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Dirt Candy’s Vegetarian Carrot Bun Slideshow

Dirt Candy’s Vegetarian Carrot Bun Slideshow


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Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

Chef Amanda Cohen juicing carrots.

Carrot Juice

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

Chef Amanda Cohen juicing carrots.

Carrot Pulp and Juice

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

Preparing the juice for the dough.

Pouring in the Carrot Juice

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

Chef Cohen pours the carrot juice into the Cuisinart with the dough.

Sticky Dough

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

Chef Cohen playing with the sticky carrot dough.

Dough Resting

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

Like Cohen, you can write down the time one hour from when you placed the dough in the bowl onto the plastic wrap. (A trick that comes in handy when you've got a lot going on in the kitchen or forget to set a timer).

Roasted Carrots for Filling

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

The crispy, yet tender, roasted carrots right out of the oven.

Carrot, Cucumber and Scallion Mixture

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

The roasted carrots, scallions and cucumbers mixture waiting in a bowl as Chef Cohen gets ready to finish making the bun filling.

Finished Filling

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

The finished filling mixture before it gets scooped into the buns.

Folded, Uncooked Buns

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

The folded buns on the parchment paper waiting to be steamed.

Steaming the Buns

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino

Chef Cohen steaming the buns in batches.

Final Dish

Courtesy of Arthur Bovino


Like a Kid in a Vegetable Store

DID you hear the one about the rutabaga? No, probably not. Vegetables don’t tend to inspire great jokes. On the contrary, they conjure their very own brand of humorlessness, the tight-lipped officiousness of grim nutritionists that is captured in the phrase “Eat your vegetables.”

Since opening Dirt Candy in the East Village almost four years ago, the chef Amanda Cohen has been waging war on the “eat your vegetables” mind-set, using humor as one of her weapons. Here she is on her restaurant’s Web site on the subject of cabbage: “It’s the wino of the vegetable world: smelly, unloved and looking at it makes you feel sad. A cabbage salad sounds even worse. Cabbage that’s . raw? It sounds like a plated suicide note.”

Humor is so integral to Ms. Cohen’s work that she may be the only chef in America who could publish her first cookbook in comic-book form and make the decision seem not just sensible but inevitable. Drawn by Ryan Dunlavey with facial expressions that range from mild exasperation to howling rage, Ms. Cohen’s cartoon character delivers bitingly funny monologues about appearing on “Iron Chef” and rolling out pasta dough. Along the way, she and her staff beat the daylights out of a wizard and a fairy who are idiotic enough to suggest that pickles are made by magic.

But Ms. Cohen’s chief weapon in the battle against vegetable scolds is the food she serves at Dirt Candy, a vegetarian restaurant that is thrillingly free of high-minded ideals. Ms. Cohen isn’t necessarily out to save a small planet or prevent heart disease. Her goals are possibly more subversive, and she achieves them with vegetable cookery that is original, clever, visually arresting and, above all, a lot of fun to eat.

Take the dish called Cauliflower! The punctuation is the restaurant’s, but I’ll go along with the emotion. Ms. Cohen gives cauliflower florets a long bath in maple smoke, dips them in cornflakes, fries them to a golden crisp and serves them on waffles. She’s making a visual pun on the chicken-leg shape of the florets and stems. But these smoky and crunchy nuggets also invite you to see vegetables as an indulgence, a pleasure that is not quite guilty but not entirely innocent, either.

Eating at Dirt Candy can be like going to a child’s birthday party in a country where all the children love vegetables. Eggplant tiramisù, with layers of rosemary lady fingers sandwiching a sweet mascarpone whipped with grilled eggplant, sounds like a dare: daring you to try it, daring you to like it. While you consider your options, a server brings the final element of the dish, a white frizz of cotton candy with a startlingly pure and piney taste of rosemary. It lifts up the eggplant, the dessert and the party.


Like a Kid in a Vegetable Store

DID you hear the one about the rutabaga? No, probably not. Vegetables don’t tend to inspire great jokes. On the contrary, they conjure their very own brand of humorlessness, the tight-lipped officiousness of grim nutritionists that is captured in the phrase “Eat your vegetables.”

Since opening Dirt Candy in the East Village almost four years ago, the chef Amanda Cohen has been waging war on the “eat your vegetables” mind-set, using humor as one of her weapons. Here she is on her restaurant’s Web site on the subject of cabbage: “It’s the wino of the vegetable world: smelly, unloved and looking at it makes you feel sad. A cabbage salad sounds even worse. Cabbage that’s . raw? It sounds like a plated suicide note.”

Humor is so integral to Ms. Cohen’s work that she may be the only chef in America who could publish her first cookbook in comic-book form and make the decision seem not just sensible but inevitable. Drawn by Ryan Dunlavey with facial expressions that range from mild exasperation to howling rage, Ms. Cohen’s cartoon character delivers bitingly funny monologues about appearing on “Iron Chef” and rolling out pasta dough. Along the way, she and her staff beat the daylights out of a wizard and a fairy who are idiotic enough to suggest that pickles are made by magic.

But Ms. Cohen’s chief weapon in the battle against vegetable scolds is the food she serves at Dirt Candy, a vegetarian restaurant that is thrillingly free of high-minded ideals. Ms. Cohen isn’t necessarily out to save a small planet or prevent heart disease. Her goals are possibly more subversive, and she achieves them with vegetable cookery that is original, clever, visually arresting and, above all, a lot of fun to eat.

Take the dish called Cauliflower! The punctuation is the restaurant’s, but I’ll go along with the emotion. Ms. Cohen gives cauliflower florets a long bath in maple smoke, dips them in cornflakes, fries them to a golden crisp and serves them on waffles. She’s making a visual pun on the chicken-leg shape of the florets and stems. But these smoky and crunchy nuggets also invite you to see vegetables as an indulgence, a pleasure that is not quite guilty but not entirely innocent, either.

Eating at Dirt Candy can be like going to a child’s birthday party in a country where all the children love vegetables. Eggplant tiramisù, with layers of rosemary lady fingers sandwiching a sweet mascarpone whipped with grilled eggplant, sounds like a dare: daring you to try it, daring you to like it. While you consider your options, a server brings the final element of the dish, a white frizz of cotton candy with a startlingly pure and piney taste of rosemary. It lifts up the eggplant, the dessert and the party.


Like a Kid in a Vegetable Store

DID you hear the one about the rutabaga? No, probably not. Vegetables don’t tend to inspire great jokes. On the contrary, they conjure their very own brand of humorlessness, the tight-lipped officiousness of grim nutritionists that is captured in the phrase “Eat your vegetables.”

Since opening Dirt Candy in the East Village almost four years ago, the chef Amanda Cohen has been waging war on the “eat your vegetables” mind-set, using humor as one of her weapons. Here she is on her restaurant’s Web site on the subject of cabbage: “It’s the wino of the vegetable world: smelly, unloved and looking at it makes you feel sad. A cabbage salad sounds even worse. Cabbage that’s . raw? It sounds like a plated suicide note.”

Humor is so integral to Ms. Cohen’s work that she may be the only chef in America who could publish her first cookbook in comic-book form and make the decision seem not just sensible but inevitable. Drawn by Ryan Dunlavey with facial expressions that range from mild exasperation to howling rage, Ms. Cohen’s cartoon character delivers bitingly funny monologues about appearing on “Iron Chef” and rolling out pasta dough. Along the way, she and her staff beat the daylights out of a wizard and a fairy who are idiotic enough to suggest that pickles are made by magic.

But Ms. Cohen’s chief weapon in the battle against vegetable scolds is the food she serves at Dirt Candy, a vegetarian restaurant that is thrillingly free of high-minded ideals. Ms. Cohen isn’t necessarily out to save a small planet or prevent heart disease. Her goals are possibly more subversive, and she achieves them with vegetable cookery that is original, clever, visually arresting and, above all, a lot of fun to eat.

Take the dish called Cauliflower! The punctuation is the restaurant’s, but I’ll go along with the emotion. Ms. Cohen gives cauliflower florets a long bath in maple smoke, dips them in cornflakes, fries them to a golden crisp and serves them on waffles. She’s making a visual pun on the chicken-leg shape of the florets and stems. But these smoky and crunchy nuggets also invite you to see vegetables as an indulgence, a pleasure that is not quite guilty but not entirely innocent, either.

Eating at Dirt Candy can be like going to a child’s birthday party in a country where all the children love vegetables. Eggplant tiramisù, with layers of rosemary lady fingers sandwiching a sweet mascarpone whipped with grilled eggplant, sounds like a dare: daring you to try it, daring you to like it. While you consider your options, a server brings the final element of the dish, a white frizz of cotton candy with a startlingly pure and piney taste of rosemary. It lifts up the eggplant, the dessert and the party.


Like a Kid in a Vegetable Store

DID you hear the one about the rutabaga? No, probably not. Vegetables don’t tend to inspire great jokes. On the contrary, they conjure their very own brand of humorlessness, the tight-lipped officiousness of grim nutritionists that is captured in the phrase “Eat your vegetables.”

Since opening Dirt Candy in the East Village almost four years ago, the chef Amanda Cohen has been waging war on the “eat your vegetables” mind-set, using humor as one of her weapons. Here she is on her restaurant’s Web site on the subject of cabbage: “It’s the wino of the vegetable world: smelly, unloved and looking at it makes you feel sad. A cabbage salad sounds even worse. Cabbage that’s . raw? It sounds like a plated suicide note.”

Humor is so integral to Ms. Cohen’s work that she may be the only chef in America who could publish her first cookbook in comic-book form and make the decision seem not just sensible but inevitable. Drawn by Ryan Dunlavey with facial expressions that range from mild exasperation to howling rage, Ms. Cohen’s cartoon character delivers bitingly funny monologues about appearing on “Iron Chef” and rolling out pasta dough. Along the way, she and her staff beat the daylights out of a wizard and a fairy who are idiotic enough to suggest that pickles are made by magic.

But Ms. Cohen’s chief weapon in the battle against vegetable scolds is the food she serves at Dirt Candy, a vegetarian restaurant that is thrillingly free of high-minded ideals. Ms. Cohen isn’t necessarily out to save a small planet or prevent heart disease. Her goals are possibly more subversive, and she achieves them with vegetable cookery that is original, clever, visually arresting and, above all, a lot of fun to eat.

Take the dish called Cauliflower! The punctuation is the restaurant’s, but I’ll go along with the emotion. Ms. Cohen gives cauliflower florets a long bath in maple smoke, dips them in cornflakes, fries them to a golden crisp and serves them on waffles. She’s making a visual pun on the chicken-leg shape of the florets and stems. But these smoky and crunchy nuggets also invite you to see vegetables as an indulgence, a pleasure that is not quite guilty but not entirely innocent, either.

Eating at Dirt Candy can be like going to a child’s birthday party in a country where all the children love vegetables. Eggplant tiramisù, with layers of rosemary lady fingers sandwiching a sweet mascarpone whipped with grilled eggplant, sounds like a dare: daring you to try it, daring you to like it. While you consider your options, a server brings the final element of the dish, a white frizz of cotton candy with a startlingly pure and piney taste of rosemary. It lifts up the eggplant, the dessert and the party.


Like a Kid in a Vegetable Store

DID you hear the one about the rutabaga? No, probably not. Vegetables don’t tend to inspire great jokes. On the contrary, they conjure their very own brand of humorlessness, the tight-lipped officiousness of grim nutritionists that is captured in the phrase “Eat your vegetables.”

Since opening Dirt Candy in the East Village almost four years ago, the chef Amanda Cohen has been waging war on the “eat your vegetables” mind-set, using humor as one of her weapons. Here she is on her restaurant’s Web site on the subject of cabbage: “It’s the wino of the vegetable world: smelly, unloved and looking at it makes you feel sad. A cabbage salad sounds even worse. Cabbage that’s . raw? It sounds like a plated suicide note.”

Humor is so integral to Ms. Cohen’s work that she may be the only chef in America who could publish her first cookbook in comic-book form and make the decision seem not just sensible but inevitable. Drawn by Ryan Dunlavey with facial expressions that range from mild exasperation to howling rage, Ms. Cohen’s cartoon character delivers bitingly funny monologues about appearing on “Iron Chef” and rolling out pasta dough. Along the way, she and her staff beat the daylights out of a wizard and a fairy who are idiotic enough to suggest that pickles are made by magic.

But Ms. Cohen’s chief weapon in the battle against vegetable scolds is the food she serves at Dirt Candy, a vegetarian restaurant that is thrillingly free of high-minded ideals. Ms. Cohen isn’t necessarily out to save a small planet or prevent heart disease. Her goals are possibly more subversive, and she achieves them with vegetable cookery that is original, clever, visually arresting and, above all, a lot of fun to eat.

Take the dish called Cauliflower! The punctuation is the restaurant’s, but I’ll go along with the emotion. Ms. Cohen gives cauliflower florets a long bath in maple smoke, dips them in cornflakes, fries them to a golden crisp and serves them on waffles. She’s making a visual pun on the chicken-leg shape of the florets and stems. But these smoky and crunchy nuggets also invite you to see vegetables as an indulgence, a pleasure that is not quite guilty but not entirely innocent, either.

Eating at Dirt Candy can be like going to a child’s birthday party in a country where all the children love vegetables. Eggplant tiramisù, with layers of rosemary lady fingers sandwiching a sweet mascarpone whipped with grilled eggplant, sounds like a dare: daring you to try it, daring you to like it. While you consider your options, a server brings the final element of the dish, a white frizz of cotton candy with a startlingly pure and piney taste of rosemary. It lifts up the eggplant, the dessert and the party.


Like a Kid in a Vegetable Store

DID you hear the one about the rutabaga? No, probably not. Vegetables don’t tend to inspire great jokes. On the contrary, they conjure their very own brand of humorlessness, the tight-lipped officiousness of grim nutritionists that is captured in the phrase “Eat your vegetables.”

Since opening Dirt Candy in the East Village almost four years ago, the chef Amanda Cohen has been waging war on the “eat your vegetables” mind-set, using humor as one of her weapons. Here she is on her restaurant’s Web site on the subject of cabbage: “It’s the wino of the vegetable world: smelly, unloved and looking at it makes you feel sad. A cabbage salad sounds even worse. Cabbage that’s . raw? It sounds like a plated suicide note.”

Humor is so integral to Ms. Cohen’s work that she may be the only chef in America who could publish her first cookbook in comic-book form and make the decision seem not just sensible but inevitable. Drawn by Ryan Dunlavey with facial expressions that range from mild exasperation to howling rage, Ms. Cohen’s cartoon character delivers bitingly funny monologues about appearing on “Iron Chef” and rolling out pasta dough. Along the way, she and her staff beat the daylights out of a wizard and a fairy who are idiotic enough to suggest that pickles are made by magic.

But Ms. Cohen’s chief weapon in the battle against vegetable scolds is the food she serves at Dirt Candy, a vegetarian restaurant that is thrillingly free of high-minded ideals. Ms. Cohen isn’t necessarily out to save a small planet or prevent heart disease. Her goals are possibly more subversive, and she achieves them with vegetable cookery that is original, clever, visually arresting and, above all, a lot of fun to eat.

Take the dish called Cauliflower! The punctuation is the restaurant’s, but I’ll go along with the emotion. Ms. Cohen gives cauliflower florets a long bath in maple smoke, dips them in cornflakes, fries them to a golden crisp and serves them on waffles. She’s making a visual pun on the chicken-leg shape of the florets and stems. But these smoky and crunchy nuggets also invite you to see vegetables as an indulgence, a pleasure that is not quite guilty but not entirely innocent, either.

Eating at Dirt Candy can be like going to a child’s birthday party in a country where all the children love vegetables. Eggplant tiramisù, with layers of rosemary lady fingers sandwiching a sweet mascarpone whipped with grilled eggplant, sounds like a dare: daring you to try it, daring you to like it. While you consider your options, a server brings the final element of the dish, a white frizz of cotton candy with a startlingly pure and piney taste of rosemary. It lifts up the eggplant, the dessert and the party.


Like a Kid in a Vegetable Store

DID you hear the one about the rutabaga? No, probably not. Vegetables don’t tend to inspire great jokes. On the contrary, they conjure their very own brand of humorlessness, the tight-lipped officiousness of grim nutritionists that is captured in the phrase “Eat your vegetables.”

Since opening Dirt Candy in the East Village almost four years ago, the chef Amanda Cohen has been waging war on the “eat your vegetables” mind-set, using humor as one of her weapons. Here she is on her restaurant’s Web site on the subject of cabbage: “It’s the wino of the vegetable world: smelly, unloved and looking at it makes you feel sad. A cabbage salad sounds even worse. Cabbage that’s . raw? It sounds like a plated suicide note.”

Humor is so integral to Ms. Cohen’s work that she may be the only chef in America who could publish her first cookbook in comic-book form and make the decision seem not just sensible but inevitable. Drawn by Ryan Dunlavey with facial expressions that range from mild exasperation to howling rage, Ms. Cohen’s cartoon character delivers bitingly funny monologues about appearing on “Iron Chef” and rolling out pasta dough. Along the way, she and her staff beat the daylights out of a wizard and a fairy who are idiotic enough to suggest that pickles are made by magic.

But Ms. Cohen’s chief weapon in the battle against vegetable scolds is the food she serves at Dirt Candy, a vegetarian restaurant that is thrillingly free of high-minded ideals. Ms. Cohen isn’t necessarily out to save a small planet or prevent heart disease. Her goals are possibly more subversive, and she achieves them with vegetable cookery that is original, clever, visually arresting and, above all, a lot of fun to eat.

Take the dish called Cauliflower! The punctuation is the restaurant’s, but I’ll go along with the emotion. Ms. Cohen gives cauliflower florets a long bath in maple smoke, dips them in cornflakes, fries them to a golden crisp and serves them on waffles. She’s making a visual pun on the chicken-leg shape of the florets and stems. But these smoky and crunchy nuggets also invite you to see vegetables as an indulgence, a pleasure that is not quite guilty but not entirely innocent, either.

Eating at Dirt Candy can be like going to a child’s birthday party in a country where all the children love vegetables. Eggplant tiramisù, with layers of rosemary lady fingers sandwiching a sweet mascarpone whipped with grilled eggplant, sounds like a dare: daring you to try it, daring you to like it. While you consider your options, a server brings the final element of the dish, a white frizz of cotton candy with a startlingly pure and piney taste of rosemary. It lifts up the eggplant, the dessert and the party.


Like a Kid in a Vegetable Store

DID you hear the one about the rutabaga? No, probably not. Vegetables don’t tend to inspire great jokes. On the contrary, they conjure their very own brand of humorlessness, the tight-lipped officiousness of grim nutritionists that is captured in the phrase “Eat your vegetables.”

Since opening Dirt Candy in the East Village almost four years ago, the chef Amanda Cohen has been waging war on the “eat your vegetables” mind-set, using humor as one of her weapons. Here she is on her restaurant’s Web site on the subject of cabbage: “It’s the wino of the vegetable world: smelly, unloved and looking at it makes you feel sad. A cabbage salad sounds even worse. Cabbage that’s . raw? It sounds like a plated suicide note.”

Humor is so integral to Ms. Cohen’s work that she may be the only chef in America who could publish her first cookbook in comic-book form and make the decision seem not just sensible but inevitable. Drawn by Ryan Dunlavey with facial expressions that range from mild exasperation to howling rage, Ms. Cohen’s cartoon character delivers bitingly funny monologues about appearing on “Iron Chef” and rolling out pasta dough. Along the way, she and her staff beat the daylights out of a wizard and a fairy who are idiotic enough to suggest that pickles are made by magic.

But Ms. Cohen’s chief weapon in the battle against vegetable scolds is the food she serves at Dirt Candy, a vegetarian restaurant that is thrillingly free of high-minded ideals. Ms. Cohen isn’t necessarily out to save a small planet or prevent heart disease. Her goals are possibly more subversive, and she achieves them with vegetable cookery that is original, clever, visually arresting and, above all, a lot of fun to eat.

Take the dish called Cauliflower! The punctuation is the restaurant’s, but I’ll go along with the emotion. Ms. Cohen gives cauliflower florets a long bath in maple smoke, dips them in cornflakes, fries them to a golden crisp and serves them on waffles. She’s making a visual pun on the chicken-leg shape of the florets and stems. But these smoky and crunchy nuggets also invite you to see vegetables as an indulgence, a pleasure that is not quite guilty but not entirely innocent, either.

Eating at Dirt Candy can be like going to a child’s birthday party in a country where all the children love vegetables. Eggplant tiramisù, with layers of rosemary lady fingers sandwiching a sweet mascarpone whipped with grilled eggplant, sounds like a dare: daring you to try it, daring you to like it. While you consider your options, a server brings the final element of the dish, a white frizz of cotton candy with a startlingly pure and piney taste of rosemary. It lifts up the eggplant, the dessert and the party.


Like a Kid in a Vegetable Store

DID you hear the one about the rutabaga? No, probably not. Vegetables don’t tend to inspire great jokes. On the contrary, they conjure their very own brand of humorlessness, the tight-lipped officiousness of grim nutritionists that is captured in the phrase “Eat your vegetables.”

Since opening Dirt Candy in the East Village almost four years ago, the chef Amanda Cohen has been waging war on the “eat your vegetables” mind-set, using humor as one of her weapons. Here she is on her restaurant’s Web site on the subject of cabbage: “It’s the wino of the vegetable world: smelly, unloved and looking at it makes you feel sad. A cabbage salad sounds even worse. Cabbage that’s . raw? It sounds like a plated suicide note.”

Humor is so integral to Ms. Cohen’s work that she may be the only chef in America who could publish her first cookbook in comic-book form and make the decision seem not just sensible but inevitable. Drawn by Ryan Dunlavey with facial expressions that range from mild exasperation to howling rage, Ms. Cohen’s cartoon character delivers bitingly funny monologues about appearing on “Iron Chef” and rolling out pasta dough. Along the way, she and her staff beat the daylights out of a wizard and a fairy who are idiotic enough to suggest that pickles are made by magic.

But Ms. Cohen’s chief weapon in the battle against vegetable scolds is the food she serves at Dirt Candy, a vegetarian restaurant that is thrillingly free of high-minded ideals. Ms. Cohen isn’t necessarily out to save a small planet or prevent heart disease. Her goals are possibly more subversive, and she achieves them with vegetable cookery that is original, clever, visually arresting and, above all, a lot of fun to eat.

Take the dish called Cauliflower! The punctuation is the restaurant’s, but I’ll go along with the emotion. Ms. Cohen gives cauliflower florets a long bath in maple smoke, dips them in cornflakes, fries them to a golden crisp and serves them on waffles. She’s making a visual pun on the chicken-leg shape of the florets and stems. But these smoky and crunchy nuggets also invite you to see vegetables as an indulgence, a pleasure that is not quite guilty but not entirely innocent, either.

Eating at Dirt Candy can be like going to a child’s birthday party in a country where all the children love vegetables. Eggplant tiramisù, with layers of rosemary lady fingers sandwiching a sweet mascarpone whipped with grilled eggplant, sounds like a dare: daring you to try it, daring you to like it. While you consider your options, a server brings the final element of the dish, a white frizz of cotton candy with a startlingly pure and piney taste of rosemary. It lifts up the eggplant, the dessert and the party.


Like a Kid in a Vegetable Store

DID you hear the one about the rutabaga? No, probably not. Vegetables don’t tend to inspire great jokes. On the contrary, they conjure their very own brand of humorlessness, the tight-lipped officiousness of grim nutritionists that is captured in the phrase “Eat your vegetables.”

Since opening Dirt Candy in the East Village almost four years ago, the chef Amanda Cohen has been waging war on the “eat your vegetables” mind-set, using humor as one of her weapons. Here she is on her restaurant’s Web site on the subject of cabbage: “It’s the wino of the vegetable world: smelly, unloved and looking at it makes you feel sad. A cabbage salad sounds even worse. Cabbage that’s . raw? It sounds like a plated suicide note.”

Humor is so integral to Ms. Cohen’s work that she may be the only chef in America who could publish her first cookbook in comic-book form and make the decision seem not just sensible but inevitable. Drawn by Ryan Dunlavey with facial expressions that range from mild exasperation to howling rage, Ms. Cohen’s cartoon character delivers bitingly funny monologues about appearing on “Iron Chef” and rolling out pasta dough. Along the way, she and her staff beat the daylights out of a wizard and a fairy who are idiotic enough to suggest that pickles are made by magic.

But Ms. Cohen’s chief weapon in the battle against vegetable scolds is the food she serves at Dirt Candy, a vegetarian restaurant that is thrillingly free of high-minded ideals. Ms. Cohen isn’t necessarily out to save a small planet or prevent heart disease. Her goals are possibly more subversive, and she achieves them with vegetable cookery that is original, clever, visually arresting and, above all, a lot of fun to eat.

Take the dish called Cauliflower! The punctuation is the restaurant’s, but I’ll go along with the emotion. Ms. Cohen gives cauliflower florets a long bath in maple smoke, dips them in cornflakes, fries them to a golden crisp and serves them on waffles. She’s making a visual pun on the chicken-leg shape of the florets and stems. But these smoky and crunchy nuggets also invite you to see vegetables as an indulgence, a pleasure that is not quite guilty but not entirely innocent, either.

Eating at Dirt Candy can be like going to a child’s birthday party in a country where all the children love vegetables. Eggplant tiramisù, with layers of rosemary lady fingers sandwiching a sweet mascarpone whipped with grilled eggplant, sounds like a dare: daring you to try it, daring you to like it. While you consider your options, a server brings the final element of the dish, a white frizz of cotton candy with a startlingly pure and piney taste of rosemary. It lifts up the eggplant, the dessert and the party.



Comments:

  1. Connah

    And I have faced it. We can communicate on this theme.

  2. Zolonris

    It is possible to speak on this question for a long time.

  3. Pandarus

    Very interesting thoughts, well told, everything is just laid out on the shelves :)

  4. Helmutt

    Well ... and such a judgment is permissible. Although, I think other options are possible, so do not be upset.



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