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Omnivore New York 2011

“I am the most stupid cooker of eggs.”

A confession from the man in the red tee shirt. All morning, thick-framed eyeglasses slid down his Gallic nose as he spoke. With every punctuation mark, he’d scrunch his face to put them back in place. This time a hearty chuckle gave them an extra little push upwards. Our host was laughing at himself, and we giggled along with him.

“Just do new things, day after day. That is it.”

This French chef’s philosophizing might easily have created a motto for the event. It’s also French, and they call it Omnivore. Created back in 2003 as a forum for the “young, free, and open-minded” in the world of food, last month marked its third bite out of Big Apple.  That morning’s chef-led master classes shared the playbill with a series of collaborative dinners that paired New York toques with their counterparts from abroad. Continue reading

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noma

Love, like an American supermarket, is a fascinating and scary thing.  To walk its aisles is to struggle to distinguish what you want from what you need.  To fully understand its intricacies is to know too much.  In a frustratingly beautiful way, its true nature can seem inscrutable.

Danish supermarkets aren’t much easier so far.  This is the fifth one we’ve been to in Copenhagen tonight.  My girlfriend and I have just eaten lunch — two days in a row — at noma, the restaurant some rank above every other one on the planet, and she is agonizing over which gummy candies to have for dinner.  It turns out that she is to gelatin and sugar what Robert Parker is to wine or Roger Ebert to movies, a connoisseur of the highest ilk, an unequivocal arbiter of quality.

I poke fun, but it’s actually quite fetching.  I’ve always had a thing for Sour Patch Kids, so the match was meant to be. Continue reading

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