By Amy McCarthy
By Scott Reitz
By Scott Reitz
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Alice Laussade
By City of Ate
But Cray was erratic. One story has it that he fought tunnel vision by digging tunnels beneath his hillside home. Another tale says that each year Cray built a sailboat by hand only to torch it at the end of the summer so as not to become a prisoner of his old boat designs and stifle his capacity for innovation.
Perhaps a phobia of creative mustiness is what drives Avner Samuel, the chef who 20 years ago etched his name in Dallas culinary concrete as one of the fathers of Southwestern cuisine. Samuel has shuttled through, birthed and driven a stake into a lengthy string of restaurants including The Mansion, Avner's, Da Spot, Yellow, Avner at Preston, The Joint, Okeanos, Bistro A, Bistro K, Ethniko and Lombardi Mare. Is this caused by an attention deficit, or has Samuel been instinctively feeding his genius all along with nutritive jolts of chaos?
4216 Oak Lawn Ave.
Dallas, TX 75219-2312
Region: Uptown & Oak Lawn
After a couple of visits to Aurora, which Samuel coyly refers to as "a 50-seat eatery...with the finest, most original cuisine of any restaurant in America" on his Web site, it's clear he has been fortifying--rather than squandering--his creative juices during his seemingly aimless whiz through kitchens.
It's also clear that, just like the trajectory of his résumé, Samuel's creativity is impossible to predict. He is, as he modestly suggests, the most fiercely creative cook in Dallas, maybe in America. And the most savagely meticulous.
What Samuel has done with Aurora, named after the Roman goddess of dawn, is take typical Dallas elegance and boil away the sticky pretension, slippery artifice and pointless fusions, leaving an essence of crisp manners, polish and imaginative potency. Bottled water (fizzed or flat) is complimentary. Tables are set with Limoges china, creased linens folded into the shape of rectangular boxes and Christofle silver that includes sauce spoons. Sauce spoons! Almost no one sets tables with these outside of New York or Paris. It must take a kitchen ego the size of a supertanker for it to occur to a chef to equip tables with the necessary implements to scoop up every last precious drop of sauce after the thing it is bathing has been offed. How else to explain this frustrating absence elsewhere?
As with most tables in America before the cholesterol scare and after the Atkins diet rage set in, eating at Aurora begins with eggs. A complimentary brown "farm egg" (they come from other places?) rests upright, with its top sawed off. The egg is filled with a warm savory custard truffle topped with a cool, delicately sweet maple chantilly. It's earthy and smooth, with the luxurious tension of those contrasts easily driving its allure.
But this allure is nothing compared with the oysters. They arrive on a plate pooled in cool cucumber cream with yellow pepper acidulee: little grayish-bronze hooks resembling bass clefs drawn into the surface. The oysters, pepper hooks and small bundles of steely gray sturgeon caviar form links in a loose ring surrounding an isle of salmon roe in the center hoisting a tiny daikon radish sprout. You almost hate to eat it, but eat it you do, down to the final drop of green sauce alarmed by neither acids nor creams nor debased brininess--such was the balance.
Yet balance is in the eye of the beholder. My companion complained halfway through one visit that the richness of the menu was disturbingly unrelenting, a syndrome I rejected (though richness also is in the eye of the beholder, or the gullet of the gourmand). Richness indeed has a cogent footprint here, with creams and custards everywhere. But these were more than offset by emulsions and wine and vinegar sauces.
Sure the velouté of creamy lobster soup is aggressively weighty, but it doesn't slap with the force of old-fashioned gluey sauces or fatty renderings. It comes from a highly extracted, unrelenting shellfish essence left largely to its own forces. Tasting this soup was like licking the sweat from a lobster's carapace. Such singularity takes guts to pull off.
One thing Samuel doesn't mince is words. (Though he won't throw many my way, demanding I never again write another word about him or his work. He also barred the Dallas Observer photographer from the Aurora premises; such is the sting that apparently still festers from a profile of Samuel I wrote in 1998). Despite the floral (but brief, thank God) menu verbiage, the flavors are clear and unfrilly. Pan-roasted Colorado lamb rib and saddle fillet is richly laced with sweet meat flavors and firm silkiness sown with clean but coarse grain.