Bray, as far as I can see (it was rainy and dark - which is not atypical of the region) is a charming little hamlet about an hour outside of London, and not too far from Heathrow. I saw a bend in the road, a couple of houses, a few pubs, and that was about it.
We entered under a small sign that consisted of three elegant diagrams that were a combination of duck parts that morphed into cutlery. A leg into a spoon, a feather into a knife, and a fork that looked more like a chicken claw. Under that sign was a small door (I'd have thought that even three or four hundred years ago, people in England were taller than this doorway was) that led into a VERY small house that made me feel like I was about to dine with Andrew Carnegie in one of his abodes.
And it was antiseptic. Starkly white walls, a clean smooth white ceiling with a very lightly white/lavender LED patina across the entire place, but heavily focused on the white tablecloths. It was very bright, ostensibly to see the food better, which, I was to learn later, would be presented as art pieces, but had a profoundly deleterious impact on the overall ambiance.
The Fat Duck is roundly regarded as one of the world's best restaurants. Actually, it is consistently battling, somewhat unsuccessfully, with El Bulli as the greatest restaurant in the world. It shouldn't. It's better. A lot better. However, sitting in that E.R. or O.R. of a dining room, I realized, that perhaps I wasn't going to dine at all. I may have an appendix removed. It was the stark realization that I had, more than Moto, Alinea or El Bulli, that lighting is killing the experience rather than enhancing it. And as a lighting person, I am acutely aware of ambiance and the role it plays in creating experience.
With better lighting, the Fat Duck may indeed have its fair shot at being ranked as the world's best restaurant. (Certainly in their chosen movement.)
And as a devout proponent of the Molecular Gastronomy movement (read Mindfuckyoular Gastronomy Movement) it is clear that Chef Heston Blumenthal is indeed in his element.
While the service was completely on point, and the entire staff was extremely cool, accommodating and had a collective personality that alone would have made me go back, the Fat Duck diner's journey is singularly about the food.
We sat at our table, ordered a lovely white Condrieu viognier, and began our epic adventure in Bray.
A cart rolled over as if to decant the Condrieu complete with an ice bucket sitting atop yet another white tablecloth. But as we looked into the ice bucket, we saw it was filled with boiling water, or at least it looked like boiling water. But as I looked at the server's raw calloused hands, I saw that inside our ice container was the exact opposite of boiling water: Liquid nitrogen.
Our server, picking up a whipped cream container, he proceeded to spray out a foam ball that, when coming in contact with the liquid nitrogen, "cooked" into a palate cleansing meringue. It was kind of cool, kind of kitch but kind of tasty, in a restrained way, all at the same time. Terrific opening.
We then launched into a red cabbage gazpacho that was deconstructed and tasty and came with a scoop of mustard ice cream. Again, while sounding kind of unsavory, it came out with the plethora of restrained flavors that gave the gimmickry substance. I wanted to be critical but found myself unable to give the ultimate criticism, which is that it did not taste good. It tasted great!
Next on the agenda was a dish named "Jelly of Quail, Cream of Crayfish - Chicken Liver Parfait, Oak Moss and Truffle Toast. (Homage to Alain Chapel)" Now those of you that know me well know that I eat nothing alive from the sea, whatsoever. So my initial request was to serve it without the crayfish cream. I don't know who this Alain Chapel dude is, but quail jelly, chicken liver and truffle toast improbably blended together to make a knock out mousse style dish sitting atop a smoking bed of oak moss that, while having little nutritional value, tasted unbelievable. I can only imagine what the crayfish cream would have added. Nutrition probably...
Foie gras, meticulously and delicately crafted, sitting in a nest of rhubarb was served with braised konbu. Now, I'm going to be completely honest here. I don't know what in the world konbu is, but I know I enjoyed eating this dish a lot. They probably told me and it probably got lost somewhere between the bottle of Guigal La Mouline and the DRC La Tâche that came out for the next few courses...
Next up was the "Mock Turtle Soup." This "soup" was wildly deconstructed into an Alice and Wonderland tea ceremony where the gold leaf encrusted (24k I've been told, although my extremely discerning palate suggested that it was only 18k) medallion, was in fact shaped like a gold pendant and hung into a large teacup as if it were a tea bag. But with a beef bouillion stock. We then added a host of other ingredients and made our own soup (which at these prices may have been a questionable thing to have us do) right there at the table. I would like to say, that between the four of us, we have a cadre of expert soup makers. It was damned delicious.
Then came the most famous dish, possibly in the entire world. "Sounds of the Sea." I've been told that "Sounds of the Sea" has made people cry, but it made me want to steal an iPod Shuffle.
A hollowed out, rectangular, inch thick block of wood with a bed of sand in the cavity, covered in glass arrived with a second piece of glass sitting atop 3/4 inch glass risers. Nestled in a bed of ground tapioca made to look like more sand were chunks of some of the most unique, and uniquely cooked, mushrooms I'd ever seen. And you know I've seen a lot of mushrooms... (the others got a variety of fish, urchins and seafood which looked beautiful)
Accompanying the "Beach" was a large conch-like shell (it wasn't conch) with a pair of headphones hanging out of it. Dutifully following instructions, I put on the headphones and listened to gulls soaring over a rolling surf. As I dug into the beach and hauled out a magnificently braised cremini stalk, I quietly wept (on the inside) as I put it in my mouth. Wow. Great mushroom, but weird setting. Oddly incongruous against the backdrop of a hospital waiting room and the beachside entrance to Miami's Government Cut.
They gently reached into my suit jacket pocket to remove the iPod shuffle that I'd pulled from the shell and squired away for a future use. Perhaps sitting at the beach next to Miami's Government Cut...
We then had a course that completely woke me up to the talents of our chef, Mr. Blumenthal. Licorice poached salmon was what the table had, and I can't speak to that, but the pork belly on a barley risotto that they brought me in its stead was about the best bit of traditional cooking I'd ever had. There was no fat on the belly whatsoever, and braised as it was, it had none of the flaky consistency that braised meats do. It was firm, clean (as pork belly rarely ever is) and magnificently interperative of the flavors of the animal. It was a stunning dish, and it was this dish that made me realize how utterly talented the kitchen at the Fat Duck really is.
But then, as quickly as I was enraptured, I was brought back to earth. By a bird, no less... "Powdered Anjou Pigeon - Blood Pudding, Confit of Umbles." I'm totally perplexed by this dish, and am completely open to that I may not be sophisticated enough a diner to have gotten this one, but damn! SO gamey. Not my speed at all. Elegantly crafted, I'll admit, but I could have sworn that the pigeons were shot over Lasker Rink in Central Park. It was tough, Man...
The pork before the pigeon was so amazing that I had them make another of the pork for everyone at the table. (Including me) It was a miraculous recovery from the pigeon, both in flavor and in the consistency with which they prepared the second one. Identical to the last, and equally as incredible.
Sweets came out in the form of a tart that was delicious, and then a "Not So Full English Breakfast." Out came the decanting cart, the calloused hands (from being burned by the liquid nitrogen) and the ice bucket. Two eggs were broken and "cooked" in the nitrogen, and mixed with other ingredients to make a kind of egg dessert. It was good, to be sure, but after having seen the nitrogen once, we were kind of ambivalent towards seeing it again...
The Highland Malt gummy candies, though, were out of this world. They were gummy textured and sized little candies made of highland whiskies and served stuck on a map of where each was from. Each tasted distinctively awesome and together they packed a George Forman punch. Thank GOD I wasn't driving. I might still be in England, and in much less opulent surroundings...
The assortment of sweets (called "a Kid in a Sweet Shop") were tasty and unique. A lovely way to cap a journey of such proportions.
But as we rose to leave, having been transported through their weird and wistful journey, I realized, beyond comprehension, that the only reason why this is not roundly regarded as the best of these types of restaurant in the world is because of that sterile, terrifying antiseptic, blue lighting.