What kind of a mad chef would do Iranian osetra caviar on chiboust of Yukon potato and Maine lobster with green apple sorbet? Or beef tenderloin with foie gras Rossini with Himalayan truffle potato marble? Poached lobster with chlorophyll tart? All disgorged from a glass jewel-box display kitchen into a dining room nipped and tucked with ultra-suede, exotic wood and Limoges china? If you guessed Avner Samuel, you ain't heavy, just rich. In the annals of fine, fine dining, nothing surpasses Aurora, outside of a set of Michelin stars. You'll know this when Aurora kicks in; when the overbearingly self-important menu prose congeals on the tip of your tongue in a surging rush of paroxysmal glee. Shed a tear of joy. Feel the heat flashes. Grip the smelling salts. Catch your breath. Twitch. Repeat. Just make sure you don't use up all of the smelling salts before the check arrives.