Le Sputnik: Forget Not Pardon.
Le Sputnik, 7 Chome-9-９ Roppongi, Minato, Tokyo, Japan / 29 мая 2018
stunning compound meal, french and japanese at the same time, like a bilingual child. and it comes together with absolutely, totally odd service. laughably – half-assed and messed up!
there was a feeling that we’re at a bachelor party of a talented slob. he’s crazy about flavors, textures, technics, and he’s incredibly successful with that. and dirty socks covering with duckweed on the sofa and a bra of his ex-girlfriend dangling from the chandelier doesn’t bother him at all.
obviously, our quartet wasn’t less nuts. so:
– left without wine pairing, eventually, we just poured wine from the bottles forgotten on our table by waiters;
– not getting someone to clean away flocks of crumbs, we swept them into napkins on our own;
– not being able to explain ourselves either verbally or by gestures, we squeezed out of japanese google translator something that made other 8 guests in the restaurant choke with laughter.
all we wanted was just to find out how many courses we should expect ‘cause they had no menu. they announced 11 courses. but the chef was on fire. so we got two various sets instead of one and tried 15 various dishes. and each of them was mercilessly good.
i’m a nerd, though, i couldn’t see any order in the plot of the set: “misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms” in the version of #i-put-my-best-clothes-all-at-once”. but it really was the best clothes. no fooling around and with indispensable curtsey towards locality and seasonality.
for instance, foie gras mousse with dill and apples, weightless and dense simultaneously, seemed more of a dessert than a snack. far from simple and at the same time absolutely comprehensible. actually, i got sorta short circuit from the thing: the combination of flavors and aromas immediately sent me 35 years back to a vegetable garden of my grandma zoe, into a morning. i don’t know why. bam! you’re 7, you’re picking currant right from a bush into a bucket on your neck, and meanwhile eating up the environment. and among the environment there happen to be a young dill head and an underripe apple.
or another thing: a crazy fern nest, deep-fried, crunchy, salty – an excellent appetizer for a company, it awakens both receptors and conversations, though not like subtle iphone-ish purring, but as an unquestionable toll a warm balmy ship’s bell. the same babylon from the technical point of view, but it can’t be clearer – friends, football or movies; lots of fizzy sparkling one. and with hands! with hands! instead of fries and chips.
and crepes?! all these crepes, sweet and with vanilla ice cream on top, you know-get it? they also have it. but it’s different. a laced buckwheat crepe with mushrooms and poached egg inside. and with truffle ice cream. and please, repeat this crepe after a dessert. yes, after a dessert. and let my ass grow. yes, repeat! oh yes. please! we’re flying away in ten hours! oh pleaaaaaassssse, repeat this narcotic crepe. it’ll be my breakfast.
the text’s rolling and rolling like green buns from narisawa. 02:45 of flight still left to moscow. if it goes on rolling, i’ll loose my readers’ retention. and i feel good inside this retention as if wrapped in a blanket or in gumshoes in the forest, if you’re walking upon the dew after wild strawberries. i’ll force myself to finish the text. wild strawberries with dew for dessert.