conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know a description for a book titled The Elements of Taste about Tastes, Taste, former with the genre: Cookbooks, Food & Wine?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: the author (former four-star chef of New York's Lespinasse restaurant) and Kaminsky (New York Times food writer and author of The Moon Pulled Up an Acre of Bass) team up for a cookbook variation. Instead of arranging food by course or primary ingredient, they identify 14 basic tastes (salty, sweet, floral herbal, "funky," meaty, etc.) then groups them into four categories: Tastes That Push, Tastes That Pull, Tastes That Punctuate and Taste Platforms. The resulting recipes are, understandably, high-concept chef food. Explaining how they layer and balance tastes, the authors conclude each recipe with Our Taste Notes, which take an oenophile's approach to flavor description. Sweet Scallops in a Pink Lentil Crust with a Hot-and-Sweet Bell Pepper Reduction ends thusly: "The taste comes through first as crunch, then salt, and then heat. Next you get sweetness from the scallops.... The celery leaves provide a final garden note with some bitterness to close down the taste." Components are combined fearlessly. Green Onion Fondue includes scallions, tomatoes, dates, cornichons, mint and ajowan. Lady Apples with Gruyere Celery Pork Pockets are stuffed pork chops tweaked with cumin, mustard, prosciutto, turnips and quartered lady apples. As complicated and as multi-ingrediented as many recipes are, the directions are admirably clear, and some recipes, such as Oysters and Cabbage and Two-Tomato Coulis with Three Basils, are quite simple. While some readers may initially find the concept to be contrived, most will welcome this unusual means of creating and characterizing food.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the first four paragraphs for this book?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Elements of Taste
  Another startling creation, for both its flavor and texture, was a triple-decker of deboned quail that was layered with sweet taro-root chips and lustrous, perfectly seasoned creamed leeks. At the conclusion of this extraordinary meal I asked our captain for the name of the chef. Gray Kunz Never heard of him.
  In 1991 he moved to the St. Regis Hotel, literally across the street from the Peninsula, to take over its lavish restaurant, Lespinasse. For the first time I couldn't wait to get a reservation in a hotel dining room. The food at Lespinasse was even more spectacular. One dish that stood out was a Thai-influenced, steamed striped bass with fried shallots and minced lemon peel set over a heady broth redolent of citrus and mixed herbs. It was not tong before chefs from around the country were excitedly queuing at his restaurant like kids at a carnival ride.
  CHEFS DON'T CREATE FROM RECIPES. They create from tastes. They create in the same way that a composer "hears" notes in the concert hall of the mind before anyone plays them on the keyboard. Kitchen artists draw on the knowledge acquired through years of study, long practice, and a generous dollop of intuition. If chefs are like composers in general, they are very like one composer in particular—Antonio Vivaldi. As a teacher in a foundling home for girls in Venice, his task each year was like that of a chef at the market: he could concoct his musical stew only with the materials at hand. If his star students played flute, oboe, and bassoon, he would write a piece for what was then an unusual combination of instruments. If the young ladies were more adept at guitar, he would dash off a slew of guitar pieces. Presumably if there had been a powerhouse conga drummer in the class, his oeuvre would certainly have included a concerto for harpsichord, lute, and conga.
  Like Proust's evocative memories, a chef's memories of taste lie at the base of any new recipe. You have a taste in your mind, an idea that it would go well cooked in a certain way or combined with a certain herb. Then you try that idea. You add ingredients and seasonings, reduced pan juices, maybe some lemon juice or wine, honey or sugar. Like a composer, you look for themes, motifs, and—most important—harmonies.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Elements of Taste
  Another startling creation, for both its flavor and texture, was a triple-decker of deboned quail that was layered with sweet taro-root chips and lustrous, perfectly seasoned creamed leeks. At the conclusion of this extraordinary meal I asked our captain for the name of the chef. Gray Kunz Never heard of him.
  In 1991 he moved to the St. Regis Hotel, literally across the street from the Peninsula, to take over its lavish restaurant, Lespinasse. For the first time I couldn't wait to get a reservation in a hotel dining room. The food at Lespinasse was even more spectacular. One dish that stood out was a Thai-influenced, steamed striped bass with fried shallots and minced lemon peel set over a heady broth redolent of citrus and mixed herbs. It was not tong before chefs from around the country were excitedly queuing at his restaurant like kids at a carnival ride.
  CHEFS DON'T CREATE FROM RECIPES. They create from tastes. They create in the same way that a composer "hears" notes in the concert hall of the mind before anyone plays them on the keyboard. Kitchen artists draw on the knowledge acquired through years of study, long practice, and a generous dollop of intuition. If chefs are like composers in general, they are very like one composer in particular—Antonio Vivaldi. As a teacher in a foundling home for girls in Venice, his task each year was like that of a chef at the market: he could concoct his musical stew only with the materials at hand. If his star students played flute, oboe, and bassoon, he would write a piece for what was then an unusual combination of instruments. If the young ladies were more adept at guitar, he would dash off a slew of guitar pieces. Presumably if there had been a powerhouse conga drummer in the class, his oeuvre would certainly have included a concerto for harpsichord, lute, and conga.
  Like Proust's evocative memories, a chef's memories of taste lie at the base of any new recipe. You have a taste in your mind, an idea that it would go well cooked in a certain way or combined with a certain herb. Then you try that idea. You add ingredients and seasonings, reduced pan juices, maybe some lemon juice or wine, honey or sugar.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know four more paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The first notes are floral herbal from the lavender and thyme which temper the intense meaty bouquet of the turkey. The garlic is sweetly bulby. The lemon adds a floral tang, while its soft texture leads to the tomatoes and the olives. The olives, in addition to salt, have a hint of floral. These are all light and bright tastes that the meat showcases. The end notes are meaty and tangy with an occasional floral herbal flourish.
  THIS COMES FROM one of the signature dishes at Lespinasse. The fish was skewered on lavender twigs and cooked on hot rocks. When the waiters brought it to the table, the whole room was bathed in a smoky, musky perfume. It was overpoweringly sensual. Try this with lavender skewers if you can find them. If not, grilling or barbecuing the fish without skewers is fine. You can strain some of the sauce and brush it on as a barbecue glaze on other fishes, even fresh fruits. It also make a good sauce for desserts. As for the walleye, it is often touted by Midwesterners as the most delectable of fish. If you can't find or catch a walleye, then striped bass, halibut, and even cod will do.
  Heat 2 tablespoons of the oil in a medium skillet over medium-high heat. Add the shallots and sweat until they are soft. Add the lemon juice and wine, bring to a boil, and reduce by about three-fourths (to a syrup). Add the honey, the lavender flowers, and the remaining oil. Season with salt, pepper, and cayenne. Keep warm.
  Heat the butter and oil in the skillet over medium-high heat. Add the shallots and cook, stirring occasionally, until golden, then season with salt. Add the almonds and lemon zest and heat over low. Just before serving, add fresh chopped parsley.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Do you know the last four paragraphs?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: There was fresh cream from cows that pastured in the mountains—so thick and sweet. I had my first Swiss chocolate—creamy, satiny, sweet, with just a hint of bitter. And then there was all that meat! In Asia meat is almost—not quite, but almost—served as parsimoniously as truffles are in Europe: kind of an extra treat, rarely the main ingredient. In Switzerland, we had beef cheeks and roasts of pork, beef, and lamb. And there was wine, which I learned about as an ingredient, long before I fell in love with it as a beverage. It was as varied and sensual as the endlessly stimulating tropical fruits of Asia. I truly doubt I would have become a chef, and certainly would not have become the kind of chef that I am, if I had not had the opportunity to learn rich new contrasting tastes at that young age.
  Then I met a young Swiss girl, from Lausanne, and we fell in love, and her parents fell in love with a soup that I purloined from the kitchen of the Beau Rivage (where I was working). Twenty-five years later they still praise that mussel soup that I made in my first years in a kitchen. That's pretty good for in-laws. Nicole shared my passion for exploring new tastes, and we would ramble through the woods and hills around Lausanne, where I had become a wild mushroom fancier. One afternoon we were in the Alps. The day started warm and we climbed higher. The weather turned cold, all of a sudden, and it began to snow heavily. Just then, we came upon a patch of porcini mushrooms, perfectly ripe. They were golden and brown with an inch of snow on their caps. Had we found them two hours later, they would have been ruined by the cold. Nicole and I took them home and prepared them with cream as white as that snow. They became another word in my new language of tastes, one that was refined in the kitchen of Freddy Girardet in Crissier.
  When work brought us to New York, it was a blizzard of new tastes. No other city in the world has such variety of food: bagels, pizza, felafel, corned beef on rye, dim sum, sushi, Jamaican jerk chicken, Korean barbecue, Cuban pressed sandwiches, Guatemalan tamales...even homemade chapatti. My taste vocabulary grew and grew. It was an embarrassment of riches that required some deep thinking if I was ever to bring order out of that delicious chaos.
  I haven't finished learning the language of taste, that inner language that we all understand before we speak it. But I feel that now is as good a time as any to try and put the language into words.