Food Is Jazz

“Fear the Cheese.” So says the sign on the swinging “Out” door to Vincent’s kitchen. Vincent Francoual, founder and namesake of the well regarded Nicollet Mall restaurant, sports a white chef’s coat whose right pectoral is emblazoned in blue script, “Le Grande Fromage.”

As would Poirot, Sherlock, and Monk, we deduce . . . fear Vincent.

“We” is my giddy foodie group. It’s late Saturday morning. We’ve won a silent auction chef’s lunch. We’re dining at one of “those” places where it’s said, the chefs go. It’s drizzling outside on Osmo Vänskä’s fantastic Orchestra Hall mural, people are running past our windows shoulders hunched, but we have a warm and cozy Vincent all to ourselves this day.

I ask Vincent about the cheesy messaging on his coat. He grins and says, “At home my wife calls me ‘Le Petite Fromage.’ ” So it goes. 

The menu for our lunch opens with mushroom risotto. We’ve been waved into the kitchen to begin cooking. A young Mediterranean man in our group, a true chef in his own right, is handed the spatula to weave the Arborio rice, movements demonstrated and dictated by Vincent in order to avoid having the risotto become . . . “mooshy.” Vincent’s southern French accent spices the kitchen banter, adding a charming theatric. I lament the fact that we didn’t video this for mspmag.com and Vincent suggests it’s for the best, that his broken English would likely require subtitles.

Vincent ignites the gas with a small piece of paper he pulls from a credit card machine. He touches it to the pilot light. Quaint, but effective. Off we go! The heat rising from the ovens has us all breaking a sweat. The Cheese stays cool.

Our young foodie, stirring in sun-dried tomatoes, leeks, butter, cream, more butter, mascarpone, and yet more butter has already burned his now reddened hands on the steam rising from the risotto. We talk about Bill Buford’s book, Heat, and the inevitable burns that result from cooking. Mario Batali’s line cooks literally steam the skin from their hands and singe off most arm and facial hair. It goes with the territory. Batali insists “it’s only heat.” As though choreographed to our conversation, in tumbles one of the restaurant’s line chefs, nicknamed "The Crab" because of the series of burn marks up and down his arms. From a distance, they resemble the red stripes on a marine sergeant’s uniform. Art has a price. And, Gustibus for the rest of us. You have to dig what plays in these kitchens. Spend an afternoon with these whirling dervishes as they mix and twirl and splatter and, well . . . paint. Exaggeration? Perhaps. Although I am no more dazzled by a Monet, a Grizzly Bear song, or a Keillor monologue than I am by this meal. It’s just good to be dazzled, regardless of the art form. The improvisation, the tempo, the organics of Vincent and chefs like him is . . . jazz.

Jason Englehart, Vincent’s sous chef, is telling us about fish—where he buys it, and more importantly, why. He talks of despoiling fishing habitats and how the catch can be done right. He supports “right” by where he buys his fish and produce. Vincent chimes, “Read Michael Pollan’s Omnivore’s Dilemma. I had. If you haven’t, you should.

Madeleine cookies just came out of the oven. Scallops are being seared. The risotto is an exquisite blowout, and the Pacherenc Vincent chose pairs perfectly. Where did he find it? Phil at Lake Street Liquors will steer you to this hard-to-find French white.

Desmond’s “dry martini” alto could be the soundtrack for this moment. If food were music, this is Miles doing “Freddie the Freeloader.” These are unadulterated great eats. The scallops just hit the linen whites, and out comes a ’97 pinot noir from Morogues Loire, Menetou Salon. Crazy.

We’re with the Big Cheese on this day when food is jazz. Feel the heat, bless yourself, life is good.