create a dish, I start by drawing it in my notebook.” He finds his
notebook and shows me a few examples.
Martin’s painterly side comes through quite clearly when we
start working on his beet salad. The elements are fairly simple:
oven-roasted red and yellow beets, toasted pecans, herbs, and a
cumin oil. On a lark, I ask if I can try plating it first to see how far
off I am from the way he would plate it.
“Sure,” he says, a skeptical look on his face.
I study the white plate for a moment. Martin has red beets in
one bowl and yellow beets in another so the red don’t stain the
yellow. With a spoon I lift a red beet and plop it in the center of
the plate. Then with another spoon I lift a yellow beet and place it
next to the red one. I continue this way until all the beets are in a
line.
“That’s one way to do it,” he says, placing the beets back in
their bowls and wiping off the plate. “But I would’ve gone more
organic, separating them at different points on the plate so we
appreciate them all. Then we can add the green.”
The delicacy with which Martin plates his version is
remarkable considering that back when he worked in Las Vegas (at
Joël Robuchon), he used to race cars through canyons in the
desert. But his finished plate is masterly, a still life of beets and
apples that belongs as much on a gallery wall as it does on a dinner
table.
“Is there any correlation between the work you do at the
restaurant and racing?” I ask, after we’ve devoured his lamb shanks