The MS Nose is essentially a mass spectrometer, the kind of supersophisticated device that labs use to detect toxic chemicals. As the test subject exhales, the machine analyzes and counts the molecules in his breath, and then portrays them in a series of squiggles on a computer display. "It was strange," says Blumenthal. "After chewing the gum for a few minutes, I couldn't detect the mint anymore. But the screen showed that I still had just as many mint molecules in my nose as I did when I could sense them."
Then the researchers gave Blumenthal a new taste, a sip of sugar water. "It was perfectly amazing," he says. "I got this rush of mint flavor again—even though on the screen the number of mint molecules in my nose hadn't changed." Scientists think that the brain gets bored after it has sampled the same old flavor, and that it turns off the flavor receptors. Jolt the brain with a new sensation, and it switches the sensory circuits back on.
When Blumenthal left the Firmenich lab, he knew that he needed to ignite his customers' circuitry with unexpected flavors and textures, like fireworks that explode into new patterns just when you think they're spent. He decided to start by studding his potato purée with unexpected chunks of lime jelly.
New Problem: Blumenthal quickly realized that gelatin melts at the temperature of warm mashed potatoes, so the lime was oozing into the starch and the flavor was getting diluted. He was almost back where he started.
Next: a quick call to another scientist who's plugged into the molecular gastronomy network. Did he perchance know how to maintain gels at high temperatures? No problem: The chemist sent Blumenthal a bag of agar, a Japanese gelatin made from dried seaweed that allows him to make firm gels that shrug off heat.
Today, a waiter at The Fat Duck holds out a spoon with a dollop of ivory potato purée topped with tiny green slivers like the fins on a fish. You put the spoon in your mouth. The potatoes ooze. They melt. They soothe. And suddenly, pure lime explodes in your mouth like Pop Rocks.
Blumenthal's scientific quest bursts through in almost every dish he creates. A bite of seared foie gras, like warm loam, then the startling, briny-sweet crinkle of crystallized seaweed. A forkful of creamy sweetbreads, heady with the scent of a freshly mown field—Blumenthal bakes the sweetbreads in green hay—then the musty crunch from a dusting of pollen. Your head fills with the vapors of warm roasted crab as you begin his seafood risotto, then you reel as you bite into a cold scoop of ice cream—and reel again when you realize that Blumenthal's ice cream is the pure, cold essence of crab.
Since the erice conference, Blumenthal and some of the other participants have been trading e-mails, trying to figure out a way to broaden the molecular gastronomy movement. Sure, it's fun to meet every few years in Sicily, but they can pack only a few dozen people into the monastery. They dream of flexing the power of the Internet to get chefs and scientists all over the world to talk to each other, to collaborate on experiments, and to come up with new culinary ideas—just as Blumenthal works with his growing network of chemists and physicists. And that's going to require many chefs to become more open-minded—not just about using more science in their cooking but also about sharing their "trade secrets" with their competition.
Here's Blumenthal and Barham's most radical secret. (To do it safely, they employ an arsenal of technical precautions. In other words, don't try this at home.) To prepare a lovely piece of meat so that every bite is a blushing, rosy rare, Blumenthal cooks it the whole time at a shockingly low temperature. According to the laws of physics, says Barham, the meat could never, ever get overcooked.
Demonstrating this, Blumenthal turns one end of his stove down low, then sets a battered aluminum pan on top—the temperature's so low that you can touch it without wincing. He drizzles in a bit of oil, and then he props a few lamb tenderloins, with the bone and fat still cradling them, at weird angles all around the pan so only a small amount of meat touches the metal. Then, for the next hour and a half Blumenthal lets the tenderloins just sit there … and sit there … except every couple of minutes, he gives the hunks a quarter turn. The oil in the pan never spits or shimmers. You never see any juices oozing from the lamb or hear it dance and sizzle. After that hour and a half, the outer surface of the lamb looks so red and moist that it seems almost raw. But when Blumenthal's probe tells him the entire chunk is an even 135 degrees, the lamb is ready to serve.
Blumenthal is about to send an order to a customer, sliced, draped with reduced lamb roasting juices along with a crispy, caramelized lamb onglet (diaphragm). Before the plate is ready, though, he hands me a slice and I dangle it in my mouth. Revelation: This is what lamb should be. Ridiculously juicy. Exquisitely tender. Not a hint of tension or distress. And every bite is perfect.
Eggplant: To Salt or Not to Salt?
Eggplants are filled with cells (a) that contain water and are surrounded by tiny air pockets (b). The presence of heat will squeeze the air out of the pockets (c). If the eggplant has not been salted, oil is then free to seep into them (d) and the eggplant becomes soggy.
But when salt is sprinkled on an eggplant (e), it draws the water out of the cells. The cells then collapse (f), which in turn makes the air pockets collapse. As a result, no oil can seep into the tiny pockets during the frying process (g).
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