Why eat food? Why not redefine food? Before the opening of my restaurant, I visited a hypnotist and told him to erase the definition of “food” from my mind. I was forced to rebuild the concept of “food” for myself, from a place of innocence — like a young child or an endearing imbecile. From this place, I hallucinated the food creations you see before you tonight.
My restaurant does not serve food. It serves experience. Memories. Aggression. We do not eat to “taste.” We do not eat to “nourish.” We eat to know we are alive.
Can you eat an emotion? Yes. We serve ennui paired with a miso white chocolate paste paired with a wine made from French currants and pressed dark matter.
Every dish contains a surprise. I subvert your expectations. What if it is cantaloupe, but you are actually eating honeydew? What if it is a fig, but actually just a different fig than the one you thought you were eating? What if it is Kobe beef, but you are actually eating stew meat from the grocery store? Surprise! You paid $1,000 for this.
Flavor should be an explosion in your mouth, like a grenade. Our carbonated duck truffle leaves flavor shrapnel all over your taste buds that you cannot get out. For dessert — a tweezer made of Brazilian cacao to remove the shrapnel. The tweezers melt in your mouth. You are left going home with sharp flavor stuck in your tongue. You’re welcome.
A meal is an opportunity to learn. Our “Fire and Ice” course is one single ice cube served on a child’s palm. The ice cube is made of glass. You learn never to eat glass, even if you paid a lot for it and it is shaped like food.
What if there was a sound, but it was food?
Our waiter is a sad clown. He enters holding a balloon made of Chinese Swamp Eel caviar. He looks at you and says nothing. When you discover why he is funny, he disappears into a wisp of smoke infused with ras el hanout and rose water. Its scent lingers in your mind. You feel sad. You just ate an experience.
None of these items are on the menu, but they are all featured in a Chef’s Table episode about me that you watched. Surprise!
If you are bold enough to become submerged in my cuisine, I invite you to make a reservation at my restaurant. My restaurant has no name. You are unable to find it on Yelp or Google. A slip of paper with an address is hand-placed in your mailbox, with a garnish of julienned turnips. You go to that address. There is no building or food. My restaurant is nothing. Surprise.
When you are angry enough to tweet at me, I go to your personal kitchen in your house or apartment. Since I am Head Chef, to prove that I am humble, I clean your kitchen. I do not make food. You pay me. I leave.
If I am the best in the world, I have failed. I want to be the best in a fourth dimension scientist have yet to discover. Therefore, when my restaurant earns three Michelin stars, I close the restaurant forever, setting both the restaurant and myself ablaze with a crème brûlée torch. When the fire transforms into embers, it is discovered that a peasant’s Cornish game hen stuffed with a fennel mirepoix has been roasting this entire time. That is your dinner. The sad clown returns and watches you eat. It is awkward. You feel sad, but not because I am dead. You feel sad because you have learned what life is — through food.
My Sous Chef resurrects me so that I can create another flavorscape. The flavorscape is me. I am the food. As you eat me, I turn into you and you eat this I/we. Surprise. You are eating yourself. It is delicious, and I leave you with the ultimate surprise — that I have made something you like.
You didn’t think you could enjoy eating, but I have proven that you can. I die for the final time, and I finally experience the fourth dimension that lives in your dreams and your stomach.