The Messy Genius Of Jonathan Brooks
At Beholder on East 10th Street, one day before the grand opening, cooks are charring perfectly good garden vegetables on a hot grill. It can be said: Cucumbers are burning. Their skins are starting to swell from the heat.
Nearby, several new bartenders are in training at the bar in front of three highballs. They note the garnishes and mixes in journals as dim house music plays overhead. On the stove, three pots simmer. Between the bar and the grill station, there’s a four-day old newspaper and a splay of invoices. The house checkbook stands unmanned for a moment, next to a small truck made out of Legos, amidst a forest of wine bottles. An assistant pastry chef paces, looking down into her calculator, then through the pass-through at a workstation populated with cups of macerated raspberries.
Observing all this, Jonathan Brooks—Indy’s 33-year-old superstar chef—moves from one cooking station to the next, pretty much silent. He is an engine of calm, here at the finish of a two-year journey toward opening this restaurant, his highly anticipated dinner place, after the massive success of his brunch destination Milktooth. Brooks is a big guy now, large in his kitchen whites, hulking you might say, having spent many months testing dishes for the opening. “Every night, new entrees, new drinks to try,” he says. “I eat and eat. I don’t care. That’s my job at the moment. I’m a glutton for this place.”
As he cruises his new dining room, set in the shell of a former auto parts shop, he is guided mostly by a sequenced cook timer on his cell phone, set to vibrate. Brooks stands at the grill, leans in, and takes a gander as the sous chef turns things. The cucumbers are really getting black.
In 2014, Jonathan Brooks emerged from obscurity and, alongside his then-wife Ashley Brooks, gave Indianapolis Milktooth, the breakfast/brunch miracle in Fletcher Place. Wasabi pea Dutch baby pancakes. A trademark whitefish salad on challah. Grilled cheese with black-truffle honey topped with a duck’s egg. Chicken thighs with cochigaru sauce, featuring fennel and pickled peppers. These were dishes worth talking about at 11:45 on a hungover Saturday morning.
It was straight butter from there. Local foodies are familiar with the moonshot of his fame. Within a year, Brooks was named a best new chef and featured on the cover of Food & Wine. Conde Nast Traveler included Milktooth on its list of best restaurants in the world. Indianapolis, as featured in stories about Brooks and Milktooth, began being mentioned as a “food destination,” with Milktooth named an “essential restaurant” by Eater’s restaurant editor. In 2015, the city even held a Milktooth Day to commemorate Brooks, his food, and the apparent shift in national perception of the city.
Brooks stood tall as a proponent of Indiana-sourced foods, too. “I grew up here. My formative years were here,” he says. “And when I left for Montana, I never planned to move back. But when I did, I was blown away by the agriculture muscle of the place, and the cool produce available here.” He then lists from memory the farms, proprietors, and distributors who fill the larder at Milktooth every morning. He offers phone numbers.
Brooks shares the spotlight reflexively. He sincerely wants people to take a look for themselves at what he’s found here. He is an open champion of food offerings in Indiana, often written off for the rows of soy beans and feed corn in its fields. Brooks has overturned that perception. He did the leg work before opening Milktooth. He knows what’s out there. It revs him up to list it from memory, like a Gatling gun.
For Brooks, the pleasure of cooking lies in the assemblage of arcane hunches and wild hairs of memory. Or maybe it’s just eating. The man eats. “When we were putting the menu together, [sommelier] Josh Mazanowski and I sat around and tried everything we could think of,” he says. “Linking wines to tastes, and to the smells of food. Then we linked ingredients for our own pleasure. We crossed stuff. And re-crossed.”
“I’m not the type of chef who shoots for perfect food,” he says. “I don’t write recipes down. I like a little chaos in my eating.”
Asked how many of these experiments will make the menu at Beholder, Brooks is circumspect. “Not many,” he says. “A small percentage. We ate a lot in order to offer what we have here. And just stayed in, eating and drinking.” He slaps his hand against his chest, somewhere above his stomach, over his heart maybe. “It doesn’t matter. That’s the job.”
Situated on East 10th Street, Beholder almost certainly will accelerate the restoration of what was recently a fringe neighborhood. His reasons for the location? “Mostly we just found a landlord who was willing to let us work with the space,” he says. “We didn’t hire a designer. We pulled it together ourselves, using our own ideas, our own palette.”
So they had no sense of betting on the location? He shrugs a little. “It’s close to Milktooth,” he says, downplaying the significance of rebuilding a vacant commercial structure in a neighborhood which needs that sort of help. “And I live near here. I can ride my bike. And it’s easier to see my son when I can.”
But he is betting on what he can do with dinner, with wine pairings, crafted small plates, bowls shared around festive and intimate tables. It’s a cozy, elegant layout stretching across the still perceivable auto bays, from the child-friendly pink room near the entrance, through the bar and open grill, toward candle-lit dining at the far end. The opening-week menu would feature pig-skin pad-thai with kohlrabi, smoked dried shrimp, tofu, and peanuts; pan-roasted skate wings, with potato-skin aioli and fresh green curry sauce; and, of course, the infamous grilled cucumber, with the pricey option to add caviar and clotted cream.
“Food is a sensual thing,” Brooks says. “And I want people sharing bowls, reaching for bites, feeding one another. Just treating the food like something to touch as well as taste.” His plates are little experiments, different every night. “I’m not the type of chef who shoots for perfect food,” he says. “I don’t write recipes down. I like a little chaos in my eating.”