One night at Alchemist
I got invited to the foodie event of the year, if not the century. Some people are calling it a culinary Woodstock. I’m still trying to piece it together and make sense of it.
I was nervous standing outside the toweringly high metal doors at Alchemist that Sunday afternoon. The idea, I think, is that they make you feel small. Then slowly, like a portcullis, they open. It was early February, the evening gloom had already set in at 4pm and an hour later, I was about to embark on the strangest Sunday night of my life.
The following eight hours were a whirl of overstimulation. Looking back on it now, a few weeks’ later, I can’t really make sense of it. Did I really swim in a ball pool that recreated a post-service swim in the Mediterranean enjoyed by staff at el Bulli? Did I have an out of body experience somewhere between eating the sea slug and the disappearing ravioli? Did that first drink have something psychedelic in it? I can’t really believe it all happened. Perhaps that was the plan.
El Bulli x Alchemist
For a brief event, Copenhagen’s experimental two-star Michelin restaurant Alchemist joined forces with the legendary chefs behind the ground-breaking Spanish restaurant el Bulli, to create a fusion 35-course menu of hits. Legions of chefs had sweated over their plans for months to create this paeon to molecular cuisine, the edgiest disciplines of fine dining and ask, via the medium of food and service in an insanely theatrical restaurant: what is the future of fine dining? The event sold out in seconds and somehow I got a seat.
I know all this because I had been there before. A year ago, Alchemist joined forces with another Spanish restaurant, Mugaritz, to bring two kitchens together and probe a similar question. I loved its avant garde nature, the way the event spoke to something bold and creative at the heart of food: who is it for? And what does it mean to be truly creative with food, to really push the boundaries? With dishes including a piece of mouldy bread shaped like Hans Christian Andersen, and a thoroughly rotten but incredibly delicious apple, it was poking at the idea of disgust and dining, and what food really is. From an intellectual, creative and sensory point of view, it was like nothing I’d ever been to before, and I loved it.
Ready for lift off
I thought I knew what this second two-kitchen collaboration would be like. But of course, I knew nothing. The first part of the evening went as it always does, smoothly, in the lounge bar part of the Alchemist, with multiple small bites, a glass of Champagne, a settling of nerves. Space bread, a dumpling encased in something like a sweet shop flying saucer, the perfect omelette. It’s strange, but it’s delicious, it pushes boundaries but not too much. It’s like the moment you spend strapping yourself into the seat on a rollercoaster in a stationary car, the team checking your safety belt is on, waiting for the green light.
Then, with the move to the main dome room, we were off. It was a rollercoaster running at 100 miles an hour from the very start. Above us, a new light show played out, disorientating us with scenes from a fantasy forest, a fall through a rabbit hole, then a media lab, with televisions piled on top of each other, then a thousand eyeballs, all swivelling to look at us, before morphing into a forest where the Northern Lights played above our heads.
Eating the unthinkable
We ate caviar from the iris of a huge eyeball, something I can’t remember licked from a silicon tongue, two of the lightest and purest pieces of ravioli sunk in a thin broth that disappeared with the most delightful texture. A glass case containing two mottled and sheeny sea slugs were presented to us, and whisked away. Plates containing a morsel of the inside of the sea slug and a fried skin were placed in front of us. It tasted like nothing I’d ever had on this earth before: muscular and chewy yet delicious, otherworldly with a crisp crunch at the end.
A glass of wine appeared along with a plate with the face of an important chef on it, and the music changed to the Rolling Stones. I didn’t know him and had never been to el Bulli but grasped the situation, dimly, that this was to honour a great friend’s memory. I looked up at one point to see the only chef in the room that I did know, Alchemist head chef Rasmus Munk, serving me a dish of cherry and lambs brain inside a dish shaped like a man’s head. He lifted off the top to show the morsel of brain inside. It was smooth and lingering, delicious and disconcerting.
A holiday from real life
Around this time my own brain went on a little holiday of its own. I was spaced out and overstimulated and we were only half way through. I felt dazzled, like I was staring in the headlights of an all-powerful jeep. Deaf, like I was standing too close to the speakers. Disorientated, like I’d been on a roundabout spun by The Rock. Some time later the ball pool happened. We were suddenly swimming, our shoes off, in a silver pool to a soundtrack of the Beach Boys. Faces disappeared beneath the surface. My table mates lost passports and phones in the pool, such was their delirious abandon. I felt free, invisible under the sea.
Then were were put together again, back on our feet, in a dark lounge with lights like tiny floating golden trees above us. An enormous red lacquered box of chocolates appeared. I couldn’t work my way through more than two. Around us people were chattering, staggering drunk, hugging the chefs. I looked at my watch and was horrified to see it was already 1am. I had been there since 5pm- what had happened?
Spat back to reality
I wound up reeling and punch-drunk on the post-industrial street an hour later, holding a silver ball from the ball pool in one hand and a test tube of neon yellow liquid in the other. The whole of the next day, I was in a daze. I couldn’t eat. I needed a white room, a clean space, a holiday away from the slightest hint of creative stimulation or I felt it might kill me. It was as close to a creative overdose as I’ve ever had.
I’m not sure I can bring myself to eat at a Michelin-starred restaurant again, such was the emotional overload. Nothing would ever be able to match it, either. And somewhere in me, I knew I’d had the most remarkable night of my life. I’m still making sense of it. I feel like a child in the presence of greatness.
I was nervous standing outside the toweringly high metal doors at Alchemist that Sunday afternoon. The idea, I think, is that they make you feel small. Then slowly, like a portcullis, they open. It was early February, the evening gloom had already set in at 4pm and an hour later, I was about to embark on the strangest Sunday night of my life.
The following eight hours were a whirl of overstimulation. Looking back on it now, a few weeks’ later, I can’t really make sense of it. Did I really swim in a ball pool that recreated a post-service swim in the Mediterranean enjoyed by staff at el Bulli? Did I have an out of body experience somewhere between eating the sea slug and the disappearing ravioli? Did that first drink have something psychedelic in it? I can’t really believe it all happened. Perhaps that was the plan.
El Bulli x Alchemist
For a brief event, Copenhagen’s experimental two-star Michelin restaurant Alchemist joined forces with the legendary chefs behind the ground-breaking Spanish restaurant el Bulli, to create a fusion 35-course menu of hits. Legions of chefs had sweated over their plans for months to create this paeon to molecular cuisine, the edgiest disciplines of fine dining and ask, via the medium of food and service in an insanely theatrical restaurant: what is the future of fine dining? The event sold out in seconds and somehow I got a seat.
I know all this because I had been there before. A year ago, Alchemist joined forces with another Spanish restaurant, Mugaritz, to bring two kitchens together and probe a similar question. I loved its avant garde nature, the way the event spoke to something bold and creative at the heart of food: who is it for? And what does it mean to be truly creative with food, to really push the boundaries? With dishes including a piece of mouldy bread shaped like Hans Christian Andersen, and a thoroughly rotten but incredibly delicious apple, it was poking at the idea of disgust and dining, and what food really is. From an intellectual, creative and sensory point of view, it was like nothing I’d ever been to before, and I loved it.
Ready for lift off
I thought I knew what this second two-kitchen collaboration would be like. But of course, I knew nothing. The first part of the evening went as it always does, smoothly, in the lounge bar part of the Alchemist, with multiple small bites, a glass of Champagne, a settling of nerves. Space bread, a dumpling encased in something like a sweet shop flying saucer, the perfect omelette. It’s strange, but it’s delicious, it pushes boundaries but not too much. It’s like the moment you spend strapping yourself into the seat on a rollercoaster in a stationary car, the team checking your safety belt is on, waiting for the green light.
Then, with the move to the main dome room, we were off. It was a rollercoaster running at 100 miles an hour from the very start. Above us, a new light show played out, disorientating us with scenes from a fantasy forest, a fall through a rabbit hole, then a media lab, with televisions piled on top of each other, then a thousand eyeballs, all swivelling to look at us, before morphing into a forest where the Northern Lights played above our heads.
Eating the unthinkable
We ate caviar from the iris of a huge eyeball, something I can’t remember licked from a silicon tongue, two of the lightest and purest pieces of ravioli sunk in a thin broth that disappeared with the most delightful texture. A glass case containing two mottled and sheeny sea slugs were presented to us, and whisked away. Plates containing a morsel of the inside of the sea slug and a fried skin were placed in front of us. It tasted like nothing I’d ever had on this earth before: muscular and chewy yet delicious, otherworldly with a crisp crunch at the end.
A glass of wine appeared along with a plate with the face of an important chef on it, and the music changed to the Rolling Stones. I didn’t know him and had never been to el Bulli but grasped the situation, dimly, that this was to honour a great friend’s memory. I looked up at one point to see the only chef in the room that I did know, Alchemist head chef Rasmus Munk, serving me a dish of cherry and lambs brain inside a dish shaped like a man’s head. He lifted off the top to show the morsel of brain inside. It was smooth and lingering, delicious and disconcerting.
A holiday from real life
Around this time my own brain went on a little holiday of its own. I was spaced out and overstimulated and we were only half way through. I felt dazzled, like I was staring in the headlights of an all-powerful jeep. Deaf, like I was standing too close to the speakers. Disorientated, like I’d been on a roundabout spun by The Rock. Some time later the ball pool happened. We were suddenly swimming, our shoes off, in a silver pool to a soundtrack of the Beach Boys. Faces disappeared beneath the surface. My table mates lost passports and phones in the pool, such was their delirious abandon. I felt free, invisible under the sea.
Then were were put together again, back on our feet, in a dark lounge with lights like tiny floating golden trees above us. An enormous red lacquered box of chocolates appeared. I couldn’t work my way through more than two. Around us people were chattering, staggering drunk, hugging the chefs. I looked at my watch and was horrified to see it was already 1am. I had been there since 5pm- what had happened?
Spat back to reality
I wound up reeling and punch-drunk on the post-industrial street an hour later, holding a silver ball from the ball pool in one hand and a test tube of neon yellow liquid in the other. The whole of the next day, I was in a daze. I couldn’t eat. I needed a white room, a clean space, a holiday away from the slightest hint of creative stimulation or I felt it might kill me. It was as close to a creative overdose as I’ve ever had.
I’m not sure I can bring myself to eat at a Michelin-starred restaurant again, such was the emotional overload. Nothing would ever be able to match it, either. And somewhere in me, I knew I’d had the most remarkable night of my life. I’m still making sense of it. I feel like a child in the presence of greatness.