Recap Black Market's amuse-bouche at Bon Appetit Cafe

With taco trucks and food carts now an established part of the culinary landscape, something between a mobile food stand and a permanent restaurant is cropping up. The guerrilla “temporary restaurant” is a stunt but a good one, and last night Black Market, a culinary food team led by Gregory Walters of The Weary Traveler (1201 Williamson St., 608-442-6207) and ably aided by Talula and Restaurant Magnus staff, hosted its fourth Black Market event at Bon Appetit Cafe (805 Williamson St., 608-283-4266).

A “bring your own bottle” policy raised questions. What is this thing, exactly? How renegade is it? If one brings wine, does one also bring a wine key? Silverware? A glass? A plastic cup? The 2006 Cline Zinfandel, which had some hope of pairing well with the 12 implementations of amuse-bouche (French for “entertains the mouth”; essentially a trifle), and a wine key were all that were needed. Mad last-minute preparations were evident, and it turned out that dishware and silverware all had to be borrowed, so it was a good idea to bring the wine key. The harried team was very busy and a few minutes late, but it pulled everything together: 12 cleverly named courses for 25 people.

The first course was a mild, milky, and not entirely liquid shooter of dill, cucumber, shellfish essence, and vodka. “Just power it down,” server Jen, from Magnus, advised. Quite a peculiar melange of oyster shooter and barroom shot, this elixir left a curiously smoky sensation on the tongue as it drained away.

The second course, an “insalata caprese roll,” wasn’t at all telegraphed by its title and destroyed all sense of what the meal was about with a sublime counter-punch against the shooter. A stacked trio of compressed gels—balsamic, tomato, and orange—provided a gastro-molecular kick when sliced together and swabbed in a tiny pool of olive oil edged with three dots of pesto.

“The theme is to trick you, to present something that reverses your expectations,” someone at the table said, presciently defining the so-far delightfully confusing experience.

“Faux grais” of mashed pork shoulder confit in duck fat with tiny powdered flakes of pistachio and New Glarus Red Belgian sour cherry marmalade seemed like kind of a heavy plate with nine courses yet to go, and fatty too. But service soon smoothly whisked it away. Next we were on to a "lollipop" with melon on which prosciutto and fig failed to adequately cling; but already here was a “fruit roll-up” with sashimi-grade raw ahi, kim chi, and dehydrated apple, inexplicably crackling against the teeth.

Lollipop: an amalgamation of melon, fig, and prosciutto.

A white bean soufflé with komboucha-marinated craisins garnished with matchstick-sized tendrils of shredded fried pork shoulder became even weirder and more awesome with a substitution of grapefruit for a gluten aversion. "Candy apple" with geitost cheese flash-fried in dry ice with truffle salt and grated Granny Smith apples, and then fried marshmallow with smoked salmon and cucumber-yogurt sauce followed, further astounding the palate and upsetting expectations.

“Pear tatin,” really a reduction of poached pear with quarter-sized pieces of French toast bread with exclamatory fragments of freshly ground black pepper made some playfully call for seconds.

“Enjoy the sashimi,” server Justin smiled, eyes glinting. Another trick: It was sculpted watermelon with soy that was an absolutely delicious and gave way to the showstopper, the very Aztec "hot chocolate” covered in serrano peppers. The optimal method turned out to be letting it melt in your mouth, rather than crunching down. Crispy bacon shards sprinkled over vanilla ice cream with calvados brought the dizzying meal to an end.

More events like this in Madison, please. The inherent challenges of the exercise created a giddy adrenaline-provoking high that infused the guests and hosts alike. This team would do well to open its own restaurant—and after-dinner chatter revealed that Black Market events may be preparation for exactly that.