. The restaurant is small with only 13 seats at the counter. Since the start of the restaurant it has been very difficult to reserve a seat. How many times did the Michelin inspectors actually eat at the restaurant. Did the Michelin Guide simply award the star because logy closely followed the formula?

The chef of logy, Ryogo Tahara was a sous chef at the two-Michelin-star restaurant Florilège in Tokyo before coming to Taipei. Prior to Tokyo, he worked at a few Michelin-star restaurants in Italy. Restaurant logy is actually Tahara’s first time as the head chef but he certainly has high expectations. When Michelin made the announcement, Tahara told the local newspaper that he was happy, but would preferred to have a second star (“開心，但是再來一顆會更好”). Who doesn't like more stars? I suppose a chef should be confident (or arrogant) about his ability. I am not an expert on psychology. But even the Chef of the Century Joël Robuchon had to earn his stars at Restaurant Jamin one at a time.

Given the formulaic nature of logy, I wasn’t very eager to go the restaurant. The analogy is watching romantic comedy movies. Before one heads to the cinema, one already knows what's going to happen: they get together, they breakup, and they get back together. With a romantic comedy, the experience is a topic of conversation with friends but doesn’t have a profound impact. Nevertheless, just as some romantic comedies are better than others, logy is one of the better formulaic restaurants. By chance my friends had reservations at the restaurant but couldn’t go, so I ended up eating at logy twice but a year apart: one for dinner in March 2019 and the other for lunch in March 2020. Over the course of a year the formula of logy did not change. Only the price of the meal has increased.

Restaurant logy is located in a small alley of Daan district in Taipei, and occupies the ground floor of a nondescript seven-story apartment building. The facade of the restaurant is a light grey textured concrete wall with a floor-height vertical inscription of its name. The wall is devoid of any windows and has only one opening on the left side. Tucked inside the opening and not visible from the street is the front door, which adds to the sense of anticipation. Once inside the feel is the opposite of the exterior: the color is black, and the space is dark, small, and little severe.

The interior is based on the typology of the open kitchen with counter seating. Different from the typical setup, the seating area is raised on a platform allowing the diners to sit on regular chairs rather than bar seats. However, the trade-off is the platform reduces the clear ceiling height and the space feels more cramped. Sitting on a platform also means the diners look down at the cooks in the kitchen. Together with the dark walls and the lack of daylight, the effect is a bit theatrical. But unfortunately, out of the 13 seats, three around the corner of the L-shaped counter has only a partial view of the action due to a large black column. For my lunch I was assigned the seat at the corner of the counter and stared at the column for over two hours. The restaurant makes no apology. And unlike at an old theater, partial view at logy doesn't come with a discounted price.

The interior design of logy is from the genealogy of the two-Michelin-star restaurant Florilège in Tokyo. However, in Tokyo there isn’t any obstruction of the view of the kitchen. The dining room in Tokyo also has daylight coming through the drapes, making the space more comfortable. The restaurant in Taipei is a weak replica of the restaurant in Tokyo.

The counter at logy is made out of concrete and is a bit wider than it needs to be. This makes the space smaller. The walkway behind my chair feels narrow and uncomfortable especially when someone walks pass me to go to the bathroom. The width of the counter also made the server more distant and lessened the intimacy. The chairs at the counter are comfortable but problematic. When one is sitting at a counter, one’s dining companion is on the side rather than the front. Therefore, the chairs at the counter should allow the diners to easily turn to the sides. This can be done with a swivel chair or a chair without armrests. The chairs at logy are simply too heavy and constrictive, prohibiting the diners from turning to each other for a conversation. Perhaps this is done on purpose so the diners can focus on the kitchen and the food rather than on each other.

Another time I sat in the dining alcove. While the space is more ideal for a large party (four to six persons), it is detached from the open kitchen. The space is a little too narrow for comfort. Whenever a server walked behind me, I felt I had to pull my chair inward to avoid contact. Since the table is made of wood instead of concrete, a grey fuzzy round placemat is used to protect the surface. However, it looks like a big mouse pad and doesn’t look clean. There has to be a more elegant and natural placemat that can be used.

The interior design does not pay much attention to otology. All the surfaces of the restaurant are hard without acoustics treatment. For instance the ceiling is a floating plane with down lights that doesn’t absorb but reflect the sound. For my second meal, the dining party of three adjacent to me was so loud that I felt like I was eating at a night market.

Before any food is served, the server explained the terminology of the name. It is not necessary nor useful. The diner is then handed a card in English explaining the concept of the restaurant. In case the diner doesn’t know the meaning of the suffix-logy, three are listed on the card: 1. [from Greek] the science or study of, 2. [from Latin] spoken or written discourse, and 3. [in Japanese] an alley. I like reading and understanding theories, but I don't really need the card. Being told that "logy [sans hyphen] is the word we have chosen to express Asia’s profound dynamism. The cuisine combines elements of our core concepts – nature, climate, people, religion and food culture – but defies categorization" didn't add to my enjoyment of the food nor the experience with my dining companion. Similar to viewing art at a museum, I don’t need to read the labels on the wall before seeing the art. Let me just enjoy the work. And even the labels in the art museum describe the work rather than some concept that has no specificity. I rather just see a menu.

The card is a bit pretentious but not necessarily precise about the concept; more time should have been spent on etymology. In a couple of instances, the restaurant confuses the suffix -logy with the word logy. A suffix is a morpheme added at the end of a word to form a derivative and -logy denotes a subject of study. On the other hand, the definition of the word logy is: dull and heavy in motion or thought; sluggish. While the restaurant wants to position itself as a “point of cultural connection”, eating at logy is not a cultural event. At times the meal doesn’t denote a type of discourse but rather just feels logy.

There’s only one set menu (besides the vegetarian set) for all the diners. The meal starts with an one-bite amuse-bouche. For my first meal it is a ball-shape amuse that makes an analogy to Lu Ruo Fan (Taiwanese braised pork rice). I don’t really like the amuse nor is it hot enough. My second meal starts with a square piece of squid, with celtuce and fermented radish powder served on a spoon. This is more successful, and I prefer the non-associative nature of the dish.

Second course is a horse mackerel. The first time the fish is hidden under a cookie, which I wish is more crisp or not there at all. The second time the mackerel is hidden under edible flower. The slices of fish is layered with horizontally with thin slices of wax apple and served on whey. At both meals the mackerel is excellent with nice texture and flavors. I don’t understand the idea of always hiding the mackerel at the bottom, but the combinations of the ingredients are interesting.

In my first meal at logy the third course is an eel with banana. The dish is interesting in words but a little dull and heavy in taste. In my second meal eel doesn’t make an appearance and is replaced by a dish of abalone, which is well cooked, light, yet flavorful.

The signature dish of the chef seems to be the steamed egg or chawanmushi, which has remained on the menu since the opening. Served in a dark bowl, the dish is not just an oology, but a layered construction of steamed egg, crab meat, and celery ice cream. A hot broth is pour tableside. This dish is an ology in contrast: temperature, textures, and flavors. Instead of resolving the differences, the chef accentuates them. This is a very successful dish and delightful to eat. However, I don’t want to eat this same dish every time I go to logy.

In my second meal the restaurants serves a pigeon leg. The plating is similar to the mackerel with the protein hidden under chips. I am not sure why there is such an interest in topology. The construction is not really architectural either. Nevertheless, the pigeon is cooked very well and delicious.

The dishes build up to the pièce de résistance: a large format roast. For my first meal, the main course is a roast chicken that is first presented without the thighs and the legs, which just looks sad. I feel like someone ate the rest of my chicken. I think the chef kept my favorite part of the chicken, sot-l'y-laisse, for himself. I understand the thighs and breast have different cooking times, but the chicken is presented before the fish course is served. In other words, there is plenty of time for the kitchen to carve, cook, and rest the chicken. I don’t understand the methodology.

For my second meal the roast is a piece of pork. As with the chicken, the meat is presented to us early in the meal. The server says the pig is specially raised listening to the music by Mozart. I don’t know if the server realizes that Mozart died from eating undercooked pork. I don’t know anything about ethology. Does Mozart’s music really help make the pork taste better? Why not the music by Georg Friederich Händel? Or is the breeder trying to exact revenge for Mozart? Maybe the chef wants us to know that he can cook the pork to the right temperature; not too hard with modern technology. Indeed the pork is roasted nicely and served with cabbage. However, instead of Taiwan, I felt like I was in Alsace.

Based on two visits to logy, I find the main courses are nice but dull. The preparation is almost a bit too straightforward. They don’t have much of a wow factor that one expects, and feel a bit like a home-cooked Thanksgiving roast. Furthermore, since the protein is presented in a large format at the beginning of the meal, there’s a disconnect by the time the diner eats it. The grandeur of the large roast is absent from the small portion on the plate.

The desserts at logy are a bit of a disappointment. The restaurant doesn’t seem to have a dedicated pastry chef. Given the size of the restaurant, it probably doesn’t make economic sense to hire a pastry chef. However, desserts are three of the total ten courses. Dessert is an opportunity to bring some magic to end the meal. But at logy, the desserts feel a bit like an afterthought or just dishes to pad the menu. For instance one of the desserts is a soy milk pudding, with rose jelly, and a strawberry consommé. This is served in the same dark bowl as the steamed egg. The chef really likes the idea of soft custard topped with a sauce, and has to have both savory and sweet versions. This dessert is pleasant, but not too technical nor interesting. With just eight courses, does a diner really need two bowls of soft custard?

I wish the chronology of desserts isn't three consecutive cold dishes. Since every diner eats the same dessert, the restaurant can plan for large format desserts or something warm: soufflé, crêpe, tarte tatin. Why not make some desserts à la minute?

The last dessert (more like a mignardise than a course) of my two meals one year apart is the same: fresh aiyu jelly, coconut, and cocoa juice. It is a refreshing end to the meal, but doesn’t feel special enough. I certainly don’t expect a year after my first meal I would be eating the same thing again. Aiyu is a jelly made from the gel of the seeds of the awkeotsang creeping fig found in Taiwan. The server makes a big deal about the jelly and even shows the fruit on the side in case the the diners haven’t see it before. This is all part of the formula with the idea of the foreign chef discovering and promoting Taiwanese ingredients. Maybe a tourist would find the fruit more interesting. I don’t need the superficial pomology which felt less educational and more patronizing.

I am not sure what is the ideology of logy besides using Taiwanese ingredients to create French-Japanese food. The cooking is precise but some of the dishes are not as flavorful as I imagined. The savory dishes beside the large format roast are the best parts of the meal. They offer some interesting combination of flavors and textures. The chef seems to be more adept and have more ideas with preparing seafood than meats.

When logy first opened the dinner was priced NT$3,500 plus 10% service charge. In my most recent meal, the price has risen to NT$3,750 plus 10% service charge. While there are more expensive restaurants in Taipei, the pricing is not cheap, especially considering the so called ten-course menu is really eight courses with an amuse-bouche and a mignardise. The portion of each dish is small and without many expensive ingredients. In comparison, a meal at the Michelin-one-star Impromptu by Paul Lee, with a similar menu format, is NT$2,580 plus 10% service charge. Is the experience at logy worth fifty percent more than at Impromptu? Not for me.

Restaurant logy is a place with a young chef and a younger staff, cooking for a young crowd. The restaurant is also well suited for tourists seeking a western dining experience with local ingredients. Furthermore, the restaurant is ideally positioned for social media with dishes that are sometimes more photogenic than delicious. Given the limited seating and the local's love for Japanese chefs, a reservation at logy will probably continue to be hard to come by for the foreseeable future. I am not in the demographics for logy and don’t need to go back soon.

Turban de Langoustines en Spaghetti

In 1997 NBC ran an advertisement campaign with the slogan: If you haven’t seen it, it’s new to you. The goal of the commercial was to get viewers to watch the reruns of the fall TV shows in the following summer. This was the pre-streaming era when shows were not on demand. The campaign wasn’t successful but the slogan always stayed with me.

Instead of television, the tagline might be more applicable to food and restaurants. Just like everything in life, food and restaurants are subject to fashion. Marketeers and journalists are constantly promoting new things, which encourages the general public to chase after the latest trends. From fusion to molecular gastronomy to new Nordic, every few years bring a new must-eat creation or a must-travel-to restaurant.

As we seek to taste the latest creations from the celebrity chefs of the moment, we forget there are more dishes from the past that we never had before. For instance, many people of my age or younger never had the classic dishes such as, Poularde en Vessie, Coulibiac, Canard à la Presse, Chartreuse…etc. Instead of foraging, pouring liquid nitrogen, or eating insects, why not seek out the greatest hits of the culinary world?

One of the classics that have fascinated me for the past year is Turban de Langoustines en Spaghetti by Joël Robuchon. My interest in the Turban began shortly after Robuchon's passing last summer. In an interview Robuchon gave last year, he referred to a proverb that said, “when an old man dies, a library burns down”. Robuchon said, “I have seen so many good chefs — some famous, some not — who have gone and, with them, a part of knowledge and tradition is lost and nobody can take it back.”

With his words in my mind, I flipped through the pages of Grand Livre de Cuisine de Joël Robuchon to see how many dishes of his that I have never tried before. The Turban caught my eye because it is not only a dish from Robuchon’s first three-star restaurant, Jamin, but also one of the ten recipes in the Best of Robuchon book. The dish is also included in Simply French, the book on Robuchon by Patricia Wells. Besides the importance of the dish in Robuchon's repertoire, I am also attracted by the architectural shape of the dish, a torus sliced horizontally in half. Or perhaps I am just intrigued by the peculiar nature of the dish: a French chef using an Italian pasta for his signature creation. I tried to find the history of the dish, but I didn’t have much success. Ever since last summer I wondered whether one day I would be able to try the Turban.

Last October when Philippe Braun, one of Robuchon’s longest collaborators came to Taipei to visit, I asked him why doesn’t L’Atelier make the Turban or some of the other classics from the days of Jamin. Braun said the Turban is not for L’Atelier, where the dishes are meant to be a bit more casual and simple. The classic dishes such as the Turban are for the gastronomy restaurants such as the one in Macau, Tokyo, or Las Vegas; they take a lot more work to prepare. However when I looked online at the menus of the three gastronomy restaurants, I didn’t see the Turban either. The Chef de Cuisine of Taipei at the time, Olivier Jean, told me later that the Turban is not on any of the menus at Robuchon restaurants but only made during special dinners.

I didn’t know when the next special dinner would take place in Taipei, thus I thought I would try to make the Turban at home. After all I have the recipe in my collection of cookbooks. In the Best of Robuchon, there are even photos of each step of the preparation. My thinking was since I make architectural models at work, I ought to be able to assemble a half torus at home. By chance I have a few individual savarin molds at home. I bought them on sale a long time ago at JB Prince in New York. They are bigger than the ones Robuchon called for. But I figured the techniques are the same. Instead of a tasting menu portion I would just make a main course.

The first step of the recipe is to brush the insides of the savarin molds with soft butter and then place them in the fridge to firm up. In the meantime boil a pot of water to par cook the spaghetti for about six minutes. Afterwards rinse the pasta under cold water, drain, and set aside; cover the pasta with plastic wrap to prevent them from drying out. Then line the inside of the mold with a single strand of spaghetti starting at the bottom. The process of lining the mold is not easy with my large hands. I couldn’t quite lasso the spaghetti into the mold so I had to use my two hands to slowly layer and pack the spaghetti in. While it is harder than I imagined, it is definitely doable. Once the mold is completely lined with spaghetti, they go back into the fridge to be chilled.

As the molds are being chilled, I made the mousse. Instead of langoustine which is hard to source, I used shrimp. Simply brush the shrimp with soft butter and blend them with cream in a food processor. Once a mousse-like texture is achieved, brush the the mousse onto the chilled spaghetti in the mold. Then put the deveined and shelled shrimps in the mold. Cover the molds with a buttered aluminum foil and return the molds to the refrigerator again.

The recipe is tedious, but many of the steps can be done separately and beforehand. When it is time to serve the dish, simply take the molds out of the fridge and place them in a steamer and steam for around three minutes. Then quickly remove the aluminum foil and unmold onto a plate. When the turban of spaghetti is unmolded it is quite a sight. I cannot help but marvel at the dish. I don’t know what inspired Robuchon to line a savarin mould with spaghetti strands. It’s just an incredible creation. I asked my two daughters to try the dish and they loved it. Will they remember the dish when they grow older, I don’t know. Unlike me who has met Robuchon, they are are even further removed from the dish. I hope they will learn to love the classics.

Last March the team of chefs from the Robuchon group, headed by Robuchon’s righthand man Eric Bouchenoire, came to Taipei for their annual visit. They prepared a special dinner honoring Robuchon’s legacy. One of the dishes Bouchenoire chose to make was the Turban of Spaghetti. I finally had a chance to eat the dish. He said good langoustine wasn’t available so the filling was made with scallop instead. Nevertheless the dish was everything that I expected and more. There’s a delicacy to the flavors behind the architectural construction of the dish. The sauce for the dish was delicious, full of umami, or as the Chinese would say, xian-wei. The slices of truffle elevated the dish to another level. It was perfect.

After the dinner, I showed Bouchenoire the picture of my attempt at making the Turban. He looked closely and said it was good but I used too much butter. I didn’t think there was ever the possibility of too much butter in French food. I did use a lot of butter because I was afraid the spaghetti wouldn’t unmold properly. Bouchenoire said too much butter may make the spaghetti less stable. I know the reality is even with enough practice I probably cannot make the Turban as well as the restaurant. And I can make two or four nice turbans at a time, it is hard for me to imagine making 50 of them perfectly under time pressure like at the restaurant.

Looking at and eating the Turban I could feel Robuchon’s presence. While he may be gone, he has passed on his knowledge to his numerous collaborators. However, it is not enough to just retain the knowledge. For Robuchon’s DNA to truly live on, the diners need to demand to eat the classic dishes at the restaurants. We need to realize that we always stand in a timeline where the past is farther away from us than the future. The future may be unclear, however, vast parts of the past are just as fuzzy. While it is interesting to be part of the experimentation of the present, a classic is actually an experiment in the past that worked and lasted. If you never had it, it's new to you.