Sparks flew last night at Sean Brock and Danny Bowien's dinner

If you passed by Unity Alley last night, you may have noticed the windows of McCrady’s upstairs Long Room glowing as pink as the bordellos in Amsterdam’s red light district. Inside, spotlights cast a neon glow on walls of silk damask and dangling Venetian chandeliers, while shuffling funk and rap playlists set the mood. Clearly we were in for a good time. After introductory flutes of dry sparkling burgundy, guests took seats for a marvelous fusion of culinary cultures.

Sean Brock and his guest, Danny Bowien of Mission Chinese fame, sauntered out in aprons and ball caps to announce that the evening would be as raucously festive, and the food as plentiful, as a Chinese wedding. To seal the intent of their culinary union, Bowien surprised Brock with a big fat hug.

Then came a dizzying array of family style plates in fast succession: hot pepper jelly on toothsome buttermilk biscuits; massive stone crab claws smeared with pickled ramp and basil butter; ice cold Caper’s Blade raw oysters that slid down beautifully with a diced, braised seaweed mignonette; chilled shrimp doused in a cocktail sauce that left our mouths strangely tingling (the result of what Brock called a Szechuan pepper “tingling oil”).. My favorite: lettuce cups cradling beef tartare topped with trout roe and crunchy slivers of fried pig ear — an explosive umami and perfect balance of textures.
Those were just the apps. We all waited excitedly for the main courses, which proved indeed the perfect marriage of Brock’s and Bowien’s Southern-meets-Asian sensibilities. And to be fair, Brock has traveled plenty in Asia, and Bowien grew up in Oklahoma before rediscovering his Korean roots; both have cooked all over the globe.

Fried chicken came absolutely caked with Chongqing spices and scattered with crispy, dried red chiles. We grabbed drumsticks and bit into succulent interiors, nervously anticipating escalating levels of heat. Some diners broke into slight sweats and removed their jackets, while others gobbled down chiles to amp up the heat. Little side dishes of kimchi provided just the right kick.
We could have used some lazy Susan’s as we circulated large bowls of sides. Green beans and bright heirloom tomatoes came sprinkled with benne seeds. Petite red Sea Island peas graced the Hoppin’ John, dusted with crab roe powder. Collards were rendered richly oily from a Budweiser and peanut braise, topped with pickled charred chilis. A cross-cultural meet ‘n’ three.

It didn’t stop there (nor did the ever revolving pours of crisp wines, nine pairings in all). Gorgeous platters of lamb rib tips, meltingly tender within and shatteringly crisp without, came piled high with sprigs of dill, flatleaf parsley, and edible begonia flower petals (how’s that for festive and romantic?), all topped with house pickled tiny garlic flower capers. Brock stopped by our table to recommend we each tear off a piece of squid-ink-infused sourdough pita bread, dip it in a ramekin of velvety smooth kefir crema, pile on some of the fresh herbs, then wedge some juicy lamb on top, for the best of all bites. Man, oh man. Even the “but I don’t like lamb” diners helped themselves to seconds.

LL Cool J pontificated his wisdom, followed by Michael Jackson’s Thriller, a truly random and wonderful playlist that everyone in the kitchen submitted their picks to, and the historic Long Room felt more like the Limelight than the stuffy space where George Washington was entertained in 1791. A fellow diner quipped, “If they crank up Missy Elliott, I’m gonna’ dance on the table!” This segued into an epic version of James Brown’s “Super Bad” as diners flitted about comparing culinary notes.

Then the finale. Sparks glowed from the end of the Long Room. All heads turned to see the team of chefs lighting our desserts. One by one, hand-delivered on rocketing platters, came fireworks-ablaze banana splits nestled into chilled pineapple halves. Brock and Bowien each went table to table armed with canisters of Reddiwhip, unleashing towering piles of whipped cream as the sparklers died down. A faint veil of smoke glowed in the pink light. The diner to my right smiled big, “Hit it to quit it!” and we spooned into the thick, creamy gelato for the kill.

An extraordinary evening. Ball caps off to Brock, Bowien, and the entire McCrady’s team.