February 15, 2005
Crimson, 405 Colorado
"Fusion" is rapidly becoming one of our more useless gastronomical terms, and not just because any upscale establishment whose name doesn't begin with "Le" can reasonably be assumed to be practicing some form of fusion cuisine. No, the problem with fusion is that what the term implies in theory – a fusing of cuisines or disparate ingredients to form something both new and cohesive – and what fusion so often results in in reality – say, a ribeye with hoison sauce on top – are often worlds apart. Perhaps that's why so few chefs even use the word these days, preferring instead to cook what they feel like cooking and let the diners and the critics figure out the proper labels.
The term persists, however, and in downtown Austin you can't throw a panko-encrusted lamb chop without hitting a fusion restaurant or two. The latest entry in the culinary miscegenation department is "Crimson," (in the former Gilligan's space) an establishment that wears "Fusion" with a capital F prominently on its shoulder. Crimson's particular brand of alchemy involves the pairing of "Southern Comfort Food" with Asian sauces and ingredients, reinforcing the nagging feeling I've always had that what fusion really means is that adding the word "lemongrass" to any entreé description will fetch an additional $5 per dish.
The danger with something so novel as what Crimson is attempting is that the line between novel and novelty is as thin as a stalk of the aforementioned aromatic herb; even if you pull it off, how often will diners come back once the sensation has passed? I guess we'll find out soon enough, but in the meantime, Crimson at the very least can serve as a case study in everything that's wrong with fusion cooking these days.
The danger with something so novel as what Crimson is attempting is that the line between novel and novelty is as thin as a stalk of the aforementioned aromatic herb; even if you pull it off, how often will diners come back once the sensation has passed? I guess we'll find out soon enough, but in the meantime, Crimson at the very least can serve as a case study in everything that's wrong with fusion cooking these days.
Dinner at Crimson opens firmly rooted on the Southern side, with a glass plate (rectangular, mind you, like a sushi dish) of jalapeño cornbread muffins and sweet glazed pecans. The pecans kick you with a secret dash of cayenne, but the muffins are dry and served at room temperature with no butter; why even bother? Presenting the menu, the server takes great pains to explain the theoretical underpinnings of fusion cuisine, or at least that there's going to be some crazy sauce you've never had on pork chops before. While the typography on said menu is exquisite, there are a number of things that just don't sound right. Asian Jambalaya with curry mushrooms and coconut milk? No thank you. I've dined on grilled intestines in Patagonia and some things I couldn't even identify in Cambodia, but I don't want coconut milk in my jambalaya. Call me a traditionalist.
We opt for a cup of gumbo and a "Plantation" salad (who came up with that?), followed by a fried pork chop on one side of the table and a fried chicken breast on the other. The turkey and sausage gumbo is pleasantly dark-looking but thin as water; they even bring you filé to thicken it, helpfully explaining the purpose of filé and its provenance in the sassafras tree. Why they feel the customer should decide the thickness of the gumbo is beyond me; a dark-roux, meat-based gumbo should be naturally thick, the filé reserved for thinner and lighter seafood varieties. The plantation salad evokes no feelings of plantation life, though it is quite tasty, if unoriginal; well-dressed greens with plenty of blue cheese, shaved pecorino, more of those spicy pecans, and a couple of slices of marinated pear that feel conspicuously like beets in the mouth.
The entreés are partially successful. My chicken breast is coated with a pleasantly toothsome breading and served on garlic mashers with green beans laced with plenty of tasso. The chicken comes sauced with a sweet, soy-based reduction that would probably be tastier with beef but seems to work reasonably well. However, I don't find this dish any more satisfying than the fried chicken breast at Hoover's, where the breading actually holds on to the breast, the meat is juicier, and the damage is at least $7 less. Next time I'm at Hoover's, I'll order it without cream gravy and douse it with hoison sauce and see if I can save you all a few bucks.
Our other entrée is a fried pork chop, so popular as a special that they had to make it a permanent menu item. Considering that the place has only been open 4 months, this seems a bit much, but we buy the hype and order it. Hammered thin and coated in a fine-textured breading, its striking resemblance to another type of ethnic dish is probably unintentional - it looks just like Austrian weinerschnitzel. Fortunately, this one is more tender and subtle than its unwitting doppleganger, but flavor and character in general are lacking. If fusion is happening here, maybe it's the breading - it's not unlike that which coats the unidentifiable fried meats so popular in smoky Tokyo beer bars - but it isn't very compelling. Quick, pass me the hoison sauce.
Crimson was probably only one-third full on a Friday night; whether that was because of the holiday weekend (Labor Day in this case), the horrifying dearth of parking in the warehouse district, or the food is hard to tell. The service is fine, the wine list is small but decent, and the overall dining experience was pleasant, but something isn't clicking with the food. Call me a crank, but I don't want soy sauce on my chicken fried steak any more than I want cream gravy on my sashimi; some cuisines just have an inherent limit on cross-pollination. Successful fusion cuisine not only creates new tastes but shows you new ways to think about them. It is a Raushcenberg collage, not an Angora goat with a tire around its belly.
Posted by brentbuford at 11:10 PM | Comments (0)