[Bray] The Fat Duck -- December 2008 report
I finally got around to writing a few (okay more than a few) words about my lunch at the Fat Duck back in December. Though in a few instances, I found the service to be a bit of a downer, this meal was one heck of a good time. You can read about it below and see plenty of pictures (and videos) here: http://www.alifewortheating.com/uk/the-fat-duck/
I’m pretty sure the last time I ate out of necessity was in 1985. I was six months old at the time, breast-feeding, and as yet unable to reach the refrigerator door handle. I eat for pleasure now, which is to say I eat incessantly. Hell, I’m having trouble typing this sentence because I’m eating right now.
I didn’t need to go to lunch at the Fat Duck. Probably didn’t need to eat at all. Lunch and dinner the day before hadn’t exactly been carrot sticks and a protein shake. But I thought it would be a fun meal. And it was, apart from the Ice Queen hostess and the scolding from a waiter because “Chef’s” (no surname) masterpieces were melting, thawing, smoking less dramatically, or otherwise deteriorating before our eyes as we dared to snap photos of each course. But I’ll get to all that.
We opted for the tasting menu (£122), which may or may not have been revised since 1985. As you’ll recall, I was six months old at the time.
Okay, so the restaurant’s only been open since 1995, but the menu very rarely changes. Instead, chef Heston Blumenthal is a man obsessed with perfecting what’s already in his repertoire. He endlessly tweaks his recipes and refines his methods. He presents the same food in new ways, manipulating the smell in the air, the sound that hits your ears, and the story into which you’ve unknowingly been scripted. He’s probably more tuned in to your senses than you are.
It was easy to play along, though. While we stared blankly at the dish of olives on the table, our waiter rolled over a cart topped with a fancy ice bucket, a pitcher, and a siphon. My, that is one elaborate way to serve sparkling water, I thought. But no, it was NITRO-GREEN TEA AND LIME MOUSSE (2001)…
It was a short dip in a very chilly pool (minus 196 °C according to the waiter) for this airy meringue infused with green tea, lime, and a drop of vodka. I was amazed that something so cold had such aroma. Or maybe my olfactory system was just tricked by all the other sensations at work. My mouth tingled like I’d just swallowed a particularly peppy breath mint and then inhaled deeply. It was cold and sour and just slightly bitter from the final dusting of green tea powder. The ball dissolved into nothing on my tongue in moments — a lovely, if ephemeral, start to the meal.
Soon came a small plate with two squares of jelly — one red, one orange. In a little game of culinary trompe-l’œil, the red jelly was made from blood orange, and the orange jelly, beetroot. Sneaky. Though a bit difficult to leverage the little squares off the plate with the supplied spoons, both were quite packed with their respective flavors.
Bread arrived with its good friend, butter. What can I say? It was… geometrical. A cube of salted, and a cube of unsalted. Both were fine butters, but not special by comparison to Stephen Harris’, which was still so fresh in my memory.
Little black platforms were set before us, each topped with an OYSTER, PASSION FRUIT JELLY, LAVENDER. Frankly, the combination sounded revolting, but a layer of creamy horseradish hidden beneath the passion fruit jelly rescued it from cloying sweetness. The lavender was barely discernible – three miniscule buds atop the oyster, and a tiny sprig on the side. The oyster was actually shucked and cut into pieces before being returned to the shell and layered with the other ingredients, which made it remarkably easy to savor over a couple of bites instead of sending it down the hatch in one gulp like I might have otherwise. I wasn’t enamored of this dish, but I think that has more to do with my usual predilection against horseradish than anything else.
The POMMERY GRAIN MUSTARD ICE CREAM, RED CABBAGE GAZPACHO packed a latent surge of heat just like the horseradish that had come before it. However, this time the kick found its counterpoint not in sweetness, but in acidity. The red cabbage gazpacho had an almost acerbic quality in the mouth, as bright on the palate as it looked on the plate. The texture of the gazpacho was much thinner and less viscous than I had expected, but in combination with the ice cream and a tiny brunoise of cucumber, it had both crunch and character when you first bit into it, and a creaminess that lingered on your tongue until you lifted the spoon to your mouth once again.
The next few things came in rapid-fire succession. To be honest, I just wanted some along time with the first before the others starting arrived like unplanned children. It began with the OAK MOSS AND TRUFFLE TOAST (Homage to Alain Chapel), a bed of oak moss topped with cute little dispensers of moss-flavored breath strips. We let the film dissolve on our tongues while the waiter poured water on top of the oak moss, casting an eerie veil of moss-scented mist over our table…
I’m sure this imagery is intended to transport us mentally to the damp, shady base of an old oak tree. But the only thing I could think of was a holiday party I went to three years ago when a bunch of lanky physics nerds hopped up on Red Bull and gummy worms got their hands on some dry ice and decided to make it the evening’s “entertainment”, before presumably returning to their respective caves for an all-night World of Warcraft tournament. It wasn’t a pretty sight. But I digress. While our table filled with more smoke than I’d seen since that Iron & Wine concert a while back, we crunched our way through a thin piece of toast topped with chopped truffles and a few slices of radish. Apparently truffles and oak moss share certain chemical compounds, hence the pairing. He’s quite an intelligent chap, this Blumenthal character.
Layered in a separate bowl, the JELLY OF QUAIL, LANGOUSTINE CREAM, PARFAIT OF FOIE GRAS also had just a few spoonfuls of pea puree underneath it all. I thought this was lovely. It was rich, creamy and salty, but somehow not too much of any one of these. It would’ve made a nice spread for toast, and was probably meant as such for the truffle toast. Pity that I had already eaten it. And an even bigger pity, apparently, that I had taken a few seconds to photograph all the components of this course as they were set down. We were essentially scolded by one of the wait staff for doing so: “It’s very important that Chef’s creations are eaten à la minute. Blah blah blah blah blah. I have basically no sense of humor and no warmth of spirit. Please don’t smile in here, sir.” Okay, so that’s not a direct quote, and he obviously didn’t say those last couple of things. But seriously — reprimanded for a few (non-flash) photos of each course?! Give me a break.
And then give me SNAIL PORRIDGE with Joselito ham. Truly a marvelous dish, and a signature for which the chef is justifiably famous. It was so alluring in its simplicity. Snails and parsley have a mutual affinity, as the French have long since discovered. But the anise-y sweetness of shaved fennel and the salty, thin strips of Joselito ham here elevated the combination to a whole new level. And nutty porridge made this dish more than a good match. It was a love connection. I could’ve — and gladly would’ve — eaten forty of these.
Mmm, benzaldehyde — I never can get enough of that delicious C6H5CHO. It’s a chemical compound present in almonds, several stone fruits, and the exceptional ROAST FOIE GRAS “BENZALDEHYDE” that came flanked by almond fluid gel, cherry, and chamomile. Pre-cut into three fat slices and topped with chamomile, chives, and a snowy mound of shaved almond, the foie gras was absolutely tantalizing. It had a uniformly firm-tender consistency throughout each cross-section, rendering the dangerously sharp Laguiole knives we’d been given useless. The almond fluid gel transported me back to Sicily, where I had fallen for the subtle charms of almond milk. And I haven’t even mentioned the delicious tiny cubes of amaretto jelly or the pure, intense flavor of the cherry and its puree. This dish was sublime, simply one of the best foie gras preparations I’ve ever had.
The conversation of a particularly obnoxious couple nearby drifted well above the din in the room, and I glanced hopefully about for a blunt object with which to beat them. The waiter, ever so helpful, brought a large seashell — unfortunately far too beautiful to crack on those neighboring knuckleheads – with an iPod playing the “SOUND OF THE SEA”. I zoned out listening to the seagulls and the crashing waves while they set a glass-covered sandbox before us. The edible “sand” on top (a mixture of tapioca, fried breadcrumbs, crushed fried baby eels, cod liver oil and langoustine oil) captured the texture (if thankfully not the flavor) of that substance well. All along this virtual shoreline with several types of shellfish — oysters, winkles, razor clams, and mussels among them — seaweed, and a briny foam. The combination of so many different stimuli (sound, texture, aroma, taste, appearance) really brought all the senses to the seashore at once in this fun dish.
Striking though it was on the plate, the SALMON POACHED IN LIQUORICE GEL with artichokes, vanilla mayonnaise and “Manni” olive oil was my least favorite dish of the meal. The texture of the salmon was truly remarkable — light and flaky, so intensely soft and buttery that I wondered how it stood up on the plate at all. It was enrobed in a thin layer of very subtly flavored licorice gel, a veil of darkness that created a lovely contrast with the bits of bright pink grapefruit scattered about. But it was also — to my taste at least — horribly, unforgivably under-salted. The vanilla mayonnaise — strange as it sounded — was actually quite nice, a rich, slightly sweet way to balance out the acidity and mild bitterness of the artichokes and the balsamic vinegar dotted all over the place. Sadly, even with a few errant dribbles of the peppery olive oil, I just didn’t think the separate components of this dish became a very harmonious assembly.
Next was a beautiful deep-red BALLOTINE OF ANJOU PIGEON with black pudding “made to order”, pickling brine and spiced juices. I’m not sure it struck me how much I enjoyed this dish at the time, but I’ve been lamenting its absence at every meal since. The “black pudding” was a thick, smooth, creamy, and rich puree. I could spread that on toast every day and die (prematurely, of congestive heart failure) a happy man. The breast and leg meat of the pigeon was lean, tender and extremely flavorful. The foamed pickling brine and spiced juices kept the dish from skewing too much toward the rich, meaty, bloody side. And I thought the pigeon chip — made with tapioca in the same manner as shrimp chips in many Asian countries — was an exceptionally cool idea, and a well-executed one on top of it.
Not even mentioning the taste (which I quite enjoyed), the HOT AND ICED TEA (2005) was just plain enjoyable to drink. I’ve had layered hot-and-cold liquids before (Johnny Iuzzini’s white and dark chocolate consommés come to mind), but always layered vertically. This tea, however, was magic. The left half of it was cold, the right was hot , and they were separated by an invisible divider. Both sides were fairly viscous, so I’m guessing the technique employed is something like what was used for the almond fluid gel earlier. But I honestly have no idea, and I’m happy in that ignorance — I loved this.
We were handed some reading material on a certain Agnes B. Marshall, the so-called “Queen of Ice Cream”, inventor of the now-ubiquitous ice cream cone and, as such, worthy of sainthood. Blumenthal’s homage to her legacy was MRS. MARSHALL’S MARGARET CORNET, a Mini-Me-sized cone of apple ice cream on top, with a spicy ginger-orange granita below. Quite flavorful — if just a tad grainy — for something the size of a thimble.
To prep the taste buds for the first full-sized dessert, we were given small tubes of PINE SHERBET FOUNTAIN (PRE-HIT). Blumenthal is always playing with nostalgia — a British sense of nostalgia, considering the fact that he’s British and all. Oafish American that I am, I had not a clue what a sherbet fountain was. Left without an explanation, I wondered how to use the dehydrated stick of vanilla within… Dip and lick à la Fun Dip? Bring back the 80’s, lower my head to the table and start snorting like Tony Montana? I was lost. Hesitatingly, I licked, dipped, then licked again. Pine flavored. More sour than sweet. Interesting.
Now I suppose my palate was ready for the MANGO AND DOUGLAS FIR PUREE, bavarois of lychee and mango, blackcurrant sorbet, blackcurrant and green peppercorn jelly. I suppose the pureed Christmas tree was fitting, considering the season. But the flavor of the puree was surprising subtle, more mango than, well, tree. I also thought the bavarois was borderline insipid. Don’t get me wrong, the sorbet was incredible and the presentation, stunning. But aside from that sweet-tart sorbet and the peppery little cubes of jelly, the extra-fluffy bavarois tasted like fluff.
By now, it was pushing dinner time, so naturally finished up this lunch with breakfast. First up was a bowl of PARSNIP CEREAL – sweet, crunchy little flakes that were softened up ever so slightly by the addition of milk. With no added sugar, the natural sweetness of the parsnips came through. In the background, a subtle earthiness was detectable, but surprisingly, I almost forgot about the fact that we were eating a root vegetable for dessert.
What is there to say that has not already been said about the NITRO-SCRAMBLED EGG AND BACON ICE CREAM (2006)? While I think about that, let’s just watch a movie…
Done already? Crap. Well, let’s see. Now you’ve witnessed how that “very special egg” that already tasted of bacon — magic! — was “scrambled” in liquid nitrogen — more magic! — as we sat with confused looks on our faces. Perplexity turned to bliss when I tasted it, though. The ice cream was rich, yolky, and smoky — essentially a flash-frozen bacon-infused custard. The pain perdu served beneath it was crispy and heavily caramelized on the outside, but amazingly moist within. A little dab of tomato compote was, for me, extraneous, but sweet and tasty nonetheless. A crispy crown of bacon reinforces the breakfast sandwich visual element of this dish. And to drink? This is England, so tea, of course. In this case, jellied tea that was served in a really neat broken egg-shaped cup. Perhaps I was spoiled by the hot and cold tea we’d been served not too long before this, because I found this tea jelly a bit of an afterthought, really.
Last up, a round of PETITS FOURS: mandarin aerated chocolate, a violet tartlet, and a carrot and orange lolly. The chocolates had an interesting interior that looked like a dried up brown sponge on top of a little round of mandarin jelly. Nearly weightless, I was amused by the texture more than I enjoyed the flavor. The violet tartlet I quite liked (the fat grains of vanilla salt were a particularly nice touch), but I think I was alone in that thinking among the rest of my party who found the oozy filling a little unwieldy. The carrot and orange lolly tasted more of the former than the latter, but was harmless enough. Oh, there were a few apple-flavored caramels with edible wrappers as well. Nice little selection of treats to close out the meal.
I’ve tried to forget the particularly cold greeting we received on the way in to the restaurant, having asked the hostess if there was even the slightest possibility that we could squeeze another friend who’d come along for the train ride from London onto our four-top (a spacious round table, might I add). She reacted like we had simultaneously run over her puppy, cursed her ancestors, and smudged her Pumas. It was a firm “No, I can’t”, not an offer to go and check with the chef, not a “Let me see what I can do”. She might as well have added “You most certainly may not. How dare you even ask?!” because that’s basically what her body language said for the remainder of the afternoon.
That initial bump in the road notwithstanding, this meal had been an incredibly fun ride and I was sad to see it end. I was also pleasantly surprised how often the words “fun” and “flavorful” had popped into my head at the same time that afternoon. The world is full of so-called “molecular gastronomy” restaurants where technology overshadows taste, and awkward, forced whimsy comes with a side of failed irony. But 99% of those restaurants aren’t backed by chefs as truly brilliant as Heston Blumenthal. His deep understanding of (food) science and (food) history is instantly noticeable. His dishes are relentlessly researched and yet playfully nostalgic. His cuisine, simply put, demands attention — eyes open, ears perked, and taste buds raring — because the entire experience at The Fat Duck, perhaps more than any other place I’ve been, hits you from so many directions and on so many levels at once.
By tupac17616
on Feb 9, 2009 11:42 PM
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