SANTA ANA — Spanish super-chef Ferran Adria is part chemist, part inventor and part avant-garde artist. He has influenced menus around the world, shaking up the foundation of how many chefs create dishes. He has reconstructed food, changing the way it looks and feels in the mouth. His El Bulli restaurant (in Roses, near Barcelona, Spain) has become a gastronomic must-do experience for chefs and adventurous foodies alike.

In Adria's kitchen, a melon, for example, may look, taste and feel nothing like the familiar fruit plucked from the vine. It could take on new texture and appearance. It could become a spherical shape that is chewy on the outside and juicy liquid on the inside. Or it could become bubble-filled foam served beside grilled fish. Something with golly-gee-whiz surprise.

So when Rob Wilson, executive chef at the Ritz Carlton Resort & Spa, Laguna Niguel, offered to show me how to make fruit caviar, meat glue and flavored foams a la Adria, I jumped at the chance.

Wilson went to El Bulli last summer with five other chefs, who experienced a highly innovative 35-course tasting meal matched with 35 wines, an event, he says, that was "very different and very educational." The experience fired him up, motivating him to delve deeper into what he calls "the wacky world of chemicals and cooking."

Before going on the El Bulli pilgrimage, he'd tinkered with key elements of the trend. He'd consulted Adria's 10-pound book, "El Bulli 1998-2002" (Ecco, $350), as well as Herve This' "Molecular Gastronomy" (Columbia University Press, $29.95). He'd made fruit caviars and foams. A prestigious dinner he prepared at the Beard House in New York City featured an avocado and pancetta foam. It accompanied fried, spicy cornmeal-coated oysters.

As I settled in at the Ritz Carlton kitchen, Wilson assured me that the techniques are easy once you get the methods down. That's good news for someone like me, who took her last chemistry class when Lyndon Johnson occupied the White House.

Fruit caviar

These pearl-like spheres are created by adding emulsifying compounds to fruit juices or fruit purees. They have nothing to do with fish eggs. They are dubbed "caviar" because of their shape, perfect smaller-than-pea-size balls about the same size as beluga caviar. Most often, they are used as a secondary element. A hoity-toity garnish.

Wilson had made three fresh juices to demonstrate the fruit caviar technique: carrot, grape and tomato. Using a scale, he carefully weighed 200 grams of carrot juice and mixed it with 2 grams of sodium alginate.

After using a hand-held immersion blender to combine the two, he concocted a grape juice mixture in a second bowl, following the same ratio. Then a third concoction using tomato juice was stirred up. It was too thin and needed "a touch more alginate," according to Matt Sisson, chef de cuisine at the Ritz Carlton's Restaurant 162'.

Grinning, Wilson explained that the "caviar swimming pool" was next on the to-do list. He weighed 100 grams of water and 1 gram of calcium chloride and stirred them together in a stainless-steel bowl.

First he demonstrated the squeeze bottle technique using the grape juice mixture. Holding the spout over the "swimming pool," he gave the sides of the plastic bottle a pretty good pinch to create a test glob. After letting it sit in the solution about 2 minutes, he fished out the purplish sphere that was about the size of a quail egg yolk. After rinsing it in cold water, he gave it a robust push, rolling it in his palm. It wiggled but stayed intact. It passed the touch test.

"It should be liquid on the inside but solid on the outside — the longer they stay in the solution, the harder they become," he said, pressing the bottle over the solution in short bursts while moving it in a circular motion to produce smaller spheres.

But the bottle method looked slow and a little boring after I caught a glimpse of the caviar maker, a gizmo that could make 96 spheres at a time.

The business end of this dandy tool is a hard plastic top with 96 spouts that sits atop a dish that holds the fruit caviar mixture. Attached to the top is rubber tubing fitted with a syringe-type gadget. The syringe is pulled out to fill the conical spouts with the mixture, then suppressed when held over the chemical water.

Push, plop, plop, plop. In seconds, 96 carrot pearls swam in the pool.

"The caviar maker is available online, as are the chemicals," he said, referring to http://www.chefrubber.com.

"I think it's important that the (fruit) mixture have intense flavor. I like to add ginger juice with carrot juice; to cantaloupe, I add white balsamic vinegar. I've done endless trial combinations. Maple syrup and olive oil don't work; they aren't acidic enough. I like to do deconstructed gazpacho; it's served in shot glasses filled with heirloom tomato water and caviar — some made with cucumber, some made with jalapeno and bell pepper, others with herbs such as cilantro. Or, maybe some yellow watermelon caviar over crab cakes with a guava gelee. I made chocolate liqueur caviar and floated them on martinis."

I threw a couple of carrot orbs into my mouth. They popped, spreading carrot juice over my tongue, giving my teeth some crunch action as they ruptured the exteriors. Next, we'd glue some fish together, sealing them in an unbreakable union.

Meat glue

Transglutaminase. Say that fast,10 times. That's the glue. It's sold under the trade name Activa. According to the company's Web site (http://www.activatg.com), it is a "naturally occurring enzyme that acts to link proteins."

On this day in Wilson's kitchen, it would link fish to shellfish. Why glue fish together? Because it tricks the eye, creating what looks like a new species of bicolored fish. A ribbon of contrasting color. A culinary mystery.

Wilson judiciously sprinkled a small amount of Activa on deep-red ahi tuna, explaining that transglutaminase is used as a binder in hot dogs and bologna. He used the powder form, but said a slurry (a mixture made with powder combined with water) could be used. He pressed a meaty diver scallop on top, then sealed the glued package tightly in plastic wrap and refrigerated it. As I stared at the super-fresh fish, I couldn't help secretly fantasizing about gluing bacon to everything from albacore to trout.

After Wilson pan-seared the fish in a little grape seed oil (cooking the ahi rare and the scallop medium rare), he brought out his iSi-brand whipped cream gizmo. He'd turn coconut milk into lighter-than-air froth.

Flavored foams

Like eating vibrantly flavored air, once in the mouth, foam garnishes can add culinary intrigue to dishes. Often called "espumas" in Spanish culinary circles, these foams can be made using a whipped cream dispenser equipped with nitrous oxide canisters. They can be created using various liquids made from foods such as vegetables or fruit, and even butter or cheese.

Often, they include gelatin, but Wilson keeps them simple.

He filled his iSi with coconut milk, and after sealing and shaking it, he oh-so-gently pressed the nozzle. Airy coconut foam shot out.

"This one is very simple, but you could steep the coconut milk with lemongrass or (grated fresh) ginger to give it more flavor," he said, recalling that he once prepared an espuma with heirloom tomatoes and goat cheese that paired with an onion tart. "Put (coconut milk foam) with grilled fish and it would be delicious. Or use it on chilled watermelon ginger soup."

Next he made beurre noisette (brown butter) foam, a froth that would taste like a mixture of butter and hazelnuts but have a cloud-like consistency.

The butter bubbled on the heat until it turned a warm brown color. Then he beat in a little nonfat milk with the immersion blender. He made the already foamy mixture even lighter by beating in a small amount of soy lecithin.

On the plate

He cut the glued-and-seared fish in half, and placed the halves on opposite ends of a rectangular plate. He garnished one with coconut foam, and the other with beurre noisette foam. He finished one with a topping of tiny microgreens, the other with a topping of carrot caviar that looked like the roe from a wild trout.

Science met art on that plate, showcasing techno shapes and textures invented in Spain, but reinvented and refined by Wilson in Orange County.

His menus have a smattering of chemistry cuisine. Oysters can be ordered topped with green apple caviar. A lightly smoked arctic char served with quinoa, cauliflower and wild mushrooms might be topped with chervil-truffle froth. But froths, fruit caviars and glued fish are still a menu rarity.

Molecular gastronomy won't put tried-and-true cookery out of business any time soon. But isn't it fun?

— Distributed by McClatchy-Tribune Information Services.