Molecules, Shmolecules

Did you know that molecular gastronomy is out? Neither did I.

Of course, in my neck of the woods it was never really in: this little pastoral corner of Pennsylvania has yet to experience so much as a glass of bubble tea, much less foams, airs, gelees, and other examples of alimentary arcana. That is why the gods invented spherification kits, the Port Authority Bus Terminal, and Boeing commercial jets. Between the three, I have been able to keep up with cutting edge culinary trends to some degree.

Still, it comes as a bit of a shock to hear that yet another foodie fad has come and gone without so much as a ripple caused in the Valley's lakes of ketchup and barbecue sauce.

According to John Lanchester and The New Yorker, it is now passe to use the term 'molecular gastronomy' when describing the sort of cooking pioneered by Nicholas Kurti back in the 60s and since taken up enthusiastically by such luminaries as Sts. Ferran Adria, Heston Blumenthal, Grant Achatz, and Wylie Dufresne. Not to mention *shudder* Marcel Vigneron on his new Syfy series, Marcel's Quantum Kitchen (DVRd but as yet unseen by me).  

I do understand the reasons why the descriptor has fallen into disfavor. All cooking is molecular, whether you are boiling rice or baking a gluten-free cake. The benefits of, say, copper bowls for whipping egg whites have been known (if not properly understood) since time immemorial. You can't cook without a certain appreciation of the chemical arts.

So 'molecular gastronomy' is now 'modernist cuisine'. The new designation may be more strictly accurate but it is also less self-explanatory. It emphasizes inaccessibility and mystique, to be sure, a break from locavore enthusiasts and ingredients mavens who value the simple (albeit flawless) presentation of fresh proteins and veg. Like many modernist movements, it widens the gulf between the steely-eyed professional and the wide-eyed amateur by stressing the sad truth that it is no longer possible for home cooks to emulate a fine restaurant meal at home, if the restaurant in question happens to have anti-griddles, rotary evaporators, and centrifuges.

All of which philosophizing brings me round to my current conundrum: how badly do I require a copy of the latest herniating foodie folio, Modernist Cuisine, by Nathan Myrhvold and his team?

When I last looked, this definitive account of the very latest developments in kitchen tech was unavailable for Kindle, which is too bad because the dead tree version weighs in at 46 pounds and 2,438 pages. Amazon is hawking it (or them, really, since the work is contained in five volumes) for the super-low discounted price of $461. There are currently no copies available to purchase online, so somebody must be buying. 

I would have to sell my first-born to be able to afford it, but that might be a reasonable sacrifice considering the riches contained within. Exquisite photographic cutaways of pot roast set-ups and cross sections of woks in action! Exhaustive explanations of low-acyl gellan and carboxymethyl cellulose! Why, I bet in the index one can even find Gluten (why it is evil) under G and Lactose (friend or foe?) under L.

Even without buying the book, I have uncovered in its reviews a most valuable piece of validating information. Remember January's caramelized white chocolate panna cotta episode? Of course you do. Turns out, I was not imagining that the choice of roasting vessel could double, or even triple, a recipe's estimated cooking time. According to Myrhvold et al (in their discussion of wet bulb temperatures) the choice of bakeware can cause variations up to thirty-six degrees. And don't forget humidity! At the time of my crisis I didn't even consider that as an operational nonconformance factor, but it can cause an additional variation of up to eighteen degrees. By my calculations, that's a possible error of fifty-four degrees, even without relocating oneself to a higher altitude!

I wouldn't have been so nonplussed and demoralized during my sea-level snafu if I'd had the wisdom of Modernist Cuisine by my side.

The Kid Squid had better beware.