Going Rogue 24
By Tom Sietsema
Sunday, May 6, 2012

Sometime between 6:35 and 9:45 on a recent weeknight, in a restaurant hidden off Blagden Alley in Northwest Washington, a smiling cook places no ordinary egg in front of me.

"Here we have," he begins, an Araucana chicken egg poached at 63 degrees Celsius... topped with crumbled barley cocoa, sun-dried tomatoes, hazelnuts and grated bottarga... served in dashi made with tuna spine... and finished with wildflowers and micro-greens.

The composition is soft, crisp, fishy - fascinating.

By the end of the evening, my tablemate and I will also lick food off a miniature pedestal, nibble on "lava rocks," devour a cumulus cloud of flavored air, munch on vegetable "paper" and make our way through a cup of coffee that's more solid than liquid, cold rather than hot - and one of the most pleasing desserts in recent memory.

I could write a book about Rogue 24, the avant-garde dinner theater launched in a former auto garage in July by R.J. Cooper, who shared the 2007 James Beard award for cooking in the Mid-Atlantic for his work at the three-star Vidalia. Allow me instead to give you the short-story version of one of the most interactive restaurant experiences this city has seen since Jose Andres introduced his magic show at Minibar in 2003.

Named in part for the way Cooper pushed the culinary envelope at Vidalia ("You're going rogue on me!" his boss Jeff Buben used to caution him), Rogue 24 is as much food laboratory as dining room. This is made clear the moment you step inside the lounge, where a rotary evaporator for extracting essences sits on display, and again deeper into the exposed-brick restaurant, where black ash wood tables ring a center-stage kitchen energized by a small army of chefs.

Rogue 24 burst on the scene with the kind of hype typically reserved for new vampire movies. Cooper had lured to his project some of the best in the business; diners were asked to fill out a reservation contract with almost as many questions as a home-loan application (since streamlined, thank goodness).

Giddy buzz gave way to sober headlines, first when some of the talent parted ways with the chef, and then in January, when Cooper announced he was taking time off for heart surgery. Chef pals, he explained, would fill his shoes while he recovered. Cooper's devotees sighed with relief when he returned, healthier than before, in early March.

You may hear some of this straight from the ringleader himself. Like everyone else on his staff, Cooper personalizes the meal - of late a choice between 16 courses or a whopping 24 - by delivering his creations in person and talking diners through them.

Cooper and crew are constantly tweaking the script, so no two meals are apt to be the same, but you're likely to start with a slender tray of snacks that include fried barbecue pork rind dabbed with a whip of emulsified Wonder bread and a dime-size tomato wafer filled with Parmesan cream (the staff dubs them "Oreos") perched on the aforementioned china pedestal.

I'm smitten with some arrangements. A pink fold of gingery Japanese snapper on a puddle of coconut-yuzu vinaigrette is an elegant idea that would look right at home on the omakase menu at the sublime Sushi Taro. Robust minced lamb nestled with a dab of yogurt sprinkled with smoked salt is designed to be eaten as if it were a Greek taco. The snack is so luscious, I could eat a bag of them. Snails fed on basil ("TMI!" a friend protests) sit atop ham gelee and alongside silken potato puree.

A single bite of other concoctions proves sufficient. A salad called "Foraged" - sometimes more than 20 local greens - shock the palate with excessive bitterness one chew and with unfortunate sweetness another. I adore foie gras, but ribbons of frozen duck liver shaved over dehydrated strawberries is like licking a stick of flavored butter. The attention lavished on developing fresh ideas does not always apply to careful handling of ingredients. I abandoned a collection of squab, asparagus and mushrooms when I encountered grit in the mix, and a Tootsie roll-size piece of lamb served with a sail of dehydrated orange was undone by dry meat.

"This is sea floor," announces a cook-server as we look down on a bed of seaweed topped with sea urchin and dressed with "lava" made with squid ink and a lather of sparkling wine and yeast that mimics sea foam. ("Air" and "bubbles" make frequent appearances throughout dinner.) Sure enough, the combination conjures an enticing ocean breeze - for me, at least. My fellow diner is less enthusiastic, comparing the sensation to "getting knocked over by a wave and getting a mouthful of saltwater." The elements are plucked from their plate using surgical tongs, "the most stolen thing in the house," reports Cooper.

Regular or premium? you'll be asked at Rogue 24, which offers the option of two tiers of liquids. Starting a meal of such significance with a pina colada sounds like boarding a Carnival Cruise ship to Puerto Rico. Leave it to mixologist Bryan Tetorakis to convince you that his "snow" of powdered coconut and pineapple in your glass, aided by a shot of high-end rum, is a drink that quickly grows on you. The drinks master is as frequent a visitor to the table as the sommeliers. As much as I've enjoyed their wine pairings (2010 Daedalus gruner veltliner, 2011 Charles and Charles syrah rose), Tetorakis's sophisticated cocktails drive home how expertly they match Cooper's complex food.

Even 16 courses sound epic, but the Lilliputian dishes (pity the dishwasher!) are never more than two or three bites. If you don't care for something, fine. It's here and then gone. But the same is true of creations you might admire. They deserve more contemplation. Eating at Rogue 24 feels like getting an hour to tour the Prado.

The concept, with its constant interruptions and precious explanations, could be fodder for a sketch on "Saturday Night Live." (A pinch of dried citrus is identified as "shattered orange.") But even the most experienced restaurant patron can learn something from a meal. At a recent dinner in April, I was schooled about sea honey, combed from bee hives off Canada's East Coast and pleasantly evocative of the ocean.

Dining in this warmly lit retreat is a serious investment in time (only go with someone you already love) and money. With drinks, tax and tip, admission to "The Journey," the grandest of the menus, costs about $500 a couple. But you don't have to be Adrienne Arsht to get a taste of Rogue 24. Cooper offers an a la carte menu in the front salon that includes 15 of the novelties served in the dining room.

How much you enjoy Rogue 24 depends a lot on your sense of adventure, your patience and your credit card balance - and whether you think dinner should be a science class, a celebration or a break from home cooking.

Rogue 24 is all of the above.