Even one of the best restaurant on the earth has its critics.
Earlier this yr, Noma — the three Michelin-star restaurant that has topped the World’s 50 Best Restaurants list five times — said it was closing in 2024 and foodies were quick to mourn the approaching death of the Copenhagen dining destination.
But, British journalist Farrah Storr says good riddance. Within the Times of London, she penned a hilarious, scathing review of her recent experience on the restaurant.
Storr prefaces the tirade by saying she and her husband have been wanting to try chef René Redzepi’s edible opus for the past decade, noting that it’s “not possible to get a table.” This yr, they were finally in a position to snag a lunch reservation. With the “juice pairing,” the meal ran about $700 an individual — about the price of a “second-hand Ford Fiesta.” It was hardly price it.
“You go together with high expectations – gold-star stuff,” Storr writes. She was well acquainted with the restaurant and the type of unorthodox foods she is perhaps served.
“Yes, you would possibly find ants in your plate, or ‘reindeer brain custard,’ as we did; hey, possibly even reindeer penis, which it seems we were also served, in a chilly, nutty salad (they don’t reveal exactly what’s in said salad until the very end, once they pass you the menu with a half smirk) — I’m OK with all of that,” Storr writes.
However the hospitality — or lack thereof — was not OK.
The dining experience began with a “cup of tepid tea that was proffered as if it was a bowl of Mayan gold,” Storr writes, noting that there have been 15 guests ahead of her hailing from Latest York, Switzerland and the UK. She described the vibe and ambiance as having a “whiff of a certain Roald Dahl story about it: a mad genius revered the world over and us, the golden ticket winners, come to say our prize.”
The diners were then greeted by the “entire kitchen staff” grinning upon entry into the dining room. Every server seemingly looked the identical, while the chefs uttered the familiar “yes” every time a dish was able to be served.
“It was fun at first, but an hour into lunch it felt like aural torture,” Storr writes, portraying the “strange and frightening,” “slavish devotion” she known as Noma-core.
“After I left a few of my reindeer brain custard contained in the skull by which it was served (as did the table behind us) — not since it was essentially brain juice, but since it was chalky and ugly — the waitress looked offended as she went to lift my plate. ‘Not comfortable with offal?’ she asked. I explained that was not the case in any respect, reasonably that the feel rendered it difficult to eat. There was no smile, no apology, only a sneer — I felt as if I had someway failed Noma.”
Two courses later, Storr’s husband was forbidden from getting up to make use of the facilities.
“Your next course is coming, you’ll need to wait,” a server said, then proffered “one more cup of tepid tea that tasted as if someone had put their Marlboro Red out in it.”
When Storr left the tea cup half full, she was scolded and asked: “Could you not less than appreciate it?”
The duo sat through a parade of one other 15 dishes – one among which included a saffron ice cream dish that tasted “concurrently like Play-Dough and nothing in any respect,” Storr writes, noting a server commented “Not a fan of saffron?”
“’No, not a fan of ice cream that tastes like Barbie’s legs,’ I desired to scream — Noma was starting to feel less like a treat and more like an endurance test,” Storr continues.
By the tip of the meal, Storr questioned her own journalistic integrity, wracking her brain about why she wasn’t having fun with the meal.
“Was the issue us?” she questioned. Then she realized other diners were rejecting their cold plates of food as well.
What’s worse? They left hungry.
“Noma now feels more like a cult than a restaurant,” she concludes.
