A Culinary Roller Coaster

Jose Andres' latest adventure offers plenty of thrills -- and some notable chills

Minibar
In Cafe Atlantico, 405 Eighth St. NW (near D Street) 202-393-0812
Open: for dinner Tuesday through Thursday 5 to 10 p.m., Friday and Saturday 5 to 11 p.m. Closed Sunday and Monday. All major credit cards. Reservations required. No smoking. Not wheelchair accessible. Metro: Archives/Navy Memorial. Valet parking. Prices: fixed-price dinner $65 per person. Full dinner with wine, tax and tip about $100 per person.

From the moment I made my reservation at Minibar, I knew it wasn't going to be the usual three courses, whip out the credit card, and "good night, thanks for coming."

Chef Jose Andres, the indefatigable spirit behind this new restaurant-within-a-restaurant on the second floor of Cafe Atlantico (as well as the restaurants Jaleo and Zaytinya), never does anything halfway. And everything I'd heard through the grapevine indicated that Minibar would be as much an event as a meal.

With just six stools lined up along a copper counter, the venue could pass for a high-tech sushi bar. On any given night, there are at least two chefs behind that counter, responsible for cranking out the more than 30 small plates that make up Andres' labor-intensive $65 tasting menu. Control freaks, take note: In lieu of a printed list of dishes, diners keep track of what they eat by watching a video monitor, a nonstop montage of descriptions. Hands are the utensils of choice here, and nothing is quite what you think it is.

Andres is a disciple of one of the world's most imaginative chefs, Ferran Adria of the fabled El Bulli in Spain. Adria is known for his big bag of food tricks -- soups that race from hot to cold in a single sip, unexpected but companionable combinations -- and for reminding us that food isn't merely fuel but entertainment. But do I really want to begin this adventure with a tiny bowl of "curry chicken" popcorn? The introductory snack lives down to its name and gives me pause, as in: How many courses until this is over? My disappointment lasts about 15 seconds, though, swept away by some wavy sails of plantain, sweet potato and malanga chips and, a minute later, by the arrival of a slender silver dispenser the size of a breath freshener. "Spray it into your mouth a few times," instructs chef Katsuya Fukushima, who shares this stage with Andres at Cafe Atlantico. Diners look at each other and giggle nervously, daring each other to go first. A couple of finger presses and our mouths fill with the bright taste of lime, mint and rum. It doesn't take a chemist to tell us we're enjoying . . . a mojito, the tropical cocktail.

"This is going to be fun," I think to myself, only to mentally retract the notion after being handed what looks like a chocolate truffle, and starts out like a truffle, before yielding to a rivulet of liquid foie gras and tamarind juice on the tongue. Dark chocolate plus liver plus tart fruit does not add up to a very good time. But the next course -- two miniature cones with a mince of tomato and fresh basil, and lox and capers with cream cheese -- redeems the chefs, as does a mini-parade of "ravioli" shaved from vegetables and fruit, the best of which is a bright mouthful of tuna seviche tucked in a sheer wrap of jicama, followed by avocado ignited with hot pepper sauce in a thin fold of mango. The city's tiniest Caesar salad -- picture thin bands of jicama around Barbie doll portions of romaine, bitty croutons, anchovies and fine grated Parmesan -- is also one of its finest. "You didn't think you'd have to cook tonight, did you?" asks chef Fukushima as he directs us to break the quail egg provided on the plate and use it to dress the Lilliputian salad. Later, the group is coached in how to eat "Maine lobster on the half shell." The presentation involves a plastic syringe filled with a rich and pure lobster emulsion, which diners shoot into their mouths. Whoopee! (And watch where you aim!)

Thrilling highs -- and a few crashing lows -- are around every corner of this roller coaster ride. Chile-laced conch fritters filled with a light bechamel take diners on a wild trip to Key West in one zesty bite. And a "deconstructed" guacamole translates into a spicy tomato sorbet on a creamy fan of avocado. On the other hand, Altoids crushed over a bite of fish or Pop Rocks candy stirred into mango soup are gimmicks that wear thin fast. And while I like the saline accent of caviar in a potato mousse, the whip would be better off without the addition of vanilla. I have to admit to falling in like with one of Andres' more bizarre creations: A bite of foie gras suspended in a cloud of cotton candy is better than it sounds, lightly rich and subtly sweet.

A performance at Minibar (there are two to three seatings per night) lasts about two hours, and the show is never dull. To keep things interesting for chefs and patrons alike, Andres swaps dishes -- and surprises -- in and out of the repertoire. My bill arrived, not in a folder, but in an eggshell, which a waitress proceeded to smash on the counter; instead of a mess of yolk, I found a clean paper receipt. But another diner at another meal might get a fortune cookie with the tab tucked inside. It just depends.

"What will be next?" the 34-year-old Andres asks himself. It's no secret he is eager to open an even more personal statement. "I don't know." One thing is for certain: It would be a neat trick for him to top Minibar. Whatever the chef has up his sleeve, I want to be front and center to see it.

Ask Tom

David Goodhand and some friends recently went to Bombay Palace downtown, arriving at the Indian restaurant shortly after 10 p.m., about 25 minutes before the posted closing time. "We were escorted to the table with nary a word said about the lateness of the hour," writes the Washington reader, who noted that there were others in the dining room, including some fresh arrivals like themselves. With menus in hand but before their drink orders were taken, a waiter told Goodhand and friends that they had to order immediately, even though they weren't ready, and that all the food would come out at once. Sure enough, reports Goodhand, "it did." At 10:40, while the trio was still eating, "the waiter put our check down and indicated that it had to be paid at once." Again, they did as they were told and returned to their meals. Just then, however, "the staff began turning out the lights, and indeed, even turned out the lights in the fish tank adjacent to our table. We took this not-so-subtle hint and vacated the premises at 10:50 p.m." Goodhand said that while they had no intention of dawdling in the restaurant, they did assume they could eat at a normal pace. "Instead," he concluded, "it was as if we had unintentionally registered for the Nathan's hot dog-eating contest at Coney Island." Reached for comment, manager N.K. Singh said that the rush job was not the restaurant's policy; even diners arriving just before 10:30 should have been allowed at least an hour to enjoy their food. Well, yes. As for the dimmed lights, Singh could offer only that "the aquarium lights go off automatically."

Got a dining question? Send your thoughts, wishes and, yes, even gripes to asktom@washpost.com or to Ask Tom, The Washington Post Magazine, 1150 15th St. NW, Washington, D.C. 20071. Please include daytime telephone number.

A parade of dishes makes up a meal at Minibar: clockwise from top left, mozzarella-tomato "injection," "deconstructed" guacamole, foie gras in cotton candy, and mango soup.