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U sal glad nie in die nuwe restaurant van David Chang kan ingaan nie

U sal glad nie in die nuwe restaurant van David Chang kan ingaan nie


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David Chang van Momofuku het nog 'n ander restaurant in New York, maar u sal glad nie binne kan gaan nie

Die restaurant sal slegs by aflewering aangebied word, met 'n toegewyde app wat aanvanklik Midtown Manhattan sal bedien.

David Chang - die sjef agter die wêreldwye Momofuku -restaurantryk, insluitend die onlangs geopende Momofuku Nishi in die Chelsea -woonbuurt in New York - het planne vir nog 'n restaurant, maar jy sal nie daarheen kan gaan nie.

En dit is die punt.

Chang se jongste onderneming, genaamd Ando, ​​is 'n uitsluitlik afleweringsrestaurant wat hierdie lente in New York 'sal oopmaak'. Die restaurant neem bestellings van 'n mobiele app af, en UberRush lewer aflewerings af.

As dit oopmaak, sal Ando (soos Chang se ander projekte, vernoem na Momofuku Ando, ​​die uitvinder van kitsraan), middagete by Midtown -Oos lewer en dan vertrek. Die spyskaart, wat nie bekend gemaak is nie, sal deur Chang en J.J. Basil, voorheen 'n sjef by Wylie Dufresne se WD ~ 50.

Tot dusver beplan Chang om gebraaide hoender uit die suide aan te bied, wat uiteindelik in emmers, kaassteak en mapo-tofu in reuse KFC-styl verkoop kan word. Christina Tosi, die bekroonde gebaksjef van Milk Bar, sal drie koekies maak wat uitsluitlik by Ando beskikbaar sal wees.

"Dit is kos vir almal en ... nie vir almal nie, wat 'n vreemde stelling is, maar ek dink dit maak sin," het Chang aan Fast Company gesê. 'Ek voel asof ons alles saamvoeg wat ons wil eet. Dit is basies dit. ”


Heerlikheid

My eerste restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, het 'n oop kombuis. Dit was nie uit eie keuse nie - ek het nie genoeg geld of ruimte gehad om dit verder van die eetplekke af te sit nie. Maar om voor my kliënte te kook, het die manier waarop ek na kos kyk, verander. In die beginjare, ongeveer 2004, het ons elke dag nuwe resepte geïmproviseer, en ek kon onmiddellik sien wat werk en wat nie deur te kyk hoe mense eet. 'N Fantastiese gereg tref jou soos 'n Whip-It: daar is 'n kort tydjie van opgewondenheid, 'n kort rimpel van pure plesier in die kontinuum van die ruimtetyd. Dit is waarna ek gejaag het, daardie split sekonde as iemand iets so lekker proe dat hul gesprek skielik ontspoor en hulle iets goeds verbyster asof hulle hul toon steek.

Die Momofuku varkbroodjie was ons eerste gereg wat konsekwent hierdie soort reaksie gekry het. Dit was 'n byvoeging van die 11de uur, 'n saamgevoegde ding. Ek neem 'n varkpens, bedek dit met hoisin -sous, uie en komkommers en sit dit in gestoomde brood. Ek was net besig om 'n weergawe van my gunsteling Peking -eendbroodjies te maak, met varkpens waar die eend was. Maar mense was mal oor hulle. Hulle gesigte het gesmelt. Die woord het versprei, en spoedig het mense tougestaan ​​vir hierdie broodjies.

Dit het my maatstaf geword: ek sou vra: 'Is hierdie gereg goed genoeg om in die stad te kom en in die tou te wag? Indien nie, is dit nie wat ons soek nie. ” 'N Sjef kan jare lank wees voordat hy nog so 'n gereg kry. Ons was gelukkig: Treffers het op die minste verwagte tyd en plek gekom. Ek het weke op 'n gereg bestee waaroor baie min mense sou omgee. En dan spandeer ek 15 minute aan iets wat mense soos die varkbroodjie laat vloei.

Augustus 2016. Teken in op WIRED

Glo my, niemand is meer verbaas hieroor as ek nie. Kook, as 'n fisiese aktiwiteit, kom my nie natuurlik nie. Dit het nog nooit. Om te vergoed vir my gebrek aan behendigheid, spoed en tegniek, dink ek voortdurend aan kos. Eintlik is ek baie sterker om aan kos te dink as om dit te kook. En onlangs het ek patrone in ons suksesvolste geregte begin sien wat daarop dui dat ons treffers nie heeltemal toevallig was nie; daar is 'n stel onderliggende wette wat dit met mekaar verbind. Ek het gesukkel om dit onder woorde te bring, en ek het nie daaroor met my mede -sjefs gepraat nie, want ek is bekommerd dat hulle sal dink ek is mal. Maar ek dink daar is iets daaraan, en daarom deel ek dit nou vir die eerste keer. Ek noem dit die Unified Theory of Deliciousness.

Verwante verhale

8 kosvoorbereidingsprogramme waarmee u 'n ninja in die kombuis kan maak

Die aanvang van David Chang is 'n restaurant sonder 'n restaurant

Momofuku plaas vorm, bakterieë op die spyskaart

Dit klink waarskynlik absoluut belaglik, maar die teorie is gegrond op 'n klas wat ek op die universiteit gevolg het, Advanced Logic. 'N Filosoof met die naam Howard DeLong het dit geleer dat hy een van die boeke geskryf het wat Douglas Hofstadter direk geïnspireer het om te skryf Gödel, Escher, Bach. Die eerste dag het hy gesê: 'Hierdie klas sal jou lewe verander', en ek het gesê: 'Watter soort gat is dit?' Maar hy was reg. Ek sou nooit voorgee dat ek 'n kundige in logika is nie, en ek het dit nooit reggekry nie Gödel, Escher, Bach. Maar die idees en konsepte wat ek van daardie klas weggeneem het, het my sedertdien agtervolg.

DeLong en Hofstadter het albei groot skoonheid gevind in wat laasgenoemde noem vreemde lusse -gevalle waar wiskundige stelsels of kunswerke of musiekstukke op hulself terugvou. M. C. Escher se tekeninge is 'n uitstekende, duidelike voorbeeld hiervan. Neem sy beroemde foto van twee hande wat mekaar trek en dit is onmoontlik om te sê waar dit begin of eindig. As u so 'n vreemde lus tref, verander dit u standpunt: skielik dink u nie net aan wat in die prentjie gebeur wat u dink oor die stelsel wat dit verteenwoordig nie en u reaksie daarop.

Ek het eers onlangs besef: Miskien is dit moontlik om sommige van hierdie idees ook in kos uit te druk. Ek sal hulle moontlik nooit kan hoor of teken of wiskunde verander nie. Maar ek sal wed dat ek hulle kan proe. As ek terugkyk oor die jare, dink ek dat 'n weergawe van die konsepte my gehelp het om 'n paar van ons gewildste geregte te vind.

'As 'n gereg perfek gekruid is, smaak dit terselfdertyd asof dit te veel sout en te min sout bevat. Dit is daartoe verbind om beide tegelyk te wees. ” | David Chang dra 'n Michael Kors -trui Levi's jeans Satellite Wave -horlosie van Citizen. Joe Pugliese

My eerste deurbraak op hierdie idee was met sout. Dit is die mees basiese bestanddeel, maar dit kan ook baie kompleks wees. 'N Sjef kan mal raak om uit te vind hoeveel sout by 'n gereg gevoeg moet word. Maar ek glo daar is 'n objektief korrekte hoeveelheid sout, en dit is gewortel in 'n teen -intuïtiewe idee. Normaalweg dink ons ​​dat 'n gebalanseerde gereg nie te sout of te versout is nie. Ek dink dit is verkeerd. As 'n gereg perfek gekruid is, smaak dit terselfdertyd asof dit te veel sout en te min sout het. Dit is ten volle daartoe verbind om beide tegelyk te wees.

Probeer dit self. Giet 'n paar glase water met verskillende hoeveelhede sout daarin. Terwyl u dit proe, dink goed na of daar te veel of te min sout is. As u aanhou eksperimenteer, tref u uiteindelik hierdie lieflike plek. U sal dink dat dit te sag is, maar sodra u die gedagte gevorm het, sal u dit skielik te sout vind. Dit wankel. En sodra u die sensasie ervaar, verseker ek dat dit in u kop sal wees wanneer u iets vir die res van u lewe proe.

'As wiskundige stelsels of musiekstukke in 'n lus op hulself terugvou, is dit pragtig. Miskien is daar 'n manier om dit ook met kos te doen. " David Chang

Dit is 'n bietjie soos die beroemde leuenaar se paradoks, wat ons in DeLong se klas bestudeer het. Hier is 'n weergawe daarvan: 'Die volgende sin is waar. Die voorafgaande sin is onwaar. ” Sodra u die eerste sin aanvaar, valideer u die tweede sin, wat die eerste sin ongeldig maak, wat die tweede sin ongeldig maak, wat die eerste sin bekragtig, en aan en aan.

Die meeste mense sal hierdie gevoel nooit opmerk nie, maar hulle sal net waardeer dat die kos lekker smaak. Maar onder die oppervlak het die soutparadoks 'n baie kragtige effek, omdat dit u baie bewus maak van wat u eet en u eie reaksie daarop. Dit gryp jou aan, en dit hou jou in die oomblik en dink oor wat jy proe. En dit is wat dit heerlik maak.

Dit was vir my 'n belangrike besef, want dit het gelyk asof ek 'n onomwonde wet ontdek het. En ek het gedink as ek een kan vind, moet daar meer wees - 'n stel basispatrone waarop mense inherent reageer. Die uitdaging is toe om die patrone te ontdek en dit in skottel na skottel te herhaal. As u dit kon doen, sou u soos die Berry Gordy van kookkuns wees, sou u die treffers kon uitskakel.


Heerlikheid

My eerste restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, het 'n oop kombuis. Dit was nie uit eie keuse nie - ek het nie genoeg geld of ruimte gehad om dit verder van die eetplekke af te sit nie. Maar om voor my kliënte te kook, het die manier waarop ek na kos kyk, verander. In die beginjare, ongeveer 2004, het ons elke dag nuwe resepte geïmproviseer, en ek kon onmiddellik sien wat werk en wat nie deur te kyk hoe mense eet. 'N Fantastiese gereg tref jou soos 'n Whip-It: daar is 'n kort tydjie van opgewondenheid, 'n kort rimpel van pure plesier in die kontinuum van die ruimtetyd. Dit is waarna ek gejaag het, daardie tweedeling as iemand iets so lekker proe dat hul gesprek skielik ontspoor en hulle iets goedsmoeds uitblaas asof hulle hul tone stamp.

Die Momofuku varkbroodjie was ons eerste gereg wat konsekwent hierdie soort reaksie gekry het. Dit was 'n 11de uur byvoeging, 'n saamgevoegde ding. Ek neem 'n varkpens, bedek dit met hoisin -sous, uie en komkommers en sit dit in gestoomde brood. Ek was net besig om 'n weergawe van my gunsteling Peking -eendbroodjies te maak, met varkpens waar die eend was. Maar mense was mal oor hulle. Hulle gesigte het gesmelt. Die woord het versprei, en spoedig het mense tougestaan ​​vir hierdie broodjies.

Dit het my maatstaf geword: ek sou vra: 'Is hierdie gereg goed genoeg om in die stad te kom wag? Indien nie, is dit nie wat ons soek nie. ” 'N Sjef kan jare lank wees voordat hy nog so 'n gereg kry. Ons was gelukkig: Treffers het op die minste verwagte tyd en plek gekom. Ek het weke op 'n gereg bestee waaroor baie min mense sou omgee. En dan spandeer ek 15 minute aan iets wat mense soos die varkbroodjie laat vloei.

Augustus 2016. Teken in op WIRED

Glo my, niemand is meer verbaas hieroor as ek nie. Kook, as 'n fisiese aktiwiteit, kom my nie natuurlik nie. Dit het nog nooit. Om te vergoed vir my gebrek aan behendigheid, spoed en tegniek, dink ek voortdurend aan kos. Eintlik is ek baie sterker om aan kos te dink as om dit te kook. En onlangs het ek patrone in ons suksesvolste geregte begin sien wat daarop dui dat ons treffers nie heeltemal toevallig was nie; daar is 'n stel onderliggende wette wat dit met mekaar verbind. Ek het gesukkel om dit onder woorde te bring, en ek het nie daaroor met my mede -sjefs gepraat nie, want ek is bekommerd dat hulle sal dink ek is mal. Maar ek dink daar is iets daaraan, en daarom deel ek dit nou vir die eerste keer. Ek noem dit die Unified Theory of Deliciousness.

Verwante verhale

8 kosvoorbereidingsprogramme waarmee u 'n ninja in die kombuis kan maak

Die aanvang van David Chang is 'n restaurant sonder 'n restaurant

Momofuku plaas vorm, bakterieë op die spyskaart

Dit klink waarskynlik absoluut belaglik, maar die teorie is gegrond op 'n klas wat ek op die universiteit gevolg het, Advanced Logic. 'N Filosoof met die naam Howard DeLong het dit geleer dat hy een van die boeke geskryf het wat Douglas Hofstadter direk geïnspireer het om te skryf Gödel, Escher, Bach. Die eerste dag het hy gesê: 'Hierdie klas sal jou lewe verander', en ek het gesê: 'Watter soort gat is dit?' Maar hy was reg. Ek sou nooit voorgee dat ek 'n kundige in logika is nie, en ek het dit nooit reggekry nie Gödel, Escher, Bach. Maar die idees en konsepte wat ek van daardie klas weggeneem het, het my sedertdien agtervolg.

DeLong en Hofstadter het albei groot skoonheid gevind in wat laasgenoemde noem vreemde lusse -gevalle waar wiskundige stelsels of kunswerke of musiekstukke op hulself terugvou. M. C. Escher se tekeninge is 'n uitstekende, duidelike voorbeeld hiervan. Neem sy beroemde foto van twee hande wat mekaar trek en dit is onmoontlik om te sê waar dit begin of eindig. As u so 'n vreemde lus tref, verander dit u standpunt: skielik dink u nie net aan wat in die prentjie gebeur wat u dink oor die stelsel wat dit verteenwoordig nie en u reaksie daarop.

Ek het eers onlangs besef: Miskien is dit moontlik om sommige van hierdie idees ook in kos uit te druk. Ek sal hulle moontlik nooit kan hoor of teken of wiskunde verander nie. Maar ek sal wed dat ek hulle kan proe. As ek terugkyk oor die jare, dink ek dat 'n weergawe van die konsepte my gehelp het om 'n paar van ons gewildste geregte te vind.

'As 'n gereg perfek gekruid is, smaak dit terselfdertyd asof dit te veel sout en te min sout bevat. Dit is daartoe verbind om beide tegelyk te wees. ” | David Chang dra 'n Michael Kors -trui Levi's jeans Satellite Wave -horlosie van Citizen. Joe Pugliese

My eerste deurbraak op hierdie idee was met sout. Dit is die mees basiese bestanddeel, maar dit kan ook baie kompleks wees. 'N Sjef kan mal raak om uit te vind hoeveel sout by 'n gereg gevoeg moet word. Maar ek glo daar is 'n objektief korrekte hoeveelheid sout, en dit is gewortel in 'n teen -intuïtiewe idee. Normaalweg dink ons ​​dat 'n gebalanseerde gereg nie te sout of te versout is nie. Ek dink dit is verkeerd. As 'n gereg perfek gekruid is, smaak dit terselfdertyd asof dit te veel sout en te min sout het. Dit is ten volle daartoe verbind om beide tegelyk te wees.

Probeer dit self. Giet 'n paar glase water met verskillende hoeveelhede sout daarin. Terwyl u dit proe, dink goed na of daar te veel of te min sout is. As u aanhou eksperimenteer, tref u uiteindelik hierdie lieflike plek. U sal dink dat dit te sag is, maar sodra u die gedagte gevorm het, sal u dit skielik te sout vind. Dit wankel. En sodra u die sensasie ervaar, verseker ek dat dit in u kop sal wees wanneer u iets vir die res van u lewe proe.

'As wiskundige stelsels of musiekstukke in 'n lus op hulself terugvou, is dit pragtig. Miskien is daar 'n manier om dit ook met kos te doen. " David Chang

Dit is 'n bietjie soos die beroemde leuenaar se paradoks, wat ons in DeLong se klas bestudeer het. Hier is 'n weergawe daarvan: 'Die volgende sin is waar. Die voorafgaande sin is onwaar. ” Sodra u die eerste sin aanvaar, valideer u die tweede sin, wat die eerste sin ongeldig maak, wat die tweede sin ongeldig maak, wat die eerste sin bekragtig, en aan en aan.

Die meeste mense sal nooit hierdie sensasie raaksien nie, hulle sal net waardeer dat die kos lekker smaak. Maar onder die oppervlak het die soutparadoks 'n baie kragtige effek, omdat dit u baie bewus maak van wat u eet en u eie reaksie daarop. Dit gryp jou aan, en dit hou jou in die oomblik en dink oor wat jy proe. En dit is wat dit heerlik maak.

Dit was vir my 'n belangrike besef, want dit het gelyk asof ek 'n onomwonde wet ontdek het. En ek het gedink as ek een kan vind, moet daar meer wees - 'n stel basispatrone waarop mense inherent reageer. Die uitdaging is toe om die patrone te ontdek en dit in skottel na skottel te herhaal. As u dit kon doen, sou u soos die Berry Gordy van kookkuns wees, sou u die treffers kon uitdun.


Heerlikheid

My eerste restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, het 'n oop kombuis. Dit was nie uit eie keuse nie - ek het nie genoeg geld of ruimte gehad om dit verder van die eetplekke af te sit nie. Maar om voor my kliënte te kook, het die manier waarop ek na kos kyk, verander. In die beginjare, ongeveer 2004, het ons elke dag nuwe resepte geïmproviseer, en ek kon onmiddellik sien wat werk en wat nie deur te kyk hoe mense eet. 'N Fantastiese gereg tref jou soos 'n Whip-It: Daar is 'n kort tydjie van opgewondenheid, 'n kort rimpel van pure plesier in die kontinuum van die ruimtetyd. Dit is waarna ek gejaag het, daardie split sekonde as iemand iets so lekker proe dat hul gesprek skielik ontspoor en hulle iets goeds verbyster asof hulle hul toon steek.

Die Momofuku varkbroodjie was ons eerste gereg wat konsekwent hierdie soort reaksie gekry het. Dit was 'n 11de uur byvoeging, 'n saamgevoegde ding. Ek neem 'n varkpens, bedek dit met hoisin -sous, uie en komkommers en sit dit in gestoomde brood. Ek was net besig om 'n weergawe van my gunsteling Peking -eendbroodjies te maak, met varkpens waar die eend was. Maar mense was mal oor hulle. Hulle gesigte het gesmelt. Die woord het versprei, en spoedig het mense tougestaan ​​vir hierdie broodjies.

Dit het my maatstaf geword: ek sou vra: 'Is hierdie gereg goed genoeg om in die stad te kom wag? Indien nie, is dit nie wat ons soek nie. ” 'N Sjef kan jare lank wees voordat hy nog so 'n gereg kry. Ons was gelukkig: treffers het op die minste verwagte tyd en plek gekom. Ek het weke op 'n gereg bestee waaroor baie min mense sou omgee. En dan spandeer ek 15 minute aan iets wat mense soos die varkbroodjie laat vloei.

Augustus 2016. Teken in op WIRED

Glo my, niemand is meer verbaas hieroor as ek nie. Kook, as 'n fisiese aktiwiteit, kom my nie natuurlik nie. Dit het nog nooit. Om te vergoed vir my gebrek aan behendigheid, spoed en tegniek, dink ek voortdurend aan kos. Eintlik is ek baie sterker om aan kos te dink as om dit te kook. En onlangs het ek patrone in ons suksesvolste geregte begin sien wat daarop dui dat ons treffers nie heeltemal toevallig was nie; daar is 'n stel onderliggende wette wat dit met mekaar verbind. Ek het gesukkel om dit onder woorde te bring, en ek het nie daaroor met my mede -sjefs gepraat nie, want ek is bekommerd dat hulle sal dink ek is mal. Maar ek dink daar is iets daaraan, en daarom deel ek dit nou vir die eerste keer. Ek noem dit die Unified Theory of Deliciousness.

Verwante verhale

8 kosvoorbereidingsprogramme waarmee u 'n ninja in die kombuis kan maak

Die aanvang van David Chang is 'n restaurant sonder 'n restaurant

Momofuku plaas vorm, bakterieë op die spyskaart

Dit klink waarskynlik absoluut belaglik, maar die teorie is gegrond op 'n klas wat ek op die universiteit gevolg het, Advanced Logic. 'N Filosoof met die naam Howard DeLong het dit geleer dat hy een van die boeke geskryf het wat Douglas Hofstadter direk geïnspireer het om te skryf Gödel, Escher, Bach. Die eerste dag het hy gesê: 'Hierdie klas sal jou lewe verander', en ek het gesê: 'Watter soort gat is dit?' Maar hy was reg. Ek sou nooit voorgee dat ek 'n kundige in logika is nie, en ek het dit nooit reggekry nie Gödel, Escher, Bach. Maar die idees en konsepte wat ek van daardie klas weggeneem het, het my sedertdien agtervolg.

DeLong en Hofstadter het albei groot skoonheid gevind in wat laasgenoemde noem vreemde lusse -gevalle waar wiskundige stelsels of kunswerke of musiekstukke op hulself terugvou. M. C. Escher se tekeninge is 'n uitstekende, openlike voorbeeld hiervan. Neem sy beroemde foto van twee hande wat mekaar trek en dit is onmoontlik om te sê waar dit begin of eindig. As u so 'n vreemde lus raak, verander dit u standpunt: skielik dink u nie net aan wat in die prentjie gebeur wat u dink oor die stelsel wat dit verteenwoordig nie en u reaksie daarop.

Ek het eers onlangs besef: Miskien is dit moontlik om sommige van hierdie idees ook in kos uit te druk. Ek kan hulle nooit hoor of teken of wiskunde verander nie. Maar ek sal wed dat ek hulle kan proe. As ek terugkyk oor die jare, dink ek dat 'n weergawe van die konsepte my gehelp het om 'n paar van ons gewildste geregte te vind.

'As 'n gereg perfek gekruid is, smaak dit terselfdertyd asof dit te veel sout en te min sout bevat. Dit is daartoe verbind om beide tegelyk te wees. ” | David Chang dra 'n Michael Kors -trui Levi's jeans Satellite Wave -horlosie van Citizen. Joe Pugliese

My eerste deurbraak op hierdie idee was met sout. Dit is die mees basiese bestanddeel, maar dit kan ook baie kompleks wees. 'N Sjef kan mal raak om uit te vind hoeveel sout by 'n gereg gevoeg moet word. Maar ek glo daar is 'n objektief korrekte hoeveelheid sout, en dit is gewortel in 'n teen -intuïtiewe idee. Normaalweg dink ons ​​dat 'n gebalanseerde gereg nie te sout of te versout is nie. Ek dink dit is verkeerd. As 'n gereg perfek gekruid is, smaak dit terselfdertyd asof dit te veel sout en te min sout het. Dit is ten volle daartoe verbind om beide tegelyk te wees.

Probeer dit self. Giet 'n paar glase water met verskillende hoeveelhede sout daarin. Terwyl u dit proe, dink goed na of daar te veel of te min sout is. As u aanhou eksperimenteer, tref u uiteindelik hierdie lieflike plek. U sal dink dat dit te sag is, maar sodra u die gedagte gevorm het, sal u dit skielik te sout vind. Dit wankel. En sodra u die sensasie ervaar, verseker ek dat dit in u kop sal wees wanneer u iets vir die res van u lewe proe.

'As wiskundige stelsels of musiekstukke in 'n lus op hulself terugvou, is dit pragtig. Miskien is daar 'n manier om dit ook met kos te doen. " David Chang

Dit is 'n bietjie soos die beroemde leuenaar se paradoks, wat ons in DeLong se klas bestudeer het. Hier is 'n weergawe daarvan: 'Die volgende sin is waar. Die voorafgaande sin is onwaar. ” Sodra u die eerste sin aanvaar, valideer u die tweede sin, wat die eerste sin ongeldig maak, wat die tweede sin ongeldig maak, wat die eerste sin bekragtig, en aan en aan.

Die meeste mense sal hierdie gevoel nooit opmerk nie, maar hulle sal net waardeer dat die kos lekker smaak. Maar onder die oppervlak het die soutparadoks 'n baie kragtige effek, omdat dit u baie bewus maak van wat u eet en u eie reaksie daarop. Dit gryp jou aan, en dit hou jou in die oomblik en dink oor wat jy proe. En dit is wat dit heerlik maak.

Dit was vir my 'n belangrike besef, want dit het gelyk asof ek 'n onomwonde wet ontdek het. En ek het gedink as ek een kan vind, moet daar meer wees - 'n stel basispatrone waarop mense inherent reageer. Die uitdaging is toe om die patrone te ontdek en dit in skottel na skottel te herhaal. As u dit kon doen, sou u soos die Berry Gordy van kookkuns wees, sou u die treffers kon uitdun.


Heerlikheid

My eerste restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, het 'n oop kombuis. Dit was nie uit eie keuse nie - ek het nie genoeg geld of ruimte gehad om dit verder van die eetplekke af te sit nie. Maar om voor my kliënte te kook, het die manier waarop ek na kos kyk, verander. In die beginjare, ongeveer 2004, het ons elke dag nuwe resepte geïmproviseer, en ek kon dadelik sien wat werk en wat nie deur te kyk hoe mense eet. 'N Fantastiese gereg tref jou soos 'n Whip-It: Daar is 'n kort tydjie van opgewondenheid, 'n kort rimpel van pure plesier in die kontinuum van die ruimtetyd. Dit is waarna ek gejaag het, daardie tweedeling as iemand iets so lekker proe dat hul gesprek skielik ontspoor en hulle iets goedsmoeds uitblaas asof hulle hul tone stamp.

Die Momofuku varkbroodjie was ons eerste gereg wat konsekwent hierdie soort reaksie gekry het. Dit was 'n 11de uur byvoeging, 'n saamgevoegde ding. Ek neem 'n varkpens, bedek dit met hoisin -sous, uie en komkommers en sit dit in gestoomde brood. Ek was net besig om 'n weergawe van my gunsteling Peking -eendbroodjies te maak, met varkpens waar die eend was. Maar mense was mal oor hulle. Hulle gesigte het gesmelt. Die woord het versprei, en spoedig het mense tougestaan ​​vir hierdie broodjies.

Dit het my maatstaf geword: ek sou vra: 'Is hierdie gereg goed genoeg om in die stad te kom wag? Indien nie, is dit nie wat ons soek nie. ” 'N Sjef kan jare lank wees voordat hy nog so 'n gereg kry. Ons was gelukkig: treffers het op die minste verwagte tyd en plek gekom. Ek het weke op 'n gereg bestee waaroor baie min mense sou omgee. En dan spandeer ek 15 minute aan iets wat mense soos die varkbroodjie laat vloei.

Augustus 2016. Teken in op WIRED

Glo my, niemand is meer verbaas hieroor as ek nie. Kook, as 'n fisiese aktiwiteit, kom my nie natuurlik nie. Dit het nog nooit. Om te vergoed vir my gebrek aan behendigheid, spoed en tegniek, dink ek voortdurend aan kos. Eintlik is ek baie sterker om aan kos te dink as om dit te kook. En onlangs het ek patrone in ons suksesvolste geregte begin sien wat daarop dui dat ons treffers nie heeltemal toevallig was nie; daar is 'n stel onderliggende wette wat dit met mekaar verbind. Ek het gesukkel om dit onder woorde te bring, en ek het nie daaroor met my mede -sjefs gepraat nie, want ek is bekommerd dat hulle sal dink ek is mal. Maar ek dink daar is iets daaraan, en daarom deel ek dit nou vir die eerste keer. Ek noem dit die Unified Theory of Deliciousness.

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Dit klink waarskynlik absoluut belaglik, maar die teorie is gegrond op 'n klas wat ek op die universiteit gevolg het, Advanced Logic. 'N Filosoof met die naam Howard DeLong het dit geleer dat hy een van die boeke geskryf het wat Douglas Hofstadter direk geïnspireer het om te skryf Gödel, Escher, Bach. Die eerste dag het hy gesê: 'Hierdie klas sal jou lewe verander', en ek het gesê: 'Watter soort gat is dit?' Maar hy was reg. Ek sou nooit voorgee dat ek 'n kundige in logika is nie, en ek het dit nooit reggekry nie Gödel, Escher, Bach. Maar die idees en konsepte wat ek van daardie klas weggeneem het, het my sedertdien agtervolg.

DeLong en Hofstadter het albei groot skoonheid gevind in wat laasgenoemde noem vreemde lusse -gevalle waar wiskundige stelsels of kunswerke of musiekstukke op hulself terugval. M. C. Escher se tekeninge is 'n uitstekende, openlike voorbeeld hiervan. Neem sy beroemde foto van twee hande wat mekaar trek en dit is onmoontlik om te sê waar dit begin of eindig. As u so 'n vreemde lus tref, verander dit u standpunt: skielik dink u nie net aan wat in die prentjie gebeur wat u dink oor die stelsel wat dit verteenwoordig nie en u reaksie daarop.

Ek het eers onlangs besef: Miskien is dit moontlik om sommige van hierdie idees ook in kos uit te druk. Ek sal hulle moontlik nooit kan hoor of teken of wiskunde verander nie. Maar ek sal wed dat ek hulle kan proe. As ek terugkyk oor die jare, dink ek dat 'n weergawe van die konsepte my gehelp het om 'n paar van ons gewildste geregte te vind.

'As 'n gereg perfek gekruid is, smaak dit terselfdertyd asof dit te veel sout en te min sout bevat. Dit is daartoe verbind om beide tegelyk te wees. ” | David Chang dra 'n Michael Kors -trui Levi's jeans Satellite Wave -horlosie van Citizen. Joe Pugliese

My eerste deurbraak op hierdie idee was met sout. Dit is die mees basiese bestanddeel, maar dit kan ook baie kompleks wees. 'N Sjef kan mal raak om uit te vind hoeveel sout by 'n gereg gevoeg moet word. Maar ek glo daar is 'n objektief korrekte hoeveelheid sout, en dit is gewortel in 'n teen -intuïtiewe idee. Normaalweg dink ons ​​dat 'n gebalanseerde gereg nie te sout of te versout is nie. Ek dink dit is verkeerd. As 'n gereg perfek gekruid is, smaak dit terselfdertyd asof dit te veel sout en te min sout het. Dit is ten volle daartoe verbind om beide tegelyk te wees.

Probeer dit self. Giet 'n paar glase water met verskillende hoeveelhede sout daarin. Terwyl u dit proe, dink goed na of daar te veel of te min sout is. As u aanhou eksperimenteer, tref u uiteindelik hierdie lieflike plek. U sal dink dat dit te sag is, maar sodra u die gedagte gevorm het, sal u dit skielik te sout vind. Dit wankel. En sodra u die sensasie ervaar, verseker ek dat dit in u kop sal wees wanneer u iets vir die res van u lewe proe.

'As wiskundige stelsels of musiekstukke in 'n lus op hulself terugvou, is dit pragtig. Miskien is daar 'n manier om dit ook met kos te doen. " David Chang

Dit is 'n bietjie soos die beroemde leuenaar se paradoks, wat ons in DeLong se klas bestudeer het. Hier is 'n weergawe daarvan: 'Die volgende sin is waar. Die voorafgaande sin is onwaar. ” Sodra u die eerste sin aanvaar, valideer u die tweede sin, wat die eerste sin ongeldig maak, wat die tweede sin ongeldig maak, wat die eerste sin bekragtig, en aan en aan.

Die meeste mense sal nooit hierdie sensasie raaksien nie, hulle sal net waardeer dat die kos lekker smaak. Maar onder die oppervlak het die soutparadoks 'n baie kragtige effek, omdat dit u baie bewus maak van wat u eet en u eie reaksie daarop. Dit gryp jou aan, en dit hou jou in die oomblik en dink oor wat jy proe. En dit is wat dit heerlik maak.

Dit was vir my 'n belangrike besef, want dit het gelyk asof ek 'n onomwonde wet ontdek het. En ek het gedink as ek een kan vind, moet daar meer wees - 'n stel basispatrone waarop mense inherent reageer. Die uitdaging is toe om die patrone te ontdek en dit in skottel na skottel te herhaal. As u dit kon doen, sou u soos die Berry Gordy van kookkuns wees, sou u die treffers kon uitdun.


Heerlikheid

My eerste restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, het 'n oop kombuis. Dit was nie uit eie keuse nie - ek het nie genoeg geld of ruimte gehad om dit verder van die eetplekke af te sit nie. Maar om voor my kliënte te kook, het die manier waarop ek na kos kyk, verander. In die beginjare, ongeveer 2004, het ons elke dag nuwe resepte geïmproviseer, en ek kon dadelik sien wat werk en wat nie deur te kyk hoe mense eet. 'N Fantastiese gereg tref jou soos 'n Whip-It: daar is 'n kort tydjie van opgewondenheid, 'n kort rimpel van pure plesier in die kontinuum van die ruimtetyd. Dit is waarna ek gejaag het, daardie split sekonde as iemand iets so lekker proe dat hul gesprek skielik ontspoor en hulle iets goeds verbyster asof hulle hul toon steek.

Die Momofuku varkbroodjie was ons eerste gereg wat konsekwent hierdie soort reaksie gekry het. Dit was 'n 11de uur byvoeging, 'n saamgevoegde ding. Ek neem 'n varkpens, bedek dit met hoisin -sous, uie en komkommers en sit dit in gestoomde brood. Ek was net besig om 'n weergawe van my gunsteling Peking -eendbroodjies te maak, met varkpens waar die eend was. Maar mense was mal oor hulle. Hulle gesigte het gesmelt. Die woord het versprei, en spoedig het mense tougestaan ​​vir hierdie broodjies.

Dit het my maatstaf geword: ek sou vra: 'Is hierdie gereg goed genoeg om in die stad te kom wag? Indien nie, is dit nie wat ons soek nie. ” 'N Sjef kan jare lank wees voordat hy nog so 'n gereg kry. Ons was gelukkig: Treffers het op die minste verwagte tyd en plek gekom. Ek het weke op 'n gereg bestee waaroor baie min mense sou omgee. En dan spandeer ek 15 minute aan iets wat mense soos die varkbroodjie laat vloei.

Augustus 2016. Teken in op WIRED

Believe me, nobody is more surprised about this than I am. Cooking, as a physical activity, doesn’t come naturally to me. It never has. To compensate for my lack of dexterity, speed, and technique, I think about food constantly. In fact, I’m much stronger at thinking about food than I am at cooking it. And recently I started seeing patterns in our most successful dishes that suggested our hits weren’t entirely random there’s a set of underlying laws that links them together. I’ve struggled to put this into words, and I haven’t talked to my fellow chefs about it, because I worry they’ll think I’m crazy. But I think there’s something to it, and so I’m sharing it now for the first time. I call it the Unified Theory of Deliciousness.

Related Stories

8 Food-Prep Apps That’ll Make You a Ninja in the Kitchen

David Chang’s Startup Is a Restaurant Without a Restaurant

Momofuku Puts Mold, Bacteria on the Menu

This probably sounds absolutely ridiculous, but the theory is rooted in a class I took in college called Advanced Logic. A philosopher named Howard DeLong taught it he wrote one of the books that directly inspired Douglas Hofstadter to write Gödel, Escher, Bach. The first day, he said, “This class will change your life,” and I was like, “What kind of asshole is this?” But he was right. I would never pretend to be an expert in logic, and I never made it all the way through Gödel, Escher, Bach. But the ideas and concepts I took away from that class have haunted me ever since.

DeLong and Hofstadter both found great beauty in what the latter called strange loops—occasions when mathematical systems or works of art or pieces of music fold back upon themselves. M. C. Escher’s drawings are a great, overt example of this. Take his famous picture of two hands drawing each other it’s impossible to say where it starts or ends. When you hit a strange loop like this, it shifts your point of view: Suddenly you aren’t just thinking about what’s happening inside the picture you’re thinking about the system it represents and your response to it.

It was only recently that I had a realization: Maybe it’s possible to express some of these ideas in food as well. I may never be able to hear them or draw them or turn them into math. But I’ll bet I can taste them. In fact, looking back over the years, I think a version of those concepts has helped guide me to some of our most popular dishes.

“When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.” | David Chang wears a Michael Kors sweater Levi’s jeans Satellite Wave watch by Citizen. Joe Pugliese

M y first breakthrough on this idea was with salt. It’s the most basic ingredient, but it can also be hellishly complex. A chef can go crazy figuring out how much salt to add to a dish. But I believe there is an objectively correct amount of salt, and it is rooted in a counterintuitive idea. Normally we think of a balanced dish as being neither too salty nor undersalted. I think that’s wrong. When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.

Try it for yourself. Set out a few glasses of water with varying amounts of salt in them. As you taste them, think hard about whether there is too much or too little salt. If you keep experimenting, you’ll eventually hit this sweet spot. You’ll think that it’s too bland, but as soon as you form that thought, you’ll suddenly find it tastes too salty. It teeters. And once you experience that sensation, I guarantee it will be in your head any time you taste anything for the rest of your life.

“When mathematical systems or pieces of music fold back upon themselves in a loop, it’s beautiful. Maybe there’s a way to do that with food as well.” David Chang

It’s a little bit like the famous liar’s paradox, which we studied in DeLong’s class. Here’s one version of it: “The following sentence is true. The preceding sentence is false.” As soon as you accept the first sentence, you validate the second sentence, which invalidates the first sentence, which invalidates the second, which validates the first, and on and on.

Most people won’t ever notice this sensation they’ll just appreciate that the food tastes good. But under the surface, the saltiness paradox has a very powerful effect, because it makes you very aware of what you’re eating and your own reaction to it. It nags at you, and it keeps you in the moment, thinking about what you’re tasting. And that’s what makes it delicious.

This was an important realization for me, because it seemed like I’d discovered an unequivocal law. And I figured if I could find one, there had to be more—a set of base patterns that people inherently respond to. So then the challenge became discovering those patterns and replicating them in dish after dish. If you could do that, you’d be like the Berry Gordy of cooking you’d be able to crank out the hits.


Deliciousness

M y first restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, had an open kitchen. This wasn’t by choice—I didn’t have enough money or space to put it farther away from the diners. But cooking in front of my customers changed the way I look at food. In the early years, around 2004, we were improvising new recipes every day, and I could instantly tell what was working and what wasn’t by watching people eat. A great dish hits you like a Whip-It: There’s momentary elation, a brief ripple of pure pleasure in the spacetime continuum. That’s what I was chasing, that split second when someone tastes something so delicious that their conversation suddenly derails and they blurt out something guttural like they stubbed their toe.

The Momofuku Pork Bun was our first dish that consistently got this kind of reaction. It was an 11th-hour addition, a slapped-together thing. I took some pork belly, topped it with hoisin sauce, scallions, and cucumbers, and put it inside some steamed bread. I was just making a version of my favorite Peking duck buns, with pork belly where the duck used to be. But people went crazy for them. Their faces melted. Word spread, and soon people were lining up for these buns.

That became my yardstick: I’d ask, “Is this dish good enough to come downtown and wait in line for? If not, it’s not what we’re after.” A chef can go years before getting another dish like that. We’ve been lucky: Hits have come at the least expected time and place. I’ve spent weeks on one dish that ultimately very few people would care about. And then I’ve spent 15 minutes on something that ends up flooring people like the pork bun.

August 2016. Subscribe to WIRED

Believe me, nobody is more surprised about this than I am. Cooking, as a physical activity, doesn’t come naturally to me. It never has. To compensate for my lack of dexterity, speed, and technique, I think about food constantly. In fact, I’m much stronger at thinking about food than I am at cooking it. And recently I started seeing patterns in our most successful dishes that suggested our hits weren’t entirely random there’s a set of underlying laws that links them together. I’ve struggled to put this into words, and I haven’t talked to my fellow chefs about it, because I worry they’ll think I’m crazy. But I think there’s something to it, and so I’m sharing it now for the first time. I call it the Unified Theory of Deliciousness.

Related Stories

8 Food-Prep Apps That’ll Make You a Ninja in the Kitchen

David Chang’s Startup Is a Restaurant Without a Restaurant

Momofuku Puts Mold, Bacteria on the Menu

This probably sounds absolutely ridiculous, but the theory is rooted in a class I took in college called Advanced Logic. A philosopher named Howard DeLong taught it he wrote one of the books that directly inspired Douglas Hofstadter to write Gödel, Escher, Bach. The first day, he said, “This class will change your life,” and I was like, “What kind of asshole is this?” But he was right. I would never pretend to be an expert in logic, and I never made it all the way through Gödel, Escher, Bach. But the ideas and concepts I took away from that class have haunted me ever since.

DeLong and Hofstadter both found great beauty in what the latter called strange loops—occasions when mathematical systems or works of art or pieces of music fold back upon themselves. M. C. Escher’s drawings are a great, overt example of this. Take his famous picture of two hands drawing each other it’s impossible to say where it starts or ends. When you hit a strange loop like this, it shifts your point of view: Suddenly you aren’t just thinking about what’s happening inside the picture you’re thinking about the system it represents and your response to it.

It was only recently that I had a realization: Maybe it’s possible to express some of these ideas in food as well. I may never be able to hear them or draw them or turn them into math. But I’ll bet I can taste them. In fact, looking back over the years, I think a version of those concepts has helped guide me to some of our most popular dishes.

“When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.” | David Chang wears a Michael Kors sweater Levi’s jeans Satellite Wave watch by Citizen. Joe Pugliese

M y first breakthrough on this idea was with salt. It’s the most basic ingredient, but it can also be hellishly complex. A chef can go crazy figuring out how much salt to add to a dish. But I believe there is an objectively correct amount of salt, and it is rooted in a counterintuitive idea. Normally we think of a balanced dish as being neither too salty nor undersalted. I think that’s wrong. When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.

Try it for yourself. Set out a few glasses of water with varying amounts of salt in them. As you taste them, think hard about whether there is too much or too little salt. If you keep experimenting, you’ll eventually hit this sweet spot. You’ll think that it’s too bland, but as soon as you form that thought, you’ll suddenly find it tastes too salty. It teeters. And once you experience that sensation, I guarantee it will be in your head any time you taste anything for the rest of your life.

“When mathematical systems or pieces of music fold back upon themselves in a loop, it’s beautiful. Maybe there’s a way to do that with food as well.” David Chang

It’s a little bit like the famous liar’s paradox, which we studied in DeLong’s class. Here’s one version of it: “The following sentence is true. The preceding sentence is false.” As soon as you accept the first sentence, you validate the second sentence, which invalidates the first sentence, which invalidates the second, which validates the first, and on and on.

Most people won’t ever notice this sensation they’ll just appreciate that the food tastes good. But under the surface, the saltiness paradox has a very powerful effect, because it makes you very aware of what you’re eating and your own reaction to it. It nags at you, and it keeps you in the moment, thinking about what you’re tasting. And that’s what makes it delicious.

This was an important realization for me, because it seemed like I’d discovered an unequivocal law. And I figured if I could find one, there had to be more—a set of base patterns that people inherently respond to. So then the challenge became discovering those patterns and replicating them in dish after dish. If you could do that, you’d be like the Berry Gordy of cooking you’d be able to crank out the hits.


Deliciousness

M y first restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, had an open kitchen. This wasn’t by choice—I didn’t have enough money or space to put it farther away from the diners. But cooking in front of my customers changed the way I look at food. In the early years, around 2004, we were improvising new recipes every day, and I could instantly tell what was working and what wasn’t by watching people eat. A great dish hits you like a Whip-It: There’s momentary elation, a brief ripple of pure pleasure in the spacetime continuum. That’s what I was chasing, that split second when someone tastes something so delicious that their conversation suddenly derails and they blurt out something guttural like they stubbed their toe.

The Momofuku Pork Bun was our first dish that consistently got this kind of reaction. It was an 11th-hour addition, a slapped-together thing. I took some pork belly, topped it with hoisin sauce, scallions, and cucumbers, and put it inside some steamed bread. I was just making a version of my favorite Peking duck buns, with pork belly where the duck used to be. But people went crazy for them. Their faces melted. Word spread, and soon people were lining up for these buns.

That became my yardstick: I’d ask, “Is this dish good enough to come downtown and wait in line for? If not, it’s not what we’re after.” A chef can go years before getting another dish like that. We’ve been lucky: Hits have come at the least expected time and place. I’ve spent weeks on one dish that ultimately very few people would care about. And then I’ve spent 15 minutes on something that ends up flooring people like the pork bun.

August 2016. Subscribe to WIRED

Believe me, nobody is more surprised about this than I am. Cooking, as a physical activity, doesn’t come naturally to me. It never has. To compensate for my lack of dexterity, speed, and technique, I think about food constantly. In fact, I’m much stronger at thinking about food than I am at cooking it. And recently I started seeing patterns in our most successful dishes that suggested our hits weren’t entirely random there’s a set of underlying laws that links them together. I’ve struggled to put this into words, and I haven’t talked to my fellow chefs about it, because I worry they’ll think I’m crazy. But I think there’s something to it, and so I’m sharing it now for the first time. I call it the Unified Theory of Deliciousness.

Related Stories

8 Food-Prep Apps That’ll Make You a Ninja in the Kitchen

David Chang’s Startup Is a Restaurant Without a Restaurant

Momofuku Puts Mold, Bacteria on the Menu

This probably sounds absolutely ridiculous, but the theory is rooted in a class I took in college called Advanced Logic. A philosopher named Howard DeLong taught it he wrote one of the books that directly inspired Douglas Hofstadter to write Gödel, Escher, Bach. The first day, he said, “This class will change your life,” and I was like, “What kind of asshole is this?” But he was right. I would never pretend to be an expert in logic, and I never made it all the way through Gödel, Escher, Bach. But the ideas and concepts I took away from that class have haunted me ever since.

DeLong and Hofstadter both found great beauty in what the latter called strange loops—occasions when mathematical systems or works of art or pieces of music fold back upon themselves. M. C. Escher’s drawings are a great, overt example of this. Take his famous picture of two hands drawing each other it’s impossible to say where it starts or ends. When you hit a strange loop like this, it shifts your point of view: Suddenly you aren’t just thinking about what’s happening inside the picture you’re thinking about the system it represents and your response to it.

It was only recently that I had a realization: Maybe it’s possible to express some of these ideas in food as well. I may never be able to hear them or draw them or turn them into math. But I’ll bet I can taste them. In fact, looking back over the years, I think a version of those concepts has helped guide me to some of our most popular dishes.

“When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.” | David Chang wears a Michael Kors sweater Levi’s jeans Satellite Wave watch by Citizen. Joe Pugliese

M y first breakthrough on this idea was with salt. It’s the most basic ingredient, but it can also be hellishly complex. A chef can go crazy figuring out how much salt to add to a dish. But I believe there is an objectively correct amount of salt, and it is rooted in a counterintuitive idea. Normally we think of a balanced dish as being neither too salty nor undersalted. I think that’s wrong. When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.

Try it for yourself. Set out a few glasses of water with varying amounts of salt in them. As you taste them, think hard about whether there is too much or too little salt. If you keep experimenting, you’ll eventually hit this sweet spot. You’ll think that it’s too bland, but as soon as you form that thought, you’ll suddenly find it tastes too salty. It teeters. And once you experience that sensation, I guarantee it will be in your head any time you taste anything for the rest of your life.

“When mathematical systems or pieces of music fold back upon themselves in a loop, it’s beautiful. Maybe there’s a way to do that with food as well.” David Chang

It’s a little bit like the famous liar’s paradox, which we studied in DeLong’s class. Here’s one version of it: “The following sentence is true. The preceding sentence is false.” As soon as you accept the first sentence, you validate the second sentence, which invalidates the first sentence, which invalidates the second, which validates the first, and on and on.

Most people won’t ever notice this sensation they’ll just appreciate that the food tastes good. But under the surface, the saltiness paradox has a very powerful effect, because it makes you very aware of what you’re eating and your own reaction to it. It nags at you, and it keeps you in the moment, thinking about what you’re tasting. And that’s what makes it delicious.

This was an important realization for me, because it seemed like I’d discovered an unequivocal law. And I figured if I could find one, there had to be more—a set of base patterns that people inherently respond to. So then the challenge became discovering those patterns and replicating them in dish after dish. If you could do that, you’d be like the Berry Gordy of cooking you’d be able to crank out the hits.


Deliciousness

M y first restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, had an open kitchen. This wasn’t by choice—I didn’t have enough money or space to put it farther away from the diners. But cooking in front of my customers changed the way I look at food. In the early years, around 2004, we were improvising new recipes every day, and I could instantly tell what was working and what wasn’t by watching people eat. A great dish hits you like a Whip-It: There’s momentary elation, a brief ripple of pure pleasure in the spacetime continuum. That’s what I was chasing, that split second when someone tastes something so delicious that their conversation suddenly derails and they blurt out something guttural like they stubbed their toe.

The Momofuku Pork Bun was our first dish that consistently got this kind of reaction. It was an 11th-hour addition, a slapped-together thing. I took some pork belly, topped it with hoisin sauce, scallions, and cucumbers, and put it inside some steamed bread. I was just making a version of my favorite Peking duck buns, with pork belly where the duck used to be. But people went crazy for them. Their faces melted. Word spread, and soon people were lining up for these buns.

That became my yardstick: I’d ask, “Is this dish good enough to come downtown and wait in line for? If not, it’s not what we’re after.” A chef can go years before getting another dish like that. We’ve been lucky: Hits have come at the least expected time and place. I’ve spent weeks on one dish that ultimately very few people would care about. And then I’ve spent 15 minutes on something that ends up flooring people like the pork bun.

August 2016. Subscribe to WIRED

Believe me, nobody is more surprised about this than I am. Cooking, as a physical activity, doesn’t come naturally to me. It never has. To compensate for my lack of dexterity, speed, and technique, I think about food constantly. In fact, I’m much stronger at thinking about food than I am at cooking it. And recently I started seeing patterns in our most successful dishes that suggested our hits weren’t entirely random there’s a set of underlying laws that links them together. I’ve struggled to put this into words, and I haven’t talked to my fellow chefs about it, because I worry they’ll think I’m crazy. But I think there’s something to it, and so I’m sharing it now for the first time. I call it the Unified Theory of Deliciousness.

Related Stories

8 Food-Prep Apps That’ll Make You a Ninja in the Kitchen

David Chang’s Startup Is a Restaurant Without a Restaurant

Momofuku Puts Mold, Bacteria on the Menu

This probably sounds absolutely ridiculous, but the theory is rooted in a class I took in college called Advanced Logic. A philosopher named Howard DeLong taught it he wrote one of the books that directly inspired Douglas Hofstadter to write Gödel, Escher, Bach. The first day, he said, “This class will change your life,” and I was like, “What kind of asshole is this?” But he was right. I would never pretend to be an expert in logic, and I never made it all the way through Gödel, Escher, Bach. But the ideas and concepts I took away from that class have haunted me ever since.

DeLong and Hofstadter both found great beauty in what the latter called strange loops—occasions when mathematical systems or works of art or pieces of music fold back upon themselves. M. C. Escher’s drawings are a great, overt example of this. Take his famous picture of two hands drawing each other it’s impossible to say where it starts or ends. When you hit a strange loop like this, it shifts your point of view: Suddenly you aren’t just thinking about what’s happening inside the picture you’re thinking about the system it represents and your response to it.

It was only recently that I had a realization: Maybe it’s possible to express some of these ideas in food as well. I may never be able to hear them or draw them or turn them into math. But I’ll bet I can taste them. In fact, looking back over the years, I think a version of those concepts has helped guide me to some of our most popular dishes.

“When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.” | David Chang wears a Michael Kors sweater Levi’s jeans Satellite Wave watch by Citizen. Joe Pugliese

M y first breakthrough on this idea was with salt. It’s the most basic ingredient, but it can also be hellishly complex. A chef can go crazy figuring out how much salt to add to a dish. But I believe there is an objectively correct amount of salt, and it is rooted in a counterintuitive idea. Normally we think of a balanced dish as being neither too salty nor undersalted. I think that’s wrong. When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.

Try it for yourself. Set out a few glasses of water with varying amounts of salt in them. As you taste them, think hard about whether there is too much or too little salt. If you keep experimenting, you’ll eventually hit this sweet spot. You’ll think that it’s too bland, but as soon as you form that thought, you’ll suddenly find it tastes too salty. It teeters. And once you experience that sensation, I guarantee it will be in your head any time you taste anything for the rest of your life.

“When mathematical systems or pieces of music fold back upon themselves in a loop, it’s beautiful. Maybe there’s a way to do that with food as well.” David Chang

It’s a little bit like the famous liar’s paradox, which we studied in DeLong’s class. Here’s one version of it: “The following sentence is true. The preceding sentence is false.” As soon as you accept the first sentence, you validate the second sentence, which invalidates the first sentence, which invalidates the second, which validates the first, and on and on.

Most people won’t ever notice this sensation they’ll just appreciate that the food tastes good. But under the surface, the saltiness paradox has a very powerful effect, because it makes you very aware of what you’re eating and your own reaction to it. It nags at you, and it keeps you in the moment, thinking about what you’re tasting. And that’s what makes it delicious.

This was an important realization for me, because it seemed like I’d discovered an unequivocal law. And I figured if I could find one, there had to be more—a set of base patterns that people inherently respond to. So then the challenge became discovering those patterns and replicating them in dish after dish. If you could do that, you’d be like the Berry Gordy of cooking you’d be able to crank out the hits.


Deliciousness

M y first restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, had an open kitchen. This wasn’t by choice—I didn’t have enough money or space to put it farther away from the diners. But cooking in front of my customers changed the way I look at food. In the early years, around 2004, we were improvising new recipes every day, and I could instantly tell what was working and what wasn’t by watching people eat. A great dish hits you like a Whip-It: There’s momentary elation, a brief ripple of pure pleasure in the spacetime continuum. That’s what I was chasing, that split second when someone tastes something so delicious that their conversation suddenly derails and they blurt out something guttural like they stubbed their toe.

The Momofuku Pork Bun was our first dish that consistently got this kind of reaction. It was an 11th-hour addition, a slapped-together thing. I took some pork belly, topped it with hoisin sauce, scallions, and cucumbers, and put it inside some steamed bread. I was just making a version of my favorite Peking duck buns, with pork belly where the duck used to be. But people went crazy for them. Their faces melted. Word spread, and soon people were lining up for these buns.

That became my yardstick: I’d ask, “Is this dish good enough to come downtown and wait in line for? If not, it’s not what we’re after.” A chef can go years before getting another dish like that. We’ve been lucky: Hits have come at the least expected time and place. I’ve spent weeks on one dish that ultimately very few people would care about. And then I’ve spent 15 minutes on something that ends up flooring people like the pork bun.

August 2016. Subscribe to WIRED

Believe me, nobody is more surprised about this than I am. Cooking, as a physical activity, doesn’t come naturally to me. It never has. To compensate for my lack of dexterity, speed, and technique, I think about food constantly. In fact, I’m much stronger at thinking about food than I am at cooking it. And recently I started seeing patterns in our most successful dishes that suggested our hits weren’t entirely random there’s a set of underlying laws that links them together. I’ve struggled to put this into words, and I haven’t talked to my fellow chefs about it, because I worry they’ll think I’m crazy. But I think there’s something to it, and so I’m sharing it now for the first time. I call it the Unified Theory of Deliciousness.

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David Chang’s Startup Is a Restaurant Without a Restaurant

Momofuku Puts Mold, Bacteria on the Menu

This probably sounds absolutely ridiculous, but the theory is rooted in a class I took in college called Advanced Logic. A philosopher named Howard DeLong taught it he wrote one of the books that directly inspired Douglas Hofstadter to write Gödel, Escher, Bach. The first day, he said, “This class will change your life,” and I was like, “What kind of asshole is this?” But he was right. I would never pretend to be an expert in logic, and I never made it all the way through Gödel, Escher, Bach. But the ideas and concepts I took away from that class have haunted me ever since.

DeLong and Hofstadter both found great beauty in what the latter called strange loops—occasions when mathematical systems or works of art or pieces of music fold back upon themselves. M. C. Escher’s drawings are a great, overt example of this. Take his famous picture of two hands drawing each other it’s impossible to say where it starts or ends. When you hit a strange loop like this, it shifts your point of view: Suddenly you aren’t just thinking about what’s happening inside the picture you’re thinking about the system it represents and your response to it.

It was only recently that I had a realization: Maybe it’s possible to express some of these ideas in food as well. I may never be able to hear them or draw them or turn them into math. But I’ll bet I can taste them. In fact, looking back over the years, I think a version of those concepts has helped guide me to some of our most popular dishes.

“When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.” | David Chang wears a Michael Kors sweater Levi’s jeans Satellite Wave watch by Citizen. Joe Pugliese

M y first breakthrough on this idea was with salt. It’s the most basic ingredient, but it can also be hellishly complex. A chef can go crazy figuring out how much salt to add to a dish. But I believe there is an objectively correct amount of salt, and it is rooted in a counterintuitive idea. Normally we think of a balanced dish as being neither too salty nor undersalted. I think that’s wrong. When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.

Try it for yourself. Set out a few glasses of water with varying amounts of salt in them. As you taste them, think hard about whether there is too much or too little salt. If you keep experimenting, you’ll eventually hit this sweet spot. You’ll think that it’s too bland, but as soon as you form that thought, you’ll suddenly find it tastes too salty. It teeters. And once you experience that sensation, I guarantee it will be in your head any time you taste anything for the rest of your life.

“When mathematical systems or pieces of music fold back upon themselves in a loop, it’s beautiful. Maybe there’s a way to do that with food as well.” David Chang

It’s a little bit like the famous liar’s paradox, which we studied in DeLong’s class. Here’s one version of it: “The following sentence is true. The preceding sentence is false.” As soon as you accept the first sentence, you validate the second sentence, which invalidates the first sentence, which invalidates the second, which validates the first, and on and on.

Most people won’t ever notice this sensation they’ll just appreciate that the food tastes good. But under the surface, the saltiness paradox has a very powerful effect, because it makes you very aware of what you’re eating and your own reaction to it. It nags at you, and it keeps you in the moment, thinking about what you’re tasting. And that’s what makes it delicious.

This was an important realization for me, because it seemed like I’d discovered an unequivocal law. And I figured if I could find one, there had to be more—a set of base patterns that people inherently respond to. So then the challenge became discovering those patterns and replicating them in dish after dish. If you could do that, you’d be like the Berry Gordy of cooking you’d be able to crank out the hits.


Deliciousness

M y first restaurant, Momofuku Noodle Bar, had an open kitchen. This wasn’t by choice—I didn’t have enough money or space to put it farther away from the diners. But cooking in front of my customers changed the way I look at food. In the early years, around 2004, we were improvising new recipes every day, and I could instantly tell what was working and what wasn’t by watching people eat. A great dish hits you like a Whip-It: There’s momentary elation, a brief ripple of pure pleasure in the spacetime continuum. That’s what I was chasing, that split second when someone tastes something so delicious that their conversation suddenly derails and they blurt out something guttural like they stubbed their toe.

The Momofuku Pork Bun was our first dish that consistently got this kind of reaction. It was an 11th-hour addition, a slapped-together thing. I took some pork belly, topped it with hoisin sauce, scallions, and cucumbers, and put it inside some steamed bread. I was just making a version of my favorite Peking duck buns, with pork belly where the duck used to be. But people went crazy for them. Their faces melted. Word spread, and soon people were lining up for these buns.

That became my yardstick: I’d ask, “Is this dish good enough to come downtown and wait in line for? If not, it’s not what we’re after.” A chef can go years before getting another dish like that. We’ve been lucky: Hits have come at the least expected time and place. I’ve spent weeks on one dish that ultimately very few people would care about. And then I’ve spent 15 minutes on something that ends up flooring people like the pork bun.

August 2016. Subscribe to WIRED

Believe me, nobody is more surprised about this than I am. Cooking, as a physical activity, doesn’t come naturally to me. It never has. To compensate for my lack of dexterity, speed, and technique, I think about food constantly. In fact, I’m much stronger at thinking about food than I am at cooking it. And recently I started seeing patterns in our most successful dishes that suggested our hits weren’t entirely random there’s a set of underlying laws that links them together. I’ve struggled to put this into words, and I haven’t talked to my fellow chefs about it, because I worry they’ll think I’m crazy. But I think there’s something to it, and so I’m sharing it now for the first time. I call it the Unified Theory of Deliciousness.

Related Stories

8 Food-Prep Apps That’ll Make You a Ninja in the Kitchen

David Chang’s Startup Is a Restaurant Without a Restaurant

Momofuku Puts Mold, Bacteria on the Menu

This probably sounds absolutely ridiculous, but the theory is rooted in a class I took in college called Advanced Logic. A philosopher named Howard DeLong taught it he wrote one of the books that directly inspired Douglas Hofstadter to write Gödel, Escher, Bach. The first day, he said, “This class will change your life,” and I was like, “What kind of asshole is this?” But he was right. I would never pretend to be an expert in logic, and I never made it all the way through Gödel, Escher, Bach. But the ideas and concepts I took away from that class have haunted me ever since.

DeLong and Hofstadter both found great beauty in what the latter called strange loops—occasions when mathematical systems or works of art or pieces of music fold back upon themselves. M. C. Escher’s drawings are a great, overt example of this. Take his famous picture of two hands drawing each other it’s impossible to say where it starts or ends. When you hit a strange loop like this, it shifts your point of view: Suddenly you aren’t just thinking about what’s happening inside the picture you’re thinking about the system it represents and your response to it.

It was only recently that I had a realization: Maybe it’s possible to express some of these ideas in food as well. I may never be able to hear them or draw them or turn them into math. But I’ll bet I can taste them. In fact, looking back over the years, I think a version of those concepts has helped guide me to some of our most popular dishes.

“When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.” | David Chang wears a Michael Kors sweater Levi’s jeans Satellite Wave watch by Citizen. Joe Pugliese

M y first breakthrough on this idea was with salt. It’s the most basic ingredient, but it can also be hellishly complex. A chef can go crazy figuring out how much salt to add to a dish. But I believe there is an objectively correct amount of salt, and it is rooted in a counterintuitive idea. Normally we think of a balanced dish as being neither too salty nor undersalted. I think that’s wrong. When a dish is perfectly seasoned, it will taste simultaneously like it has too much salt and too little salt. It is fully committed to being both at the same time.

Try it for yourself. Set out a few glasses of water with varying amounts of salt in them. As you taste them, think hard about whether there is too much or too little salt. If you keep experimenting, you’ll eventually hit this sweet spot. You’ll think that it’s too bland, but as soon as you form that thought, you’ll suddenly find it tastes too salty. It teeters. And once you experience that sensation, I guarantee it will be in your head any time you taste anything for the rest of your life.

“When mathematical systems or pieces of music fold back upon themselves in a loop, it’s beautiful. Maybe there’s a way to do that with food as well.” David Chang

It’s a little bit like the famous liar’s paradox, which we studied in DeLong’s class. Here’s one version of it: “The following sentence is true. The preceding sentence is false.” As soon as you accept the first sentence, you validate the second sentence, which invalidates the first sentence, which invalidates the second, which validates the first, and on and on.

Most people won’t ever notice this sensation they’ll just appreciate that the food tastes good. But under the surface, the saltiness paradox has a very powerful effect, because it makes you very aware of what you’re eating and your own reaction to it. It nags at you, and it keeps you in the moment, thinking about what you’re tasting. And that’s what makes it delicious.

This was an important realization for me, because it seemed like I’d discovered an unequivocal law. And I figured if I could find one, there had to be more—a set of base patterns that people inherently respond to. So then the challenge became discovering those patterns and replicating them in dish after dish. If you could do that, you’d be like the Berry Gordy of cooking you’d be able to crank out the hits.