Blackbird

You can go one of two ways at Blackbird.

One (the überfoodie, self-righteous, know-it-all route. Also, the Serena route.). Peruse the menu of elaborate, avant-garde offerings, assuring yourself you fully understand the juxtaposition of wagyu flatiron with smoked quinoa and baby swiss chard (got it), goat’s milk caramel (getting harder) and lemon balm (wait, all together?) before having tasted it. Of course you can predict the culinary renderings of nasturtiums and trout caviar with cuttlefish and buttermilk. You’ve totally had something like that…well, nowhere else. But still. You know food. So, you know. You get it.

Two (the know-when-to-quit, swallow-your-pride path, and dare I say, the better way to go). Peruse the menu of elaborate, avant-garde offerings, confessing (if only internally) that you haven’t the foggiest how a nasturtium/buttermilk/caviar composition will play on the tongue. And then, rather than induce an aneurism attempting to wrap your palate around it, surrender to the delicious ambiguity. The menu might seem dauntingly abstruse, but the genius of exec chef Paul Kahan (and chef de cuisine Mike Sheerin) is unequivocal, so you trust that you – or, rather, your sweetbreads – are in good hands. You hold up the menu, close your eyes and point at random.

Your mental hiatus won’t last long anyway – one bite is all it takes to send those synapses into a firing frenzy. It begins with, say, the broth in the pistachio gazpacho, a creamy and creamless wonder that provokes you to revisit your concept of the pureed nut. It’s still marinating when you’re thrown off course (or perhaps further on) by a juicy chunk of watermelon, its sweet lightness an apt contrast to not only the buttery broth, but the salty crunch of the sea bean that’s also made its way on to your spoon. Your brain is processing the soup’s flavor spectrum, your mouth is savoring the bright ahi it’s now ingesting, and your date is moaning in a manner that should only occur when your clothes are off. Then your palate discerns the final touch, an earthy essence of cocoa, and the whole symphonic synthesis peaks. Four minutes ago (ok, two and a half), you couldn’t imagine how the ingredients would interact. Now you can’t imagine how you couldn’t.

And that’s the brilliance of the Kahan crown jewel: a restaurant concocting inimitable taste sensations difficult to predict and impossible to forget. Its ingredients are, like, Yemen-distance off-the-beaten-path (lilybulbs, anyone?) and its menu could benefit from a supplemental glossary (cattails, noun), but that’s where the complication ends. Blackbird’s intricate compositions are justified by the precision with which they’re executed: complex on the page, clean on the tongue. In Sheerin’s feminine touch (his words) and Kahan’s rustic-yet-refined sensibilities (mine) is another unlikely marriage, and one that results in a time-and-again multi-profiled flavor extravaganza that defies feeling over-adorned. You’ll never call a dish at Blackbird one-note. You’ll never call it muddled either.

You also can’t call it universally accessible. Best described as New American, the fare is so innovative it might merit another genre; relatively speaking, what Blackbird does is newer than most anywhere else. And while some dishes – like the lamb loin with red miso financier, green almonds and cilantro – are as approachable as they are innovative, others are decidedly divisive. The duck tartare with strawberries and A1 is an experiment in pairings, the steak sauce a jarring departure from the fruit, but one that ultimately resonated with my taste buds. My date, on the other hand – a man of sophisticated and adventurous taste – described the experience as a clash so violent not even his sasquatch appetite could compel him to finish. But we both respected the risk.

As Kahan & Co.’s avant-garde playground, Blackbird presents cuisine that challenges, recognizing there will be battles lost. Nearly every plate on the menu boasts a flat-out ballsy amalgamation of ingredients, some flowing effortlessly across the palate and others forcing pause, for better or for worse. But that is the nature of the groundbreaking beast: One can’t push the envelope and please everyone.

Which means, again, you’ll go one, but probably two ways. When a dish works for you, it can be a moment of gastronomic nirvana; when it doesn’t, it will at least provide culinary contemplation. And post-consumption, you’ll be able to say – with sincerity – that you’ve never had something like this anywhere else. And now, really, you get it.