Part of the hoi polloi, descendent of rural peasant stock is certainly all the wrong pedigree to wax poetic about nouvelle cuisine. But growing up in the Chinese restaurant business did afford tiny peeks at the gastronomical multiculturalism that is Trio. What helped immensely to ease the uncomfortable feeling of being out of place can mostly be atttributed to watching the Food Network as for what to expect.
The evening started off well enough as the hostess checked our coats and then led us to our reserved table. Being addressed as Mr. Lee by the entire waitstaff took some getting used to as I can only think of my father as ever being called that. Seated, what struck me odd about Trio at first turned out, after some thought, to be deliberate.
Exposed copper piping wove in and out through sheer fabric, billowy clouds, suspended on the ceiling. Cherry bentwood chairs, handcrafted in a modern style, clashed against the unpainted red brick fireplace and French countryside whitewashed cabinetry. A trompe l'oeil mural of a meandering ivy canopy on cracked terra cotta-colored stucco spanned across the opposite wall. Abstract gold and purple vaguely Asian shapes on muted blue-grayish ground monotypes embossed on deckled paper hung throughout the intimate dining room in simple white frames. Then the bulb above my head clicked on. All this interior decoration fit the eclectic motif of a cosmopolitan cuisine of Asian, French, and Mediterranean influences. Trio really refers to the three cooking styles combined to create something unique and contemporary.
Michel, our pony-tailed maitre d', handed us our menus as the waitstaff set a wicker basket of freshly baked bread on our crisp white tablecloth set off by blackish marble slab placemats. I opted to save some time and sounded very much in the know, pronouncing the word, "degustation" so as to solicit only the slightest smirk. After ordering two glasses of merlot, Michel informed us it would be the chef's choice to design our own degustation, but asked if there might a particular food to be excluded from our dishes. My companion, Madeleine objected to any rabbit being served in favor of the house specialty salad out of deference to her own pet hare.
Dinner began a minute later with Steven, another waiter, offering a white artist's palette of domestic caviars with share mirrors of seafood. Dollops of green wasabi, clear Absolut vodka soaked, traditional black, orange Northwest Salmon caviar complemented the bits of egg and red, finely-chopped salsa and shrimp. Just the arrangement of this color wheel inspired enough guilt not to dig in.
Our second course reemphasized the triple blend of cooking traditions as I was presented with a Bento Box of different nontraditional sushi and tempura. More American ingredients such as raisins and walnuts were substituted for seafood making for a delectably fresh crunchy texture. Also served was a wild mushroom and parmesan risotto perfumed with white truffle oil. This seemed a calculated pun of rice-based food to throw off the usual preconceived notions of pilaf.
Roasted American red snapper doused with sweet and sour leeks, red pepper-kaffir lime sauce as well as Maine sweet shrimp and crabmeat wontons in a smoked salmon-hijiki broth consisted of the third course. Color me enviously green when my companion received the snapper and I got the wontons. What I ate were gigantic ravioli wontons that tasted wonderful, but of course, to eat wontons, no matter how exotically prepared, sort of defeats the purpose of finer dining for me.
For the intermezzo, Steven brought out two small stemmed glasses of berry-rhubarb granita. Naturally sweet ice without being too sugary, our waiter informed us this break would cleanse our palates for the next course, our main entree.
Applewood smoked tenderloin of beef with yukon gold potato puree,charred onions, and wasabi infused veal reduction certainly atoned for the wontons. To stress the contrast of All-American red meat (cooked medium rare) with radishy wasabi drew attention to the sublimal theme of the chef's magic of juxtaposing Japanese with traditional Midwestern fare. Madeleine oohed and aahed over the honey and lavender glazed pheasant breast in a caramelized salsify, bittersweet tangerine sauce. She marvelled too at how the chef contemporized what could be a very rural dish with a westernized Asian sauce.
After this gluttony of gourmet cooking, we joked about not needing to drive through Mickey D's on the way back to grab some real, substantial fast food. Even though the portions appeared modest, it suited the entire gastronomical experience and two and a half hours of fine dining only makes up with quality, what is lacking in quantity. Besides, we came to understand that many tiny dishes amounted to one gargantuan meal.
Finally, dessert, or what Michel called assiettes. Now we witnessed wry, sardonic melodrama. Just to throw us for a loop, the kitchen dreamed a sampling of creme brulee, root beer float, chocolate dried cherry bread pudding, and perfiteroles. Imagine our laughter when we realized how French met Main Street, U.S.A. to whip up this humorous comment to end our degustation. Wise guys, we thought, but loving it. Try as we did each dessert attacked our tastebuds with rich chocolates, sweet fruits, and drizzles of numerous sugary flavors. Yes, we fought the desserts, and the desserts won.
Madeleine, a health buff (nut), whined about not eating for the next few days in addition to forcing herself to run a few extra miles to work off all the rich desserts and food. I felt sated to eat many creative foods, prepared to make me a king for the evening. I walked in Jethro Bodine, a country bumpkin stumbling around in Beverly Hills, and walked out a prince. That, after all, is the reason to try new things.