Le Roi est mort... Vive la Roi!

As my palate sinks in a graceful bow to the mastery of Wesley Genovart. He may look all of 12, but has the cojones to ease out Jean George, from my little book of men I'd beg for, and go head to head with Eric Ripert (why does this now sound like Playgirl porn??). Drooling will occur, but only if you are a connoisseur of men who wend their magic in an industrial kitchen... (I say men, but I'd beg for Catherine Guerraz anytime). But back to young Wesley who holds court in the lower bowels of Manhattan at Degustation. Reviews call it a Franco-Spanish tapas bar (the rustic elements of tapas sent to an expensive finishing school, blossoming into tapas with élan and sophistication). Like a teppan bar, the chef and his sidekicks are flanked by rapt diners, and directed by this extraordinary hostess - it's a triumph of operational excellence (truly, it runs like a well oiled machine - right from the reservations, the laying of cutlery, refilling glasses, pacing of the plates to giving directions to wayward patrons and explaining each creation set before you), and while I stridently detest people that gush... it's like watching an orchestra: the tantalising aromas wafting towards you competing with the flash flames off the grill, and the visual pleasure of the creation of delicate plates from nothing. A virtuoso performance. Flawless conducting. A sensual symphony. Much too much? Blame it on the Torija - I can't remember the last time a meal made me feel this smug.
While the temptation to inflict the entire 10 course tasting menu is undeniable, I'm feeling merciful.
My moanworthy moments had to be the tortilla with potato, quail egg and shallot confit that burst in your mouth an unexpected mouthfull of lightness and air, puncutated with flavour; the sardine sandwich with pickled onions and cilantro, a lingering sense of a clean, crisp bite with a sense of decadance (and i hate onions, but this was wicked!); the chipetos: fried sepia, steel cut oatmeal squid ink risotto with garlic and herbs. A poem (not much of a poetry fan either, but if it read like this....!!). The delicious crunch of the squid combining shockingly well with the less than glamorous sounding oatmeal, lifting it to evangelical proportions - I'd have sung hallelujah if my mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied with the most amazing textures and much self control was expending towards not licking the bowl; the soft scrambled duck egg with duck bacon, chives and breadcrumbs, served in their shells (well maybe not theirs, these were unspeakably clean), the poshest way to eat scrambled eggs ever! I do come over all bawa when it comes to eggs, and will consistently pay for poached eggs much to my mothers disgust, but as much as I love her and Ba, there is no way they can make this at home! and finally, the pièce the résistance, the caremelised torija (which happens to be somewhere in Guadalajara, but turned out to be brioche deftly grilled or was it toasted on the hotplate (I tend to treat desserts like second class citizens unless they're french), before being gently persuaded into crisp submission by a welders torch, served with orange and grapefruit). I'd been protesting the waste of a plate on dessert all evening.... just desserts as they say. To say it was sublime is inadequate. To say it was a nuked brioche is fatuous. A sensory overload. I would have gone down on my knees for another helping (if Mimi hadn't evoked seven generations of Guha solidarity towards utter humiliation for younger siblings). A mouthful of melting, barely there sweetness and firm brioche bite conflicting with the crunch of the caramalised edge. Utterly orgasmic. Chef, I'm begging.....