Tag Archives: el bulli

The Law of Diminishing Temperatures

More often than not, restaurants with long tasting menus are the ones that play hard to get. Those where you have to reserve 3 months ahead, desperately refreshing your browser as the bookings open at 4:00am in your time zone. If you’re lucky enough to secure a table, you will have made the 50%, non-refundable deposit before you’re lucid enough to flirt with buyer’s remorse.

Then the fateful day arrives. You’re celebrating your birthday, or your anniversary, or maybe you speak French and those two words confusingly mean the same thing. Perhaps you’ve planned your vacation around this meal, or saved for months as you brace for the impact of a bill that is comparable to your mortgage payments. And what, pray tell, is your reward for all of this preparation and sacrifice?

A motherfucking cracker.

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Ferran’s Accent

It was the kind of morning where you count the number of minutes you slept rather than the hours, and pretend that one coffee is going to be sufficient. I stood in the hotel lobby with a desperate latte still in one hand, when a man approached to firmly shake the other. “Ferran,” he said. No last name was needed.

We piled into a black SUV and the pinstriped suit in a backwards Kangol cap began to drive. “Es como Roses de Barcelona,” remarked Mr. Adrià. Our two-hour journey from Manhattan to Hyde Park felt like the one that gastrotourists fresh off the BCN tarmac used to make to visit him at elBulli, traffic and terrain excepted. That restaurant is now closed, of course. But since the last dinner service — el último vals — on July 30, 2011, both Ferran and elBulli have evolved. I needed to find out how. Continue reading

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noma

Love, like an American supermarket, is a fascinating and scary thing.  To walk its aisles is to struggle to distinguish what you want from what you need.  To fully understand its intricacies is to know too much.  In a frustratingly beautiful way, its true nature can seem inscrutable.

Danish supermarkets aren’t much easier so far.  This is the fifth one we’ve been to in Copenhagen tonight.  My girlfriend and I have just eaten lunch — two days in a row — at noma, the restaurant some rank above every other one on the planet, and she is agonizing over which gummy candies to have for dinner.  It turns out that she is to gelatin and sugar what Robert Parker is to wine or Roger Ebert to movies, a connoisseur of the highest ilk, an unequivocal arbiter of quality.

I poke fun, but it’s actually quite fetching.  I’ve always had a thing for Sour Patch Kids, so the match was meant to be. Continue reading

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