Quintonil (4/26/21)

Tonight I had dinner at Quintonil. I’m told that this is the 24th best restaurant in the world. My meal was delicious, as you’d expect. I declined the wine pairing in the hopes of staying sober to better enjoy the food, though the cocktail menu had other plans, full of mezcal and absinthe. I was seated at the bar overlooking the kitchen. Over the course of ten or eleven or twelve courses I watched as the machine that is Quintonil spun culinary miracles for myself and the guests arrayed in tables behind me.

Around the time of the kampachi “ceviche” I noticed the handwritten labels on blue tape adorning the top row of pans in the rear of the kitchen. My server explained how the labels differentiate the various sauces prepared just before the first seating, and how the cooks will reheat each as necessary over the course of the evening. A chef de partie then reached overhead to unwittingly demonstrate. Passing behind him in a hurry was another chef, intent not on any one dish but on the flow of the machinery around him. His eyes scanned in a frenzy across a pile of paper tickets, then across the kitchen, looking for any mismatch, before his quiet words would bring the two back into alignment. Around him, plates of pure art sprang into being. It is always something to behold, when beauty is created in motion. I returned my attention to the relative placidity of the diners behind me and overheard two anniversaries, one honeymoon, and a sake order I couldn’t help but duplicate.

By the roast beet I took notice of a new entrant in the kitchen, a stern man in a nondescript collar, noticeable for his lack of uniform and for his pace. He defied time. While the rest of the team ladeled and plated with fervor, he stood alone in defiance of their urgency. The others rushed past him in either direction, calling out orders and alerting service of finished meals while he stepped almost imperceptibly to the counter and began slowly, meticulously, separating a pile of some unknown green that would serve as garnish. Here was some slack, some delay in the rightful order of the evening that he felt the need to correct. The greens were separated into piles, four, then five, then adjusted for balance by gentle, unrushed fingers. The plate was handed off. A near silent comment was delivered to the sous chef presiding over the tickets. A robust “si, Chef” came in response.

My second cocktail was easy to drink but lacked the distinguished flavor of the first. The sweetbreads were the best I’ve ever had. I was surprised by the length of time between this course and the next, a tender beef served in a clay pot atop rice, accompanied by fried plantain and rich molé. I remained captivated by the workings of the kitchen. Now our chef de cuisine is stepping forward from the wings, no longer giving feedback gently and intermittently, but with firmness. The “si, Chef” in response is stronger this time, more forced. I know it is going poorly when the next round of feedback reaches the staff. The tickets have been usurped. By the homemade ice cream, Chef is orchestrating the production himself. Our replaced conductor walks with his head too high, pours my water too eagerly, avoids tears, perhaps just barely.

The crowd thinned as the final courses were served. Only myself and a few others prolonged the experience, first with espresso, then with a final cocktail. Our erstwhile maestro reclaimed his place, guiding the orchestra from frenetic apogee towards decrescendo. When the meal was finished, my stomach full and satisfied, my glass empty, and the bill paid, I had a moment with him, our struggling hero. His name is Daníel. Daníel asked if I’d enjoyed myself, and of course I had. I asked if he was in charge tonight, and he said yes, though things had not gone as planned. I assured him I did not notice, that the meal was excellent. Really, they were. Messy? I would never have guessed. “My head,” he said, and gestured with concussive force. Daníel and I spoke for just a brief moment longer, of my origin and of my ability to home-work from anywhere. He too, has missed travel desperately. Before thanking him once more and saying goodbye he shared that above all, he is so very pleased I enjoyed myself this evening. Without a doubt I have, and with Daníel at the helm, so will many more after me.