Taft 2012 - Jason Heller [38]
“Sir, I am all ears.”
“If all those food shows on TV are true, Chicago is some kind of mecca for fancy dining. Let’s try to put something gourmet in your belly. Bill, have you ever heard of molecular gastronomy?”
Usage of Organic vs. Factory-Treated Ingredients in American Kitchens, 2010
Produce: 12 percent organic
Dairy: 6 percent organic
Grains: Less than 4 percent organic
Meat: Less than 4 percent organic
Other: N/A
SIXTEEN
As they followed the maître d’ past gaily dressed yet uncomfortable-looking diners, the harsh light, sharp angles, and cold chrome of Atomizer made the place feel more like a clinic than a restaurant. When Taft said as much to Kowalczyk, he stood corrected: “A clinic? More like a laboratory.”
Kowalczyk was right. After determining the location of the highest-rated molecular-gastronomy bistro in Chicago, he and Taft had gussied themselves up as best they could with the contents of their suitcases and headed toward downtown. Once inside, they felt as though they’d stepped into another world. The walls were covered in slate gray geometric panels backlit by neutral neon. A frigid sterility glinted off the oddly hexagonal tables, and a sheen of artificiality clung to everything. And then there was the maître d’: pale, white haired, and clad in a spotless beige boilersuit, he appeared both adolescent and ancient.
“What’s with the Warhol look?” Kowlaczyk whispered behind a cupped hand, but the reference was lost on Taft. “Oh, never mind. Christ, can you believe this place?”
Indeed, he could not. As the maître d’ seated them, he lifted the flap of a puffy rectangular purse slung from his shoulder. A wisp of vapor uncoiled from the open bag. “Your menus, sirs.” He handed them each a translucent pink, paper-thin wafer on which words had somehow been etched. It was barely legible.
“Could you perhaps just tell us the specials of the day?” said Taft as he took the menu. It felt cold and slick between his fingers.
The maître d’ sniffed. “Specials?” He swept a hand in front of him as if he were about to take a bow. “Everything at Atomizer is scientifically formulated to be special.”
Taft raised an eyebrow. “I’ll say.” At that moment, he felt something trickle down the inside of his shirtsleeve.
“Uh, Bill,” said Kowalczyk. “These things are melting.”
“What in Hades—” Kowalczyk wasn’t joking. The unusual menus had begun dissolving in their hands. Two large pieces had already fallen off, landing on the table in a puddle of pink, watery goo.
“The menus,” the maître d’ informed them, “are edible. Go ahead, try it.”
Taft cautiously licked one of his fingers. It tasted vaguely of berries. “Hmm, yes,” he grumbled. “Now if I could only read the damn thing.”
The maître d’ smirked. “Your server will be along shortly.”
“So this is—what did you call it—malevolent gastronomy?” Taft said as soon as the white-haired host was out of earshot.
“Molecular. It’s the hottest new thing. Or at least it was five years ago. I think.”
Taft dragged a fingertip through the pool of melted menu on the table, which had already started scabbing into some kind of taffylike substance.
“Come on, Bill, keep an open mind. You said you wanted to get a taste of the real America, right? Well, this is what the people are eating.”
“Hmph. The wealthy and pretentious, perhaps. But the people?” He glanced around at the haughty, miserable-looking patrons seated nearby. “I doubt it.”
When the server reappeared a minute later, all that was left of Taft’s menu was a small, smudged shard that smelled faintly of hard candy. Cupping it in his palm, he squinted and said, “I suppose I’ll be having the Reverse-Osmosis Salmon S’mores. Whatever on God’s green earth that’s supposed to mean.”
The server returned five minutes later with two martini glasses full of carbonated foie gras and a note scrawled on a crumpled napkin. The waiter