Theater of food

Diners at The Kitchen don’t receive a menu. They receive a program. It’s divided into seven acts, and, yes, there’s an intermission.

The Kitchen is full of such playful touches. And thinking of The Kitchen as a theater instead of a restaurant makes shelling out $135 for dinner—plus more for wine pairings, tax and tip—feel a little less absurd.

Guests all eat together, like a giant dinner party. And unlike most dinner parties, no part of The Kitchen is off-limits to guests. I felt a thrill in knowing I could open up all the refrigerators and stick my nose anywhere I pleased, though I resisted.

Then, executive chef John Griffiths signaled, and his team huddled for a pep talk. The show was about to begin.

We took our seats at a U-shaped bar, with a perfect view of Griffiths manning the stove and his cooks preparing to plate 50 dishes at a time.

Griffiths is still relatively new to The Kitchen, considering the establishment’s multidecade-long history. Up until 2005, chef-owner Randall Selland ran the show with a big, bold personality. An injury forced him to the side, and he asked his chef de cuisine Noah Zonca to take the helm. Zonca followed Selland’s theatrical lead, but eventually bailed to open Capital Dime in Midtown. Selland had to, for the first time, hire someone new to run his baby. After a several-monthslong national search, he landed on Griffiths, a fine-dining chef from Detroit by way of St. Louis.

Griffiths is quieter, perhaps more refined. But he’s not stuffy—his speech is peppered with dry wit and self-deprecation.

His work stays true to The Kitchen’s commitment to seasonal, artistically plated cuisine. The menu changes every month, but it’s always five courses with a glorious intermission and tea service.

On a recent evening in April, we started with chilled, minty pea soup, served with creamy pea pudding, cured scallops and Sterling Caviar. The textural contrasts were lovely, and I sopped up every drop with vadouvan curried brioche. Butter-roasted asparagus arrived next, prepared in the vein of French culinary legend Alain Passard. The stalks are cooked in a pan standing up, so the bottoms become soft and buttery, while the tips remain crisp. Vibrant-yellow lemon sabayon and pickled beets dotted the plate, and thin slices of jamón Ibérico—the finest Spanish cured ham—satisfied the carnivores.

At intermission, we stretched our legs and feasted on nibbles placed all over the restaurant. This is a new Griffiths touch. Instead of only the sashimi and oysters galore, he has his cooks prepare their own tasters, and he scatters them so diners are forced to explore. I could barely stop myself from visiting the oyster bar a third time. Another cook prepared faux-lasagna bites. Another, citrusy duck. By the sake bar, “kettle corn” cones of puffed wild rice, amaranth and corn with black-truffle caramel tasted sweet, salty and positively deadly.

The rest of the meal was a blur. Handmade Sardinian, saffron-infused pasta with olives, octopus, red wine and fava beans. Bright-red, incredibly tender wagyu beef with pickled carrots and pepper sauce. Soft, creamy crescenza cheese with strawberries and balsamic that was almost as old as I am.

Diners started to order seconds—because diners can order seconds. Think of it as an expensive, extravagant buffet, where the chefs will walk around to talk baseball with you.

The menu for May features some of the same items—asparagus, beef, strawberries—though they’re prepared in different ways. The value and balance remain consistent.

Granted, I’ve had better food at significantly lower prices. I’ve been more surprised, more excited by flavor combinations and technique at upscale restaurants in other cities for less than $100 pretax. But if you’re considering splurging at The Kitchen, it’s not because of wagyu, anyway. It’s because of the show.