Spago's DineLA menu, in a single phrase: "glimpses of greatness". This menu is not meant to be a sampler, it seems to be a mere sneak peak, a pre-preview to the wonders behind this Beverly Hills legend. Unfortunately, you get what you pay for.
We start off on the wrong foot at Spago, an awkward server and a filthy table. Two corners of fresh orange oil-spills leer at us newcomers, barely dry from the dis-graces of those before us. Our server covers one spot with a napkin, but fails to the see the other. He then clears two share plates from the setting, one that stewed in the stain, another that is thick with layer a inexplicably dirty grease.
A bottle of wine is recommended, and we are overall pleased with the selection. It is a good cab that we're drinking, full-bodied from the cellars of Napa. It finishes smooth after its first full breath.
We start with a delicate Spicy Tuna Tartar. A small scoop of absolutely perfect tuna teases the tongue. The spice piques some interest, and a miso tuille cone adds a surprising sweet finish.
The Parmigiano Reggiano Marshmallow is fascinating, up to the very moment that it disintegrates into a puff of parmesan air.
A Homemade Papadum is an earthy cracker, a contrast to the preceding marshmallow, dense with lentil flour and spread with stiff peaks of a silken Indian yogurt.
Sweet supplements savory in the form of Lemon Meringue under a formidable foie gras mousse.
A more subtle Sesame Ball flirts with succulent Maine lobster. The Thai curry sauce makes waves with desiccated sea legs of sakura shrimp.
The DineLA menu comes with a tour of one of LA's most magical kitchens. Chefs cook, cooks clamor, pots and pans clang on the many grates and grills. Steaks sizzle on a single barby, the pasta station is just surviving, and servers scurry to make timely deliveries before the food gets cold.
We chew in pensive silence, munching on a Maple Macaron. It is the most exquisite breakfast sandwich; the macaron sandwich channels a sugary syrup, that drizzles a chunk of unmistakable bacon over an egg yolk jam. It tastes much better than it looks, thanks to my horrifying skill at cell phone photography.
The walk cleanses our palates, a welcome break between the apps and the mains. We sit down refreshed, to the most exceptional Egg. A fragile shell, hollowed with impeccable precision, presents layers of complexity. A shockingly sophisticated potato chip foam gives way to a spectacular smoked salmon mousse with a burst of roe on the bottom.
It alternates from here; every dish is a hit or miss, and some, such as the Oxtail Posole, are a major miss.
If posole could be described as "salt soup", then this one would be right on. The oxtail is undetectable and the hominy is a bit tough, probably desiccated from the salt. The heirloom red corn tamale is fine, but if Spago wants to stand out, they need to stick to stuff they know how to make.
The Ikejime Black Cod "en Papillote" comes in a plastic bag.
They unceremoniously cut the top off with sharp kitchen shears, releasing a column of searing steam, fragrant with ginger and saffron.
The cod is as tender as a fish cheek, but the mushrooms are, yet again, too salty.
Handmade Agnolotti, an undeniable HIT. The pasta part is flawless, the textbook definition of al dente. Stuffed with sweet Italian chestnuts, fragrant with a shaving of supplementary black truffle, this one is a small slice of heaven.
The Slow Braised Pork Cheek misses the mark in epic fashion. One of my favorite cuts of meat is flailing in watered-down grocery-store gochujang, and it has the texture of hours-old gum, glued to the bottom of a desk. The potato dumplings are delightful, and the pickled hearts of palm do wonders to add a little light to this dark, dark dish.
The Grilled Snake River Wagyu Beef is...pretty good. I've had much higher grades of this prized cut. Still, the horseradish potato puree works with the beef, and the beef tendon crisp is a fun iteration of a high-end pork rind, ending this dish on a pretty pleasant note.
Chef Della's "Celebration of Citrus" is lovely. I am enamored with the lightness of the Fukushu kumquat souffle, an airy but bitter citrus. The Meyer lemon sorbet floats as much as this beautiful swirl of fresh meringue, and tangy grapefruit is a buried treasure beneath.
It is what it is, this tasting. The mere tip of an iconic iceberg, a sneak peek at the man behind the curtain, the great and powerful wizard of Beverly Hills. I can only hope that what lies beneath the surface is more substantial - this menu is a mere ripple and I doubt it would earn a single Michelin star. One day, I may give Spago another shot, but if this menu is truly the tip of their iceberg, this ship will sink.
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