Scott.
Tucking into that daube of beef, or Scott's sweetbreads, was fun for me
and my appreciative crew. What's he doing, we wanted to know, while
examining a particular item we hadn't tried yet. How is he dealing with
mackerel? Then we'd find out.
Everything on Scott's plates is edible. It's food, first and foremost, to be
eaten, not looked at—though his presentations are inspired. Try and
imagine the clean, unfussy integrity of Japanese cuisine, with the
unrestrained flavors and soul-food heartiness of a well-remembered
Grandma's best dish. He was braising economy cuts. He was taking
greasy, oily fishes that nobody wanted and making magic. He was
presenting it in big bowls in pretty stacks where—if you jammed your
fork through all three layers—you got something that combined to
actually taste good. He wasn't piling food on top of itself because layer
one looked good on top of layer two and three. It tasted good that way.
And those big bowls? At Indigo, and at Veritas, when something comes
in a big bowl it's because there's gonna be sauce left in the bottom;
chances are, you're going to be running a crust of bread around in there
and mopping it up when the entree has been eaten.
It's why Scott has three stars and I don't.
It's why he probably won't be getting four stars anytime soon. His food is
too good—and too much fun to eat. You feel you can put your elbows on
the table in a Scott Bryan-Gino Diaferia restaurant and get about the
serious business of tasting and smelling and chewing the good stuff.
I asked Scott if he thinks about food after work. When he's lying in bed
in the dark, is he thinking about what he's going to run for special
tomorrow? He said no. "I come in, see what's on the market. I wing it,"
he replied. I didn't believe him.