A culinary revolution led by a small, daring group of innovative Spanish chefs has made Spain the new France and Barcelona the new Paris. Ferran Adria, the head chef at El Bulli, perhaps the most famous restaurant in the world right now, led the pack with his cutting-edge foam sauces made with a nitrous oxide charger. Adria’s success turned the Barcelona restaurant scene into the most competitive in the world. Audacious young chefs vie for attention by taking risks and producing dishes that push to the edge of gastronomic shock.
Until January, Anthony C. Bombaci was foaming and fusing as the executive chef at the Ritz-Carlton in Barcelona. The work hours were long, and the time spent with his wife and twin 3-year-old boys was short.
When executive chef David McMillan gave notice at Nana, the Wyndham Anatole launched an international search for his replacement. They zeroed in on Bombaci last October. He flew to Dallas and decided to make the change.
But Dallas may not be ready for all of Bombaci’s changes.
For instance, a scoop of wasabi ice cream on top of a tuna tartare cake. The swirl of passion fruit and soy-sesame coulis completes the illusion of dessert. What is this? An “unnatural” cross-pollination between a pastry and a savory dish? Initially, the mouth and the mind aren’t quite sure what to make of it.
Spain has always had a flair for the surreal—Don Quixote tilting at windmills, Dali’s clocks melting into puddles, Gaudi’s exuberantly warped and brightly colored Gothic buildings. They all challenge our subconscious over our sense of reason. At Nana, Bombaci, like the current Spanish avant-garde culinarians, puts it on the plate.
Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn’t. A martini glass was puffed full of pretty carrot, pineapple, and ginger foam that concealed a chilled dumpling of gelled foie gras. Bombaci calls this a “float.” Nana’s imaginative and personable wine director, Daniel Ha, recommended a Riesling and a fizzy, sweetish Piedmontese “Pineto” to complement it. We tried both, in 3-ounce tasting pours.
But even with meticulous pairings, what our mouths perceived was unappetizingly weird—a cold, lardish liver with a sweet-tart film.
On the other hand, a dessert of tangy Bulgarian yogurt flecked with fennel pollen over tomato marmalade sounded savory at best and, at worst, like a bizarre refugee from a health-nut menu. In no way does the dish’s description read like a treat, a giddy end to a sumptuous meal. But the reality was delicious and unexpected—a light, sweet, rewarding surprise finale to a serious dinner.
Bombaci’s food, at its most extreme, deliberately sets up a conflict between your mind’s taste expectation and actual, in-the-mouth flavor. Much of his menu is a challenge to Dallas diners, who though they eat out often, are not that adventurous. One dining partner, who eats out with me all the time and considers himself a knowledgeable foodie, ordered the tuna and wasabi. “The flavors are fine together,” he said. “But I can’t deal with wasabi as ice cream. In my mind, this flavor is just not supposed to be cold.”
Nana, one of the most confident restaurants in Dallas, has always been open to culinary invention. For years, off and on, Paul Pinnell has been in charge of this room, with its unparalleled views and impeccable service. Southwest Cuisine sparked here; former chefs like Scott Blackerby, Doug Brown, and David McMillan pushed the limits of the Dallas dining imagination. Now Bombaci has gone beyond those limits.
Most of his menu is excellent, gorgeously presented on fancifully shaped white plates, and inventive to an acceptable degree: day boat scallops seared gold, over Parmesan gnocchi crisped like pot stickers; venison with caramelized bananas and a Thai peanut sauce; veal tenderloin with butter-poached lobster bound together by an orange-vanilla emulsion and arranged like a tic-tac-toe board with asparagus spears and salsify sticks.
What does Nana’s kitchen sell the most of?
“Steak,” says Bombaci. Mesquite-grilled filet, with fingerling potatoes and grilled vegetables, is always on the menu, while bone-in ribeyes rotate as specials: wet-aged (pretty, pink, and tender) and dry-aged (excellent, even though it came to me criminally medium well instead of medium rare), half-smothered in béarnaise. In Dallas, dry-aged beef is scarce, and if local diners really knew that aging amounts to controlled rotting, they would probably find that knowledge as disconcerting as wasabi ice cream or duck liver parfait.
Bombaci challenges Dallas diners to go beyond their preconceived idea of delicious. If even a few people dare to meet him halfway, it’s a victory for food as art. Wyndham Anatole Hotel, 2201 Stemmons Fwy. 214-761-7470. $$$.
