"Sorry. Those all go to L'Etoile."

That's the answer I got this weekend when I asked if it would be possible to get any bone-in ribeye from Fountain Praire Farms. "All of our best cuts go to L'Etoile."

Like Jessica Simpson faced by some particularly complex long division, my initial reaction was one of terror and panic. How could this be? Where else could I get such an incredibly perfect steak? Would I be forced to happily throw away my apartment and life savings due to more trips to L'Etoile than I could possibly afford? Most importantly: why did I not know this already?

As is so often the case, my horror quickly turned to outrage.

What the hell, Fountain Prairie Farms? A little praise from the New York Times, and three years later you're too good for your adoring fans, the teeming, unwashed masses of steak-purchasing humanity? Did you think that we wouldn't notice? That we wouldn't want the best cuts from the best producers (i.e. you)? That we would assume your cattle were mysteriously born without longissimus dorsi muscles? Sure, you can try to placate us with flank steak. And it's true that the outside skirt I bought (prepared in a slight variant of this recipe I stole from Bouchon) was good--superb, even--but it wasn't the same.

Et tu, Tory Miller? It's not enough that you cook better than me, have more awards, and run what is quite possibly the best kicthen in the state. Now you have to take all of the best steak, too? Steak is the last bastion of the lazy home cook. It's a safe haven for us, when we don't have time to make Cassoulet, when we don't have three varieties of Hen-of-the-Woods for a wild mushroom salad, when we don't have the skill to make poached lobster with saffron tapioca and Gewürztraminer foam. A quick sear over a high flame, maybe a little Béarnaise sauce or compund butter, and even Thomas Keller couldn't complain (well, at least unless you were trying to serve it in one of his restaurants). And now, Chef, you take our steak frites? For shame, sir.

But, like an aging Marlon Brando on a private Tahitian island, I am a reasonable man. There will be no retaliation. I do, however, require justice. From Fountain Prairie, I demand but a single steer. If the National Geographic Channel is to be believed, this is a mere pittance, and a generous offer as recompense for my slighted honor. (And make sure he likes chickens; the balcony's pretty small.)

L'Etoile, meanwhile--no doubt anticipating a backlash against their loathsome scrumptiousness hoarding--has already scheduled a Rhône wine dinner featuring Châteauneuf-du-Pape for my birthday on December 12. And that's a good first step. A lifetime supply of Katie's ambrosius pastries from Café Soleil should round out the deal nicely.

In the meantime? Oh, I'll still buy Fountain Prairie's beef. I'll still visit L'Etoile. And I'll still take advantage of their $35 early week tasting menu. But each bite will taste like ashes. Delicious, delicious ashes.

Le Roi est mort. Vive le Roi!

This weekend is always a disappointing one for the Madison foodie. It marks the time that the Farmer's Market shrinks down, moves inside, and enters into a semi-torporous state, not to return to its full glory until rhubarb magically transforms into asparagus. The Capitol Square would be a little gloomier--sure, L'Etoile and Harvest would still be there, of course, and Cafe Soleil and Marigold would still offer the best breakfasts and pastries in town.

But what of the cook? The entertainer? They remember winters past, dark times of want, and excessive supermarket shopping. And my God, what of the cheese?

Thanks to Fromagination, this winter will be a little warmer than last. I first visited the Carrol Street boutique at its opening, but reserved any commentary until I could see their selection of imported cheeses, which arrived about a week ago. As I walked in the door, the name had put me on my guard. I was apprehensive that it might serve as a pretentious echo of the tourist-friendly shops that peddle cheese hats to football fans on the weekend. Suffice it to say my worries were grossly unfounded.

I could reflect on the pleasant, upscale-retro ambiance, or the fact that the shop espouses a number of earth-friendly policies, but that would detract from the food. (I won't, however, neglect to mention that the shop's flat screen was playing an episode of The French Chef, always a good sign.)

Their cheeses have been selected with a connoisseur's palate and a clear love of their product. Never mind that it's been near impossible to find quality Wisconsin cheese outside of the Farmer's Market itself; Fromagination is not only the first store to offer a wide selection of the artisanal Wisconsin cheeses, they've also managed to narrow them down to the crème de la crème.

Hook's superlative, incredibly sharp 10 year cheddar? It's there, alongside the Five Year. Fantôme Farm's incredible, rich, ash-dusted Moreso? There, as is their chevre. Carr Valley's Cave Aged Marisa? Bleu Mont's Bandaged Cheddar? Uplands' Pleasant Ridge Reserve? They're all there.

The selection of imports is nearly as impressive. There is, of course, gorgonzola and parmigiano reggiano from Italy, cheddar and Stilton from England, Brie and Camembert from France. More surprising are entries like the semi-soft Chimay Grand Cru, a Cambozola (a triple cream blue crossed with Brie), and--oh baby--mozzarella di buffala.

And the staff knows their stuff. On a busy Friday evening, a transplanted québécoise offered me a sample of the aforementioned 10 Year and extolled with me the virtues of crystalline cheddar; I agreed, and said she had to try the 12. Later, I asked about Bries, and was happily surprised when another employee pointed out the amazing Rouzaire Fromage de Meaux that I had missed.

Even the little touches are done perfectly. Wine, beer, and other accompaniments are present, as is a small but respectable selection of charcuterie. While this is to be expected, their careful selection is not. The meats are well chosen, and their baguettes aren't just baguette's--they're from Cafe Soleil, easily the best in the city and probably the best in the state. (Add guanciale, guys, and you'll have to drag me bodily from the store.)

Any Madisonian serious about food owes it to him or herself to visit this shop. They're socially conscious, clearly passionate, and provide an amazing depth and breadth of quality product. In short, Fromagination is easily one of the best things to happen to Madison's culinary scene this year.

On foie

Several months ago at a party, after a few too many glasses of wine, it seemed a good idea to make small talk with a young woman by launching into a tirade against Charlie Trotter's stance on foie gras. The man is, of course, something of a legend in the non-coastal culinary world that is Midwest. He's easily one of the most acclaimed chefs in our little corner of the world--the author of 14 books and an 8-time Beard Award winner--which is why it was so surprising that, in 2002, he decided to stop serving the drool-inducing liver at his flagship restaurant. It's in part because of this that, by the time Chicago decided to ban the sale of foie in 2006, Trotter had become the de facto poster boy of the movement. And it was for this that I railed against him.

(Never mind the hypocrisy of making one's living by selling dead--albeit delicious--animals, while claiming the moral high ground over a fringe, luxury item. Of course, carnivorous legislators aren't immune, either. While I'm not supposing a tautology of moral equivalence, it’s easier to engage in ethical masturbation by taking on the three, small American producers of a "cruel" product you probably don't eat anyway than it is to take on the National Cattlemen's Beef Association and admit that hamburgers come from similarly gruesome origins.)

Foie gras has been the subject of much discussion over the last few years, and has long been a target of animal rights activists: its production involves slaughtering force-fed ducks and geese for their engorged livers. There is, of course, a caveat: like bacon, oysters, truffles, or chocolate, foie gras is fucking amazing.

I remember, as a freshman at the UW, meeting Ingrid Newkirk, president of PETA and crazy person. (Further evidence of insanity can be found, for instance, here, here, or here.) The thing is, she didn't seem so crazy at the time. In fact, the films they'd shown were frightening. Among other horrors that would make Takashi Miike blach, they showed pictures of ducks being force-fed by steel tubes which sometimes gashed viciously through their throats.

Never mind that the physiology of these birds' livers and throats are inherently different than those of mammals (and never mind that my impressionable young mind hadn't yet picked up on the insanity). The images were powerful.

That's why it's good to see that Bob del Grosso, of the wonderfully named A Hunger Artist, has posted a great slideshow showing his recent trip to Hudson Valley Foie Gras, a name that will likely be familiar to foodies and animal rights activists alike. It is, I think, important for today's aspiring freshman vegan to see that the reality, at least for the producer whose foie we're likeliest to see in Madison, is far from the Texas Chain Saw-style horror portrayed by PETA and those who subscribe to their claims. Even the most jaded, nihilistic sensualist will probably find a little comfort in it.

And the girl at the party? Apparently she wasn't turned on by a drunken, vitriolic defense of gavage. It was never meant to be.

Restaurant Review: El Pescador

There's no two ways about it. The rare Kumamoto oyster, halibut special, or quality fish fry aside, Madison is woefully bereft of good seafood. Edible ocean and shellfish can be difficult to find for under $30 a plate, and are often disappointing even at those rarefied prices. It is likely because of this void that, as the air crisps and the leaves turn throughout our Midwestern city, a Mexican seafood restaurant has improbably become one of the most talked about restaurants in town.

For the most part, El Pescador lives up to its quickly garnered reputation as a reasonably priced destination for good seafood, but locals might not want to trade in their sausage and sauerkraut for ceviche and camarones just yet.

The environment does little to foster confidence. Just inside, an enormous Corona advertisement hangs conspicuously from a fish net. It's an off-putting first impression, and looks uncomfortably close to what I might imagine from a Cinco de Mayo celebration at Red Lobster. Other features of the high-ceilinged dining room are several paintings of fishing boats, various nautical bric-a-brac, and a whole lot of empty space. One neither expects nor desires white tablecloths, of course, but something a little closer to Laredo's would go a long way. At that Madison staple, the festively painted murals are inauthentic, but they do at least evoke the feel of a Mexican restaurant, norteamericano style. There, the atmosphere is one of enthusiasm that is, at worst, amusingly kitchy. At El Pescador, the environment is neither authentic nor enthusiastic. The sparse trappings come off as lazy.

Service is casual and inconsistent. During my first visit on a slow weekday evening, there was no need to turn our table, but I still felt rushed on both drink and food orders. While our server answered questions about the menu, it seemed almost a burden, and he was neither particularly personable nor professional. Another server was much friendlier and more attentive; she became even more amiable when my companion and I began to speak with her in Spanish. A visit on a busier evening offered a different waiter and no questions about the menu, but the same curt service of the first. I was collectively disappointed. Other casual Mexican restaurants try harder: Laredo's is consistently spirited, Taqueria Guadalajara personal and sincere.

My hopes, then, weren't terribly high as I perused the list of Margaritas and Mexican beers and sampled the obligatory (and obligatory tasting) chips and salsa. Of course, the praise being heaped upon El Pescador has had little to do with service or decor, and the restaurant's food shows that the kitchen shares little of the dining room's apathy.

Arroz al pescador, a mildly spicy rice plate featuring several types of seafood, was a strong showcase for their work. My first taste was a scallop, a litmus test of a mollusk that can be rendered soapy and inedible by improper storage or rubbery and unappealing by overcooking. I took a bite. The scallop was moist and tender, and its sweetness was there beneath the mild spiciness of the rice. This was a good sign.

The clams avoided similar pitfalls, and I also enjoyed several generously sized shrimp, properly cooked and seasoned. Their full flavor was nicely accented by the dish's spice, and their firm, fleshy texture was a good counterpoint to the rice. The mussels stood out in particular. Large, succulent, and perfectly cooked, these unadorned bivalves sung in their shells. Or they would have, had I not been so busy devouring them. While the seafood was terrific, the rice was flavorful but mostly superfluous. With the exception of the shrimp, the other mariscos would have been just as delicious alone, and it is a pity that the complete dish never became more than the sum of its parts. Nonetheless, the straightforward dish was altogether successful.

The caldo siete mares shared the rice's focus. Here, the clams, scallops, calamari, and shrimp were joined by fish and crab legs in an enormous bowl, punctuated by a claw grasping a lime wedge . The flavors married well in the rich, spiced seafood broth, and cilantro added a touch of freshness. Unfortunately, whether due to the night of my visit or the preparation, the seafood here wasn't as vibrant as it had been in the arroz. I also didn't enjoy having to crack open soup-drenched crab legs to access the meat inside.

An order of enchiladas Campeche was pleasant if forgettable. The rich flavors were there, balanced by the bite of raw red onion and the mild sweetness of the salsa, but the exuberant freshness of the arroz didn't assert itself here, either. I again drew the inevitable crosstown comparison: the enchiladas and accompanying refried beans were similar to their counterparts at Laredo's.

Meat and chicken are represented as well, of course, in fajitas, tacos, and other staples, though vegetarians should note that their choices will be limited. A chicken burrito and meatless taco salad were unremarkable but fine. Neither was as good as the seafood dishes, but the choices were there.

Taken together, the restaurant's preparations are respectable, and the prices, hovering around $10 for most entrees, are generally quite reasonable (though several dishes cost a good deal more). More importantly, the kitchen clearly understands and respects working with quality ingredients, something unmistakable in their arroz al pescador. But in the end this is a good restaurant, not a remarkable one. If you've been craving Mexican cuisine featuring quality seafood at a reasonable price, El Pescador will certainly fill that niche. Just don't expect a revelation.

El Pescador
2810 East Washington Avenue; (608) 277-1055
*
Price: $-$$
Atmosphere: Sparse, casual, and nautically themed. Moderate to loud sound level.
Beverages: Domestic and imported beers; margaritas.
Suggestions: Arroz al pescador, seafood.
Hours: Opens 11 a.m. Monday through Thursday and 10 a.m. Friday through Sunday. Closes at 9 p.m. Sunday through Thursday, and 10 p.m. Friday and Saturday.
Reservations: Not accepted.
What ratings mean: Stars indicate overall impressions of a restaurant, rated from zero to four, with price taken into account. Zero stars indicate a restaurant that is not recommended, while four stars indicate an outstanding restaurant, worthy of at least regional attention.
Prices range from $ to $$$$.

Halloween Recipes That Don't Suck

Halloween, which I gratuitously consider to last the entire month of October, is one of my favorite times of year. The weather is crisp and temperate, there's cider and chocolate on the table, and murder and mayhem in the air. It's the perfect time to picnic in the graveyard, ignore your nascent food blog for two weeks, or go hitchhiking, only to off the unsuspecting fools who picked you up.

Alternately, you could invite friends over for a Halloween dinner party, complete with horrifying amuses-gueules, nightmarishly macabre microgreens, and diabolical vampire squab.

But let's face it. The vast majority of Halloween recipes and dinner party ideas suck. We're talking Sandra Lee's Gummy Worm Cupcakes suck. Don't believe me? Click here, here, or (if you dare) here.

While autumn offers some great seasonal cuisine, it tends to be associated with Thanksgiving, which is only horrifying if you're on the smallpox end of Manifest Destiny. As such, the sad truth is that most Halloween ideas stray into idiotically themed items evocative of a child's party or a drunken housewife's "tablescape." And while I enjoy an awful pun as much as anyone, goulash (unless comprised of actual ghouls) and deviled eggs (unless obtained via an actual contract with Satan) are a little too Rachaelian in their inane cutesiness.

Still, I won't pass out on an opportunity for food and the macabre to meet. Preferably at my place. As such, I've put together a Halloween menu that should be elegant enough to please my guests, cheap enough to make for a crowd, and diabolical enough not to be mistaken for anything remotely thankful. (The candy course is not optional.)

A Halloween Menu That Mercifully Avoids Descriptors Like Ghoulish or Frighteningly Delicious
Soup:
Pumpkin Chestnut Bisque (Zach Beaver, Peter Schears Restaurant, San Diego)
(Serves 50)

1 (6-pound) can pure pumpkin
5 cups water
1/4 cup cinnamon
3 tablespoons nutmeg
1 1/2 pounds brown sugar
1/2 cup honey
1/2 pound chestnuts, peeled and roasted in oven at 350 degrees until golden brown
1 quart heavy cream

Mix pumpkin, water, spices, sugar and honey in large stockpot. In saucepan, bring heavy cream to light boil. Add roasted chestnuts. After simmering for 5 minutes, put mixture into food processor and puree until it becomes a paste. Combine chestnut paste with pumpkin mixture and simmer for 20 to 25 minutes.

Entree:
Gamberoni alla Diavola (adopted from Mussels alla Diavola, Gourmet)

12 garlic cloves, minced (about 1/3 cup)
1 1/2 teaspoons dried hot red pepper flakes
1/2 cup olive oil
1 tablespoon butter
1 (28-ounce) can whole tomatoes in puree
2 tablespoons tomato paste
2 teaspoons dried oregano, crumbled
1 1/2 tablespoon fresh basil, chiffonade
1/4 cup drained bottled capers (about 1 1/4 ounces)
1/2 cup kalamata or other brine-cured black olives (about 3 ounces), pitted and chopped
1/3 cup dry red wine
1/2 pound dried sun-dried tomato linguine
1/2 pound squid ink linguine
3 large shrimp, cleaned
Chives, for garnish

Season shrimp and cook in butter and two tablespoons oil. Remove shrimp and add remaining oil, garlic and red pepper flakes in oil in a deep 12-inch heavy skillet over moderate heat, stirring, until fragrant but not browned, about 2 more minutes. Add tomatoes with puree, tomato paste, herbs, capers, olives, and wine and simmer, uncovered, stirring occasionally and breaking up tomatoes, until sauce is thick, about 15 minutes.

Cook linguine in a 6 to 8-quart pot of boiling salted water until al dente, then drain in a colander.

Serve linguine with shrimp and sauce, and garnish with chives.

Dessert:
Pumpkin Creme Brulee (CIA, via Gourmet)
1 quart heavy cream
2 vanilla beans (split)
5 ounces sugar
20 egg yolks (beaten)
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon allspice
1/4 teaspoon powdered ginger

1 pint pumpkin purée

1 pint (or as needed) sugar (for tops)

Combine the heavy cream, vanilla, and half the sugar, bring to a boil.

Combine the egg yolks and remaining sugar.

Add 1/3 of the hot liquid to the egg mixture, stir constantly.

Add the egg yolk mixture to the remaining hot cream, stir constantly. Stir in the cinnamon, allspice, and ginger.

Fold in the pumpkin purée.

Fill buttered oval ramekins 7/8 full, place in a waterbath.

Bake in a 325°F (160°C) oven until just barely set, cool 30 minutes, chill overnight.

Cover the surface of each custard with 1/8-inch of sugar, set ramekins in a hotel pan, surround with ice.

Carmelize sugar under the broiler or with a torch

Candy:
Old-Fashioned Peanut Brittle (Bon Appetit)
3 cups sugar
2 cups water
3/4 cup light corn syrup
3/4 cup dark corn syrup
4 cups coarsely chopped salted roasted peanuts
2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter
1 tablespoon baking soda
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Butter 2 heavy large baking sheets. Stir first 4 ingredients in heavy large saucepan over medium heat until sugar dissolves. Increase heat to high and boil without stirring until candy thermometer registers 260°F., about 40 minutes. Reduce heat to medium-low. Mix in peanuts and butter and cook until thermometer registers 295°F., stirring constantly, about 15 minutes. Add baking soda and vanilla and stir briskly (mixture will foam up). Immediately pour out onto prepared baking sheets, dividing evenly. Spread out brittle as thinly as possible. Let stand until cold and hard. Break brittle into pieces.

Beverages:
Those in dire need of extremely overt theme can find it in the beverage department. Appropriate beers include Dogfish Head's Punkin' Ale, and Rogue's Dead Guy Ale, a decent German-style Maibock. Skip the sub-$10 wines that tend to pop up around this time of year and investigate the year-long evil Zinfandel market--Bonny Doon's Cardinal Zin is pleasant at around $20, and 7 Deadly Zins is big, fruity, and drinkable at around $14.


Please. Be Dario Argento, not Uwe Boll. Choose passion and artistry over the mediocrity of the lowest common denominator. The next time you watch a bobblehead on television form a mummy out of cheese or cut a bat from a slice of Wonder Bread, flip over to Soylent Green or get in the kitchen. You can do better.

Allez cuisine!

The premiere of Next Iron Chef brought some wildly different results for my ponies, John Besh and odds-on favorite Traci des Jardins. While Chef Besh earned top accolades for his chocolate catfish truffles, Chef des Jardins was the first to be eliminated, vanquished by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, overwrought metaphor, and a salmon roe dessert salad.

The challenges were good ones, difficult without being impossible, and particularly suited to the specific demands placed on an Iron Chef versus those of being a successful executive chef and restaurateur. One notes that the "your purveyor didn't get you that shipment of escarole, your sous chef is screwing a waitress in the walk-in, and, oh yeah, the toilet's overflowing" challenge was appropriately, if unfortunately, absent.

The prep challenge was a good test of basic skills, and des Jardins said what I'm sure most of the chefs were thinking: I hope I can still do this stuff. And for the most part, they could. Besh was impressive, and it was hard not to be caught up in Morou's enthusiasm. Where a Food Network talking head would have panicked, he did the chefly thing and cooked on, bleeding in his food all the while. This, of course, begs the question: when's the pay per view "Sandra Lee, Rachael Ray, and Ingrid Hoffmann Play With Sharp Knives" special?

The second challenge was a good idea that tested a format specific skill while giving a knowing wink to longtime fans. Now, normally I would be among the first to call bullshit on a zany protein pastry challenge--as most chefs will be sure to tell you, they aren't pâtissiers. But unlike an ordinary, carbon-based chef, Iron Chefs are built on sterner stuff: cured plum jelly with umeboshi, turkey and bourbon sorbet, swallow's nest ice cream. A few of the chefs embraced their ferrous aspirations. Besh, of course, excelled with a difficult ingredient that was indicative of his New Orleans style. Better yet, offal aficionado Chris Cosentino used his advantage to select -- oh baby -- tripe. Impressively, his fried honeycomb tripe panzanella actually sounded pretty good. (If this whole Iron Chef gig doesn't work out, maybe Cosentino will follow in Tyler Florence's steps. I expect to see that panzanella at Cheesecake Factory or TGI Friday's next spring.)



Chef des Jardins shouldn't feel too bad. Iron Chef Hiroyuki Sakai was notoriously foiled by his trout ice cream, and her own victory over Iron Chef Mario Batali came in no small part due to his woefully misguided parfait of shrimp remoulade. Truly the savory dessert is the hobgoblin of many a humbled Kitchen Stadium contestant.

I did take minor issue with the fact that the kitchen seemed unprepared for the chefs -- while succeeding as a chef demands the ability to adapt to adverse situations, there were enough artificial roadblocks in place that Chef Symon shouldn't have had to deal with a forty degree freezer midway through a competition. Unlike the appropriately weird restrictions of the task, an Iron Chef shouldn't have to deal with a nonfunctional work environment.

Altogether, I found the program entertaining, even if this was due in part to the skill disparity of the contestants here and those on The Next Food Network Star. As expected, there was a lot of talent on display, and it was fun to imagine Rory struggling to puzzle her way through opening an oyster or coconut. It was also enjoyable to see the ostentatious presentation so beloved to Iron Chef fans in the introductory flourishes of the Chairman. On the other hand, that same pageantry felt a bit peculiar within the context of what was, aside from the caliber of contestant, a fairly typical cooking competition. And indeed, the fact that Food Network essentially duplicated Top Chef's model of a quick test followed by an elimination challenge was itself disappointing. Worst of all, though, there wasn't enough focus on the food. Granted, there's only so much that can be done in a limited time frame with eight contestants, but I'd prefer more emphasis on the dishes and less on coconut technique; that virtually no time was given to the contestants' free form desserts is real pity.

On the competitive front, it was sad to see Traci go so early, but of course there's no Colombe or Mikey to throw into the grinder on this program. It was also good to see Ruhlman chew out his Cleveland homeboy Mike Symon for something that only he would know. Sanchez might not be long for the program, either; the editors, at least, would have us believe he's buckling. On the positive side, Jill Davie cooks well and has real charisma--the fact that she said (and I gratuitously paraphrase) "screw Michelin stars; it's every cook's dream to become an Iron Chef" without it sounding entirely laughable is some testament to her charm. Finally, it's going to be hard not to fall in love with Cosentino -- I know he's going to take the tripe for his dessert, but I still can't help cheer the audacity when he does.

$10.99 offal menu, Friday's. Don't let Olive Garden beat you to it.

And the Top Chef is...

Congratulations, Hung! More so than any contestant in three seasons, you deserve to be called Top Chef.

It pained me, before the decision was read, to see that only 19% of the viewers thought that Hung should win. For me, it was a no brainer. And, despite the editing shenanigans, I think it was for the judges, too. Casey's been spot on for most of the competition, and the flavors she's brought to the table have been wonderful. Dale really brought his A game over the last few weeks, and has put together a few fabulous sounding dishes. Moreover, he's been fantastically entertaining. But only Hung has shown a true mastery of cookery week after week, and only Hung was able to consistently impress some of the most discriminating names in the business. When the words "three-star Michelin" left Todd English's lips I gasped, knowing that it was over--and, I bet the contestants did, too.

The guy from the early episodes? The one the Bravo execs and editing room tried to portray as a soulless, villainous snake? The guy who could cook but not take criticism? A distant memory.

Fuck whatshername from Miami and that Bombay Sapphire dude. Seeing Hung's puppy dog eyes as he cooked for Eric Ripert or duplicated a dish from Le Cirque was enough for me--and that's to say nothing of his playful joy in creating a smurf village out of children's breakfast cereal. One doesn't acquire knife skills that stun Tom Colicchio by accident; he acquires them through years of hard work and love. When Hung says, early in the series, "this isn't the kind of food that I cook," he's saying that he cares passionately about making really excellent food, and couldn't care less if some company shill thinks it goes well with his gin-o-colada du jour. That is a Top Chef.

On to the menus!

The first courses all seemed wonderful to me. I'm a sucker for foie gras, and Dale's with ras el hanout gastrique looked a little messy but sounded flavorful. Too rich too soon? Probably, but I'm not one to complain about a preponderance of foie. Casey also offered the sublime liver, hers with apple, but, more interestingly, paired with a cinnamon scented scallop. Like so much of her work, this has really piqued my interest, and I love the idea of the creamy foie with the sweet, tart apples, leading into the bitter cinnamon and succulent scallop. Unfortunately, I can also imagine how salmon roe would cut through the elegance of this dish. Still, I'm stealing the rest of the idea. Hung's Hamachi fish and chips looked sublime: light and elegant, jaw-droppingly beautiful, and playful yet refined. A perfect starter.

All of the second courses sounded good, too, but none of them particularly stood out. Casey's dish sounded flavorful, and the caviar here seemed better placed than the roe in her first course. It didn't wow me, but did sound delicious. The grapes with Dale's scallop seemed a bit much--I find them very assertive, and I prefer scallop with a lighter accompaniment, like the sweet corn that Dale also used--but the judges loved it, so it would be something to taste. Hung's dish, again, sounded magnificent, a controlled crescendo in his beautifully orchestrated meal. The torturous part is that I know I couldn't pull it off if I tried.

Casey's third dish was a shame, because every good-hearted person likes pork belly. The peach seemed a nice touch, and I think it sounded close to a very good dish. Dale's, on the other hand, was all over the place. Gnocchi, lobster, mushrooms ... and curry? It just seemed a bit confused. When Hung's plate came out, I remarked "That looks amazing." The dish sounded absolutely fantastic. When Michelle Berstein said she was jealous and Todd English dropped the M-bomb, I knew it was. I want to eat Hung's food.

Dale's final course looked and sounded great. I was glad to have him there, an unabashed flatlander representing for the Midwest. I would order that lamb any day of the week. Casey, unfortunately, was having an off day and didn't adapt well to the twist. The sirloin Howie cooked for her looked good, but paled compared to Dale's dish. Then there was Hung. Like his runner-up earlier in the season, Hung recognized that dessert, while not a requirement of the competition, is a requirement of a complete dining experience--and unlike Dale's pineapple, Hung's dish was a classic that actually tasted good. Chef Colicchio remarked that it didn't follow the progression, but I must disagree.

Imagining myself in a happy food coma, tasting the richness of chocolate cake, sipping coffee, and reflecting on the wonderful meal that came before, it seems the perfect, comforting finale to an exquisite dinner. It's the warm and gooey heart of an elegant meal, and it's the soul of a perfect technician who, when he's not running into truffle oil or eviscerating chickens--or perhaps especially when he is--just loves to cook.