Surfin' the drift

Intricate imperfect various things

Things change. If you have never gotten behind the wheel of a car, the first time you do that, the concept of a road changes for you, forever. Which is why I guess we should always consider trying anything once - except animals.

Those of you who had the dubious privilege of eating the stuff I used to cook at university will remember a story of ten people, one electric ring and a couple of rice cookers. Most days, it was pork in soya sauce, chicken in curry and vegetables in oyster sauce. If I got inventive, it could be fried chicken wings, baked beans and chips. With rice.

It was food, it was necessity and it was an exercise in filling a space in everyone's stomach. We didn't think about it nor should we - eating to live has been a ritual for a purpose and that has been around for thousands of years. Then something happens at the end of the twentieth century.

El Bulli - the best restaurant in the world. Two hours north of Barcelona, open only from April to September. It is booked out a year in advance, and its chef, Ferran Adrià, is said to be the greatest genius in the culinary world.

I have not had a proper night's sleep since I watched the TV programme about Anthony Bourdain at El Bulli. The programme was an hour long - my agony has lasted for weeks. I lie awake in bed thinking about the how, the what and most of all, the why. How do they do it? What does it really taste like? Why do it?

Cut to Bourdain in the driveway leading to the restaurant, squatting among the trees, he does a brief piece to camera. He says he is very scared. Then he sweeps through the entrance, past the sculpture and the view, through the trees, of the Med. Into the kitchen - a vast gleaming space of steel, stone and wood.

27 courses. Before all of that, what looked like a glass of water - an infusion of pine needles, actually. Then, snacks. Pork and honey scratchings; cherries covered in lard - not just any lard but the fat of the choicest jamon iberica, from the pata negra or black footed pig fed exclusively on acorns; panes of nori seaweed.

I was beside myself perched on the edge of the sofa. What taste? What texture? It's television but not as we know it.

Then the mysterious golden egg - a sweet skeleton of golden caramel encapsulating a warm boiled egg brought into existence by a jet of flame from a blowtorch. Next, tapas. Freeze-dried, shaved foie gras with consommé. Spanish omelette served in a martini glass - onion at the bottom of the glass, egg custard in the middle and the potato froth on top.

Deconstruction. Pea ravioli without dough. Spaghetti from pure soup - served from a siphon onto a bowl. Slurp - no need to chew. Puddings - jelly, shards of white chocolate with things, balls of stilton, saffron and rosewater, soils made from ground chocolate.

At the end, Bourdain was shocked. He slurps his wine. He was challenged, flabbergasted. I was falling off the sofa.

The menu is about 150 euros per head. It doesn't matter. Three Michelin stars - somehow that doesn't seem to matter either.

More to the point, is it food? Or is it perfomance art? Is it a joke? Will so many courses fill you up? Does that matter?

I only know one thing - I need to go.

posted by porcorosso @ 1:11 AM