The Art of Eating editor Ed Behr has an answer.  In writing (in Issue 61) about a trip to Heston Blumenthal’s restaurant The Fat Duck, in Bray, England, one of the best restaurants in the world and uncontestedly one of the most avant-garde, where diners eat a multi-course “molecular gastronomy” menu composed of dishes like roast foie gras with almond gel, cherry sauce, amaretto cubes and chamomile, Behr writes,

I was glad to eat Heston Blumenthal’s food, and I admire his talent.  But I find traditional food much more complex because it draws on much more of human experience, both in agriculture and in the kitchen.  It reflects the logic of hand methods and an understanding of the relationship between a place and the plants and animals that came to thrive here. Traditional food exploits combinations arrived at over generations and at a time when eating was a much more important part of life than it is today. It’s true that our habits have changed and our knowledge has increased and that the old recipes usually benefit from re-examination.  But not so much that they cease to express their rich sources.  Compared with most newly invented dishes, traditional food is more obviously and reassuringly in touch with nature, and it is much more harmonious.

I find this a particularly eloquent defense of traditional food and a satisfying explanation of where and why new food, while fascinating, so often falls short. Anyone fed a Blumenthal diet more than exceptionally would surely start to suffer acute food fatigue, and sometimes, after a few too many meals out, I feel myself getting close to that. In the best of cases, molecular gastronomy challenges, questions, and—of course—pleases. But badly done, it veers easily into the pretentious, flimsy or ersatz.  

When molecular gastronomy expresses terroir, it does so in a way that totally flips nature and its logic on their heads.  But what if terroir were an expression of self rather than place? That’s something for the next post.