Oh, you mean the foam chef.” That’s how friends reacted when I mentioned that I was going to a dinner at which Ferrán Adrià, the idol of young chefs around the world, would for the first time dine at Minibar, a six-seat restaurant opened by his chief disciple in the United States—José Andrés, a successful restaurateur in Washington, D.C. El Bulli, Adrià’s restaurant in northern Spain, has been dazzling chefs since Adrià began a course of wild experimentation, in the late 1980s. Making the twisty two-hour drive from Barcelona for a dinner that lasts well into the wee hours has become a notch on every foodie’s belt—perhaps the notch, given the international derby to get reservations (the restaurant is open only six months a year).
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Adrià was recently the recipient of a tribute dinner in Miami, where some of the country’s best-known chefs, including Thomas Keller, of French Laundry and Per Se, and Nobu Matsuhisa, of the many Nobus around the world, cooked dishes inspired by his radical innovation. The Washington dinner was his expression of solidarity with a cook who apprenticed with him starting at age sixteen (at the time Adrià was just beginning to veer from traditional Catalonian cuisine) and made his name and fortune in America.
Radical innovation in cuisine has always gone clear against my grain. Although I had met Adrià at various events sponsored by Slow Food, and understood from his showing up that he valued the farmers and food traditions the group works to save, I had little interest in exploring his food. This could have dated from the initial, and lasting, trauma of a warm, fawn-colored savory foam presented at the side of an unsuspecting piece of fish at Restaurant Bouley, ten years ago in New York. Soon chefs inspired by Adrià’s relatively low-tech method of instant flavor delivery were pureeing anything and everything and loading it into a spritzer. Foams where you least expected them, lurid extrusions, and futuristic, unrecognizable food spread in waves across the tables of the country’s most ambitious restaurants. My mind, and my stomach, were sealed when a dimpled plastic tray appeared at a dead-chic Boston restaurant before the meal, holding beige bouffant sticks of what turned out to be liver-flavored cotton candy.