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Ever the food fanatic, David Brill went to find out what makes the Fat Duck the 'Best Restaurant in the World'.
"No food is intrinsically disgusting." This simple statement has driven chef Heston Blumenthal from kitchen to lab and back to kitchen, in a quest to discover what makes some foods taste good while others taste bad.
The results of his experimentation are on display at The Fat Duck in Bray, voted 'Best Restaurant in the World 2005' by Restaurant Magazine.
With such a reputation, entering through a little nondescript door to discover that the restaurant looks completely normal in every respect is somewhat disappointing. The true experience begins with opening the menu.
Imagine sitting down to the news that you are about to face a 16-course dinner, featuring salmon poached in liquorice with asparagus and pink grapefruit. That, of course, is after the mustard ice cream with red cabbage gazpacho. You can only hope desperately that the critics got it right, because it's going to be a long, torturous evening if they didn't.
Blumenthal's laboratory-based approach to cooking has been described as 'gastronomic alchemy'. Flavours are extracted and concentrated into small cubes of jelly, cooking times and temperatures are comprehensively tested to discover the perfect dish, while the psychological impact of colours and textures are never left unconsidered. He has lectured at Oxford University's Science Week and the Cheltenham Science Festival, while head chef Ashley Watts appeared on last year's Royal Institution Christmas Lectures.
And it doesn't take long to feel the science. The opening course is the Nitro-Green Tea and Lime Mousse, excitingly prepared at the tableside. Plum-sized blobs are squeezed from a canister of green paste and dropped into a bowl of liquid nitrogen, creating what must be the world's coldest meringue. It dissolves instantly in the mouth, leaving only its flavour behind.
Many courses would raise a smile from all but the most humourless of diners. Two anonymous-looking squares of jelly are placed in front of you: one deep purple, the other a pale yellow. "Beetroot and orange jelly," announces the waiter. "We recommend you start with the orange." Colour or f avour? Surely an irrelevant question when both must signify the same square. But not when you realise that the purple jelly is made from blood orange, and the yellow from pale beetroot - a course best enjoyed watching other people for their bemused reactions.
Snail porridge with Joselito ham and shaved fennel, sardine on toast sorbet, quail jelly with langoustine cream and parfait of foie gras - where else in the world do these dishes even exist?
All this from a man who left school with one A-level and
became a photocopier salesman. Yet the truly remarkable thing is that his cookery is self-taught, limited only by his imagination.
Much of Blumenthal's experimentation has involved capturing flavours and experiences from his childhood. This is particularly evident in the desserts, one of which is simply a sherbet fountain; another a chocolate cake made with popping candy in the base (again, time well spent observing other diners). And of course the grand finale: the world-famous bacon and eggs ice cream.
Few would question the creativity, flair and dedication that has gone into making the food at The Fat Duck. But do these bizarre dishes actually taste good?
The answer can be given with a simple reflection on the experience as a whole. It shouldn't work, and you almost want it not to. But it does, and it's an incredible experience. I never thought that mustard ice cream would rank amongst my all-time nicest foods, or that pea puree and foie gras would be such a great combination. Never has a meal been so thoroughly entertaining from start to fi nish, particularly when it takes some three or four hours to complete.
Don't be fooled by the modest interior. The Fat Duck is a special place. The critics got it right after all.
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