It's a dead ringer for a sculpture garden, this cluster of roasted gold and blackened blood-red beets, carved into silos and cubes and slithery rectangles, resting near dunes of sea salt. Bullet dabs of oil, suspending pulverized basil, chive, parsley and garlic hug the plate edges, while tufts of amaretto crème frâiche fill in spaces between the silos and delicate pelts of warm Camembert. These little points of intensity counterpoint and compete with the earthy beet—a contemporary cultural expression of this historic foodstuff as much cogent commentary as it is tasty thrill. Or so an art critic might say before he's pummeled with an artichoke.