December 10, 2013
There is a lot of hype going on around Wolvesmouth, the LA underground supper club / “culinary happening” that’s so fucking hip that it had a residency at the Santa Monica Museum of Art. It’s easy to see how Wolvesmouth could be passed over as overly pretentious bull. It’s one of the hardest tables to book in LA (probably even moreso than Trois Mec, due to high demand and its curated lottery system). The locations is secret, and you don’t get directions until the morning of the dinner. The plates themselves often look like Jackson Pollock paintings.
I am here to tell you: Wolvesmouth, both the experience and the food, is not bullshit.
ribeye cap. plantain. broc stalk. piña. mint aioli. queso fresco. broc tempura. black bean soubise.
Consider: this dinner takes place in someone’s home. Therefore, all of the cooking is done with the limitations of a home kitchen. Churning out nine courses from that space is impressive in itself. They may have two fridges, but your stove is probably better than theirs.
crab. cauliflower. turnip. cabbage. cider. brussels. apples. cabbage.
The food is way less postmodern than internet research would have you believe. Possibly due to the home kitchen environment, there are no foams, no spherification, no gimmicks. (Not that I’m anti-foam or anything, but sometimes it’s a bit too much.) For all the painterly flourishes and pretty platings, this is all honest food, sometimes with unexpectedly homey flavors. Really tasty stuff, folks. I’m not going to break it down dish by dish (as there are lots of other bloggers who have done that, and done it better than I ever could). Honestly, if you go, you won’t have the same menu I did.
ocean trout. marscapone. onion jam. profiterole. candied lemon geleé. snap pea. yellow wax.