The Pursuit of Perfection
And the best piece of duck I ever had.
“We define excellence as the culmination of thousands of details executed perfectly. We understand that true perfection is unattainable. But rather than be discouraged by that fact, we find inspiration in getting as close as possible.”
— Daniel Humm and Will Guidara, Eleven Madison Park Cookbook
I’ve been obsessed with this idea for a while. The idea that there is such a thing as perfect food, has been in my thoughts since the first time I saw the original Iron Chef. These two people, battling it out with these crazy ingredients, flying at light speed to create something unique. Watching the judges exclaim (or rather politely nod and congratulate the chefs), I was struck by how complex everything was, how much effort went into every single detail of the dishes. I thought, “I hope to taste something that good, that perfect some day”.
I did not grow up eating ‘fancy’ food. My parents both work[ed] (hard) and even without talking about the fact that my Mom is a pescetarian (read: extremely picky eater), we ate very simply. Pasta (sauce, white or red?), takeout Chinese (beef and broccoli, spare ribs). We weren’t poor, we were just busy, and though we all loved food, the pretensions of fine dining were always too much for the family.
And then I met her. Even before she was my wife, even before she was my girlfriend, she was teaching me about the finer things. She didn’t come from money, but she certainly came from somewhere completely different. The first time I had dinner at her parents house. The table was set, the lights were dimmed, there were candles, soft music. There were two bottles of wine, there was quiet conversation. This was civilized. It was refined. And they did this every night. Split-screen to a typical Weds evening in Brooklyn — The TV on (the Mets), the Radio on (NPR), food arrayed around the table in our apartment’s kitchen, watching the game or trying to yell over it, my dad in cutoff jeans and a ripped t-shirt (“house clothes”). I was out of my element in “civilization”, and she showed me the way.
When we eventually moved to Brooklyn together, and I eventually left my failing startup and started making some decent money, I had my first tasting menu.
I remember it vividly. It was at the Modern. I had never experienced service like that (Danny Meyer style). We sat at one of the corner tables, I was wearing a suit — I still wasn’t comfortable with ‘fancy’, but I wanted to experience it with a passion. All the dishes, buzzing by at a gentle pace, the details of the plating, the aromas as the dishes approached (asparagus then dashi then fois gras), I was completely intoxicated by it. The final savory course was a perfect rectangle of rare duck breast, coated in a coffee crumble, with a perfectly tart jus. I stared at it for a while before I even touched it, it was beautiful. Then the first bite — somehow this intensely crisp skin covered the most tender piece of meat I’d ever had. I looked up at her, and I remember smiling, not really able to describe it.
After that, it was hard to turn back.
7 years later, and we’ve been to countless tasting menus. I’m unbelievably lucky that I’ve been able to travel around the world and eat at some of the best restaurants at the height of their game. Throughout, I’ve been studying, absorbing, trying to get a sense of how these chefs achieve such greatness through food.
Going to restaurants has also created a new obsession of collecting cookbooks and cooking myself. I’m probably never going to be able to go to culinary school, but not getting a formal education has never stopped me from learning (I’m probably one of the few highly paid professional programmer with an Art History degree). I spend a lot of my free time reading and pouring over the images in cookbooks, blown away by their beauty. How can food be this perfect? This artistic and this precise. It blows my mind.
As a programmer, theres something so obsessive and methodical that appeals to me about this high level of cooking. Each of these chefs are able to express their unique voice through their food. The best of them can do it in a way that is not only appetizing, but nearing the some sort of objective food omega.
In studying all of these recipes and books, among these perfectionists (meaning here: those who pursue perfection) there is definitely a common method for getting as close as possible: separate the different components of the dish, and try to achieve the ultimate expression of that single element, then combine these elements in a creative way. This seems like a really simple idea — the final product is the sum of its parts — however, the simplicity belies the level of obsession, focus, and work it takes to acheive that.
My favorite example of this, is Thomas Keller’s Beef Bourguignon. How do you elevate a Bourguignon, which is basically a peasant stew of beef slow cooked in wine with vegetables? You take every single ingredient and you ask, what is the ultimate version of this ingredient? Obviously, you have to take them individually, unlike every other Bourguignon recipe you can’t just throw the vegetables in with the beef. So you stew the beef, you reserve it, you strain and reduce the broth. You cook your carrots in butter in one pan, your mushrooms in another, and your perfect cippolini’s in another. Then, when each piece can stand on its own, you combine it. If done correctly, you can taste the work and care that went into each ingredient, if nothing else, you should be able to taste each of them AS a separate ingredient, and that in and of itself is something. This humble hodgepodge of rich flavors turned into a composed bowl of individual and delicious tastes.
Clearly this pursuit of perfection takes these people further and deeper than anything that I’ve been able to achieve in my life. When I’m faced with one of these dishes, I try to imagine the push that lead to it, and sometimes its too much. I’m delighted by it, but overwhelmed with the feeling that there might never be something this perfect again. I’m in awe of the dedication, the creativity, and the technique.
In the end, its Thomas Keller who presents it perfectly:
“When you acknowledge, as you must, that there is no such thing as perfect food, only the idea of it, the the real purpose of striving for perfection becomes clear: to make people happy. Thats what cooking is all about.”
— The French Laundry Cookbook
