In my, seemingly, endless quest to find the the quintessential dining experience, it is rare that the actual event comes anywhere close to the hype, and my deep-seated craving for the ultimate epicurean adventure remains unsated.
It was with few real expectations that I made my reservation for Mizuna in Denver, Colorado. I would soon discover that I had completely underestimated them.
Upon entering, as the rest of my party was being seated, I went straight to the open, but shallow, kitchen to quiz the chefs about what I should get. The response of, "I don't know. It's all good" was, at the least, unsatisfying. I tried a different approach with, "What are you passionate about?" The muted reply of "everything" left me feeling that the kitchen had either no pride or the food would leave me wanting . . . again. With a whimsical revelation that I intended to put myself in their hands, I joined my fellow diners.
Our waiter, a towering man with an obvious air of competence, described the tasting and the prix fixe menus. I knew I wanted the tasting menu, but my companions would need to sign on as the whole table must participate. Luckily, it didn't take much coaxing to accomplish this.
I asked about the wines, and was informed that the sommelier would be over in short order. A woman of grace and elegance, she listened attentively as I described the type of wine I would like: chardonnay--oaky, buttery, and we tend to like those from the Sonoma region. Without hesitation, she recommended the Walter Hansel Russian River Chardonnay--an amazing wine that left all of us exclaiming how good it was.
We snacked on bread that was baked in-house (the boules are stacked up in the window as you enter the restaurant). Regular, herb, and sea salted butter were tasty, but we could have omitted them because the fortified bread needed no adornment to be wonderful.
Over the next three hours, The kitchen would, with military precision, turn out eight phenomenal courses. At this point, I actually find myself at a loss. As I search for words that might adequately describe the texture of the shaved, smoked salmon so thin that it was nearly translucent, the succulent pop of the caviar as it burst on my tongue, the refined flavors of the foie gras, the crunch of perfectly seared char, or the delicate pink hues of precisely timed beef tenderloin, I realize that English is far too crude to adequately describe such works of art. While always flavorful and beautifully presented, nothing was ever pretentious. Every piece of garnish, every ingredient, and every drop of liquid had a very specific role in supporting the flavor profiles of the dishes.
Throughout the evening, the staff attended to every detail. Get up to go to the bathroom, and a new napkin would be awaiting your return. Take a drink of water and your glass would be topped off. Finish a course, and there would be a flurry of activity as the team of highly-trained waiters swept away the old, scraped away crumbs, refilled wine glasses, and prepared for the next course. Then, in an instant, they would return to the darkened nooks of the restaurant to watch over us in silence. Not once did we have to ask for anything--ever. They knew what we would need and executed its delivery flawlessly.
This was the single best meal of my entire life. What I had, foolishly, mistaken for a lackadaisical attitude in the kitchen was, in reality, a glimpse of the truth: everything is good and the passion is reflected everywhere.
Mizuna is the closest thing you'll find to a Michelin-three-star experience in a casual, jeans-friendly environment. While I would be hesitant to say that my quest for the ultimate dining experience has been completed (will it really ever?), this is the closest to my vision of perfection that I've found so far, and everything else will be compared to their yardstick. read more