Written by Ciarán Hayden
About Ciarán Hayden: Ciarán is a screenwriter from Dublin who loves food and regularly enjoys up to seven square meals a day. Now that he’s just entered his thirties, he prays that his metabolism doesn’t suddenly grind to a halt.
We have resorted to speaking Irish. Having waited over a year for this, it’s turning into a nightmare. So I say it: “Ba mhaith liom dul abhaile”. And right then I mean it. I really do want to go home. In spite of the fact that she has just gagged for the second time, Caitriona isn’t budging, and instead decides to interpret my plea to bail as a request to relieve her of the rest of her soya milk skin. So as I plan my exit strategy (I’m thinking a towel, my fist, and a bathroom window) and choke down Caitriona’s soya milk skin, I decide to tough it out for one more course. And “toughing it out” is not a tactic you expect to have to deploy in the world’s greatest restaurant…
It had all started so well. The gates open and we roll down a steep hill into the car-park of a whitewashed building overlooking a bay, nominally located in the foothills of Roses, but really in the middle of nowhere. The place is beautiful. You almost gasp at the magnificence of the setting, wishing you could have arrived that bit earlier to see it in daylight, to have a proper look around, and maybe watch the sun go down as you dangle your feet in the water. And that’s the sound that accompanies your stroll across the gravel to the front door; the same sound that soundtracks their website; gently lapping waves. Looking out across the water as the moonlight dances across the ripples, you realise you are somewhere other-worldly and very special. There is an air of complete calm that puts you at ease, and once inside, permeates throughout the place. But complete calm in a busy restaurant kitchen feels genuinely eerie.
There is total silence, no discernible smell, no flames, no steam, and no clattering of pots and pans. There are only rows and rows of white-clad, mostly-very-young chefs, filling vessels resembling ice-cube trays with unimaginable concoctions. I can’t shake the feeling that this might be for show – that the real kitchen is somewhere “out back”. It’s a world of blood, sweat, and swearing, where ex-con dishwashers bludgeon mice to death with their clogs. They probably use Bisto. Then a familiar, grey-haired, middle-aged man emerges from behind the metal bull’s head that serves as the restaurant’s mascot and smiles warmly at us. Caitriona blushes, I giggle like a schoolgirl and we both shake the hand of the world’s most revered chef, Ferran Adria, who is about to cook dinner for us.
Shown to our tables in the far corner of the unfussy dining-room by a tall, stern blonde waitress (hereafter known as “Bad Cop”) I order sparkling water while the sommelier recommends some local vintage Cava for our designated boozer. Soon after our drinks arrive, a large metal bucket filled with ice is placed in front of us. It contains four green sticks with a single mint leaf spliced into the top of each. The “sticks” are sugar cane macerated in rum, the ice is flavoured with lime, and the mint leaves release a surprising amount of their flavour down each length of sugar cane. Welcome to El Bulli: where you don’t drink your mojito, you chew it.
Next up we meet Good Cop – a friendly, playful waitress who clearly buzzes off our enthusiasm and is happy to answer the questions we pose throughout the evening. All in one go she presents us with three courses: “Hibiscus” is a pressed, crystallized flower, deep red yet see-through like a stained glass window, sweet but with a pleasingly sharp aftertaste. “Sesame cracker” looks beautiful but tastes dry and claggy, while “mimetics peanuts” are monkey nuts with wafer thin edible shells containing smooth, creamy peanut butter.
Following hot on the heels of our “sugar cane: mojito”, the “day’s cocktail” is a delicious mixture of elderflower foam, topped up with a generous measure of sweet local sherry. I start to worry about the perilously winding drive back to Cadaques and ponder whether Ferran might let me crash on his floor for the night.
The “shrimp” arrive at our table still moving. They are piping hot, cooked but somehow alive and writhing around on a bed of seaweed. So as Ferran presumably twiddles away on a remote control in the kitchen, cackling maniacally, shouting “live… LIVE MY PRETTIES!!!” we are instructed by Bad Cop to pick them up with our fingers but not to eat the heads. They are the best shrimp I’ve ever eaten; lightly steamed, juicy and with subtle notes of seaweed and tea. We’re 4 or 5 perfect specimens down when I notice that one of the remaining shrimps appears to have a large tumour on its side. Is this a genuine oversight or a ballsy statement of defiance? We’ll tell you what’s good to eat - tumours are good to eat! Whatever it is, with tumour-shrimp arching its back and in the midst of painful death-throes, I decide on a mercy-killing. With all the tasty shrimps at peace now, we settle in to the rest of our “little bites”…
Though I instantly recognise El Bulli’s infamous “spherical olives”, nothing can quite prepare you for the sensation as the globule bursts at the back of your throat, flooding your mouth with the finest, fruitiest olive oil imaginable. Lots of it. Your instinct is to swish it around like a fine wine, savour the flavour and then locate the nearest spittoon. But here you must swallow. Or else violently gag and then choke it down with tears in your eyes like a certain member of our party that wasn’t me. Presumably as a reward for not projectile-vomiting large quantities of olive oil and live shrimp all over their dining room, we are then presented with a beautiful flower each. I place it in my buttonhole, Caitriona behind her ear and we wait for our food to arrive. Instead, Bad Cop snatches the flowers from our buttonholes/ears and orders us to suck out the “flower nectar”. It’s as delicious as it sounds – sticky, sweet, and intensely fragrant. For one glorious moment I know what it’s like to be a bee.
The next three little bites are fine but hardly stand-outs: Parmesan crystal is a crisp, delicate plank of cheese, “coconut sponge” a sickly-sweet aerated coconut brick while “tea biscuit” is disappointingly not best-end of legendarily plucky, semi-crippled racehorse but rather eerily reminiscent of the dry, claggy sesame cracker we ate earlier, this time in biscuit form. I regret not having had the foresight to add “no tea biscuits” to the list of food requests in my confirmation email. Instead, I had opted for just one: no oysters.
I arrived at this decision by the following means: Oysters are said to be an aphrodisiac, Ferran Adria is said to be a witch. Can you imagine what he could do with the humble oyster? I envisage a mass orgy; Micro-herbs and underpants flying everywhere, frenzied diners clacking oyster shell castanets to lure each other into acts of wanton lust. I could not take that risk – a very lovely girl back at home would be unlikely to buy my excuse that oysters were to blame for my gift of herpes from Spain. There would be no oysters - but I was willing to give “oyster leaf with dew of vinegar” a shot. The concept is great; an oyster-flavoured leaf served with tiny dew drops of vinegar and microscopically diced shallot – a kind of deconstructed mignonette sauce. But I have to admit that it’s a massive disappointment. To me, the leaf simply does not taste of oyster. I feel angry, confused. Is my palate letting me down or are the fawning masses around me suffering from a collective case of the emperor’s new clothes?
The “apple sandwich” does little to improve my mood, although Caitriona loves it. Served between two slices of puffed-up rice paper is dehydrated apple with, I think, a hazelnut puree. Nuts are clearly all the rage in Ferran’s world right now but I’m already growing tired of them. The ”Joselito” ham and ginger canapé” is quite simply horrible – ham fat in gelatinous pork lozenge form which you place on your tongue and wait to melt. The waiting is the worst part. Like a condemned man on his way to the gallows, I hope that I’m lucky, it happens fast and I don’t void my bowels in a public arena. When it finally does melt, I feel like I’ve just tipped the dripping from a roasting tray down my throat for a dare.
“Montjoi lentils” are served with a shot of gin, adding to my suspicion that Ferran took a shine to me earlier and is trying to get me drunk. The “lentils” look like fish eggs but are in fact tiny sesame-flavoured orbs swimming in a smoky, ham-flavoured oil-slick. I do not like this. “Truffle of truffle” comes next – ostensibly “spherical olives” jacked up with truffle oil and wrapped in truffle shavings. Earthy and over-powering, it proves challenging for my already oil-explosion-wary dining companion. She gags once again but bravely downs them both. I’m beginning to feel uneasy. I’m all in favour of seasonal food but this feels all too autumnal – too much sesame, tea, truffles, ham fat and if I see one more fricking nut…
“Tender pistachios” are up next. Good cop turns down my request for a side-order of cyanide and relieves me of my belt and shoelaces. Now officially on suicide watch, I set about exploring the infinite possibilities of one of the world’s least remarkable foodstuffs. We have plain unadorned pistachio nuts, pistachio sauce, “mimetics” pistachios, salty pistachio ice-cream, pistachio jewels, a pistachio suppository served with a tea jelly lube. Okay, I’ll admit that I made that last one up but you get the picture… I calm myself with the thought that it can’t get any worse than this. But “soya milk with soya” proves otherwise. It features unspeakably bland, viscous soya milk skin, fermented soya bean curd, reduced soy sauce and the tips of three tiny soya bean sprouts. I feel oafish, stupid, undeserving of even being in this place because I just don’t get it. With no idea of what’s coming next, I pray silently for something familiar – preferably zesty, acidic, palate-cleansing… Instead we are given “sea anemone with tea” and it is without doubt the scariest plate of food I have ever seen.
And that’s the point at which I decide to leave. It’s also the point at which I see Bad Cop bolting the exit door. She can tell by the fear in my eyes that right now I’m a genuine flight risk…
(Part 2 will appear on our blog on Tuesday 19th January)
