"Oh," says my companion, "this is the best soup I have ever had." I have not even lifted my spoon, but the aroma of black truffle has already hit the back of my nose; clearly there is astonishing flavor in this small cup of white bean and truffle soup. I tip some back. It is foamy and complex; multiple earthy layers are drawn out into tiny bubbles and creaminesses, with bits of sauteed mushrooms adding texture. White truffle oil, tasting of buttered heaven, floats along my palate.

"It's such a simple dish," says chef Michael Wendling, a youthful, energetic man who chats with nearly every table. "I'm surprised how much Chinese diners enjoy it."

I'm not. Five minutes later, the taste is still dancing on my tongue. Although it recedes briefly with a sip of wine, in a moment the soup's flavor registers again.

Recently I stopped in on two French chefs. Coincidentally both are from southern France, both are experienced in Michelin-starred restaurants and both are heading venues in five-star hotels in Shanghai. They're also both tall, lanky and have keen senses of humor, although one reveals this more through his ready smile, and the other through his avant-garde cuisine.

Wendling, at Allure in Le Royal Meridien, brings freshness to French cuisine, expertly weaving in Mediterranean influences, yet he doesn't veer into abstraction. Paul Pairet, at Jade on 36 in the Shangri-La, is both fearless and playful with flavors. Surprise, incredulity and wow-factors are his ingredients.

Wendling's beautifully-executed cod is a generous silky chunk afloat on crushed artichoke (a rare treat in Shanghai, I had almost forgotten artichoke's singular texture) in a puddle of red wine reduction beaten with butter; the flavors are sweet and deep. His wagyu beef lounges in an outrageous gravy, right up there with the soup. It is thick with intensity and a flock of heavenly things: red wine, port, truffle, veal juice and goose liver mousse. Two tiny bright green leaves offset the heavy autumnal colors and textures on the plate: Wendling's presentation is gorgeous, and restrained.

The first flavor of my meal at Jade on 36 is the infamous amuse bouche "bon bon" of foie gras with tamarind and caramel, skewered on a stick–an absurdist lollipop. It is so intense with big warm and citrusy flavors that my throat can barely enclose it all, I close my eyes and see only the infinitesimal bubbles rising in my champagne glass. "I could eat 10 of these and then just go home, happy," says my companion.

Pairet's creations provoke indescribable feelings as you encounter entirely novel textures, smells and combinations. Flavors scream in his seared Thai goose liver with zinging raw ginger meringue, and his frogs legs with Meuniere sauce and celery foam (spring time, in bubble form). His dishes are like reductions of a reduction. The first bite is a wonder, the second overwhelming sensation, the third you are drunk and wanting a glass of water and your bed. And all this is a good thing. You are eager for the next course, the next adventure.

It starts to rain. I see the slanting ghostly streaks outside, and the car lights seem to swim in one long flow on the other side of the river. From the 36th floor dining room, the curve of the bund seems to be reflecting the curvature of the earth. That's how high above I feel, in some stratosphere of storming flavors. We arrive at the lemon dessert– a food I would eat in a dream if I could control my dreams. It's so tart it makes my eyes want to roll back; my tongue revolts, then is lulled by the creaminess of vanilla chantilly. It is a hypnotic seesaw of extremes. "If there were no one here," my companion whispers, "I would lick the plate."

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