On Food and Architecture

I've been thinking a lot about architecture lately. It's a closet interest of mine, though I have to admit that my passion is limited to "I don't know much about architecture, but I know what I like." And for me, one of the benefits of urban living is being surrounded by so much of it. I'm also fascinated by the juxtaposition of various styles, shapes, and sizes, sometimes even more than the individual buildings themselves. Certainly more chaotic than say, the many carefully planned vistas of Paris, a glance down any street or avenue in Manhattan can be just as beautiful.

You may think you know where I'm going with this: "architectural" desserts, or "tall" food of years past. Of course, presentation will always be an important factor in fine dining, and such trends come and go; in the last ten years or so, for instance, our food has slowly retreated to the surface of the plate, often appearing as if randomly scattered, sometimes even ignoring the conventional boundary of the rim. Thinking about it a little more figuratively, I think the true "architecture" of a dish is less about looks or its visual construction, and more about an "architecture of taste"- how the blending of its elements creates an appealing framework of flavor and texture.

Without too much stretching, I think there are some great analogies to be made between cooking and architecture. Both are seen by some as lofty art and by others as humble craft. Both provide a vehicle for trendy fashion and practical function. Both reflect their immediate environment and in turn give that place a sense of unique identity. Occasionally, both incite controversy. As two of the three necessities of life, food and shelter both hold a certain sociological importance that even spawn whole philosophies. This was revealed to me some years ago by my friend Warren, who happens to be not only an architect with projects planted all over the world, but also an ambitious amateur cook. He noticed that many of the conceptual discussions happening in chef circles mirrored the current debates among architects. This was during the initial explosion of creativity in Spain led by Adria, and followed elsewhere, too, courtesy of Heston Blumenthal, Grant Achatz and others. Suddenly, there was a surge of chefs questioning the entire nature of food, its forms, its tradition, its politics, its physiological properties and psychological associations. This most "modern" of cooking seems to be a precise intersection of engineering and philosophy. At the time, Warren told me about a construction project in Switzerland that perfectly reflected this discussion, the Blur Building, the goal of which was to create an indeterminate "structure" of water vapor. On the same metaphysical level, my friend Asbel once pondered how to make food float in mid air. I do think it is interesting and important for both disciplines to question themselves in such a way. Is a building without walls still a building? Is that just dinner that I ate?

That said, at the end of the day, food is just food. And even though I pay way too much rent, I need a solid room in which to rest. And from both I ultimately seek comfort and pleasure. What concerns me as a chef, is how the various elements of a dish- taste, texture, temperature- are all engineered and arranged to provide the maximum impact. We achieve this through compliment (classic flavor pairings, as well as the unconventional) and contrast (sweet against tart, smooth against crunchy, hot against cold, etc.). Attention is also given to the structure itself, as "how" we eat and experience a dish, the order and proportion of these elements results in the form and presentation of the dish. One caveat I learned early on: no matter how well two or more elements might "go well" together, each must also be able to stand alone.

The dish presented here is an old one, but reflects this idea perfectly. An interpretation of the mille fueille or napoleon, this dessert shows off both the individual qualities of each layer- riffs on the classic combination of hazelnut and  milk chocolate- and how they play off of each other in just the right measure. Its overt architectural presentation is really just a bonus!

The image below appeared in New York Sweets, a beautiful book photographed and produced by New York photographer Battman (aka Alan Batt). For more information about this and other books, including another dessert book in the works, visit Battman Studios. The above details are of images also shot by Battman in 2006- they were created for a project I was a part of in conjunction with the National Peanut Board and CIA Greystone.