Some people often say things are too reductive, too simplified, too boiled down. Yet sometimes, things are exactly better off reduced.

One night at L’Ébauchoir, I found myself experiencing reduction in a positive way. I had ordered a Spanish pork dish that arrived with a small, shining pool of raspberry red wine reduction. It looked modest, almost minimal, like something that had been quietly stripped back until only the essentials were left.

The first bite showed me what the concept of “reductive” can mean at its best.

The sauce was not sweet, not tart, not fruity, not savory. It was all of them at once. The tang lifted the pork’s richness, the sweetness echoed its natural warmth, the wine grounded everything with a soft depth. Instead of feeling oversimplified, the dish felt more complete, as if the reduction had distilled multiple directions into a single, clear intention.

It made me realise that a good reduction is not about removing complexity. It is about concentrating it. Letting unrelated notes simmer long enough that they learn how to belong to each other. A reductive sauce does not flatten. It harmonises.

When I tried to recreate it at home, I was not chasing authenticity. I was chasing that moment of coherence, when something concentrated finally makes the whole thing make sense.