The Fat Duck: a completely unbiased review (not).

What can I say that hasn't been said before about Heston Blumenthal’s Fat Duck restaurant?  That my bucket list only had one item and it was crossed off today?  That I’m such a big fan of Heston I've got his number on the back of my duffle coat?  That it was even better than all three of his books led me to dare imagine?

First, the back story.  Like 90,000 other people I entered my name in the ballot last October.  And, like so many of those that weren't computer generated by some total arseholes in the finance industry with no respect for the rules that enable civilisation, my entry was not successful.  Nobody we knew got offered a place. 

Fast forward to Easter Sunday 2015, where I was rostered for dessert at my family’s lunch.   We had not long finished eating the brûléed lemon tart I’d made out of Heston At Home, which everyone loved, when my phone rang.  It was The Fat Duck restaurant, advising that they’d had a cancellation for Wednesday’s lunch sitting and was I interested.  Hmmm, let me think about that it’s a Mastercard and the number is…

68 hours turned out to be the perfect notice period; enough time to recover from the shock and get excited, without having to wait too long for it to all happen.  Our dining companions, Anne and Paul, had been part of our syndicate from the outset.  We each entered the ballot, with the promise that anyone whose golden ticket came up would take the other three.  Fortunately all of us had very understanding employers and we found a babysitter willing to listen to Eleanor complaining all day that we didn't take her with us. 

Following the obligatory photos out the front, we walked into the start of a mesmerising sensory experience.  A long dark hallway led up to a dead end, until a door magically opened and we were welcomed into a dark wood paneled room that was flooded with natural light and simultaneously larger and smaller than my previous nights’ dreams.

The staff were all, without a single exception, wonderful.  Friendly but not intrusive, knowledgeable about all of the dishes, excited to watch our reactions to the magic as though it wasn't something they’d been doing six days a week for the last two months.  We were never once asked if everything was OK, because they knew it was all perfect.  At least twice, someone picked up an empty plate from our table, and while politely listening to our babbling fandom handed it silently - and without even making eye contact - to a random passing colleague who took it without question as though it's something they practise.  Maybe it is. 

And the food.  Oh the food.  All seventeen courses of it.  As mentioned, I've got all the Heston books and have studied in detail many of the recipes we were served.  I was expecting amazing textures that can’t be recreated without whipping siphons, sous vide techniques and nitro.  Everyone knows about the conch shells hiding iPods that play sounds of the beach to evoke memories and intensify the emotional experience.  I've made Heston’s bacon ice cream and suffered the brain-twisting incomprehension of something that looks like ice cream on the plate, and feels like ice cream on the tongue, but is savoury and therefore just wrong.  It’s all about science and psychology in the pursuit of excellence.  On paper it sounds almost cold and soulless. 

What I hadn't expected was the flavours; the way a single mouthful could contain so many different things that each stood out individually.  The Waldorf salad lollipop where the apple, walnut and celery elements were each completely distinct, the way they would be with a real salad.  In what universe could a tiny grilled onion-half be my favourite element on a plate that included pork belly?  Snail porridge?  Please sir, I want some more.  We all ate our lamb jelly with spoons, then later went back to drain the glass it was served in and found the mint aspect was more pronounced once the jelly was room temperature and liquid: two for one in the same meal!  The bread was, quite simply, the best bread any of us had ever eaten (or tried not to fill up on).  And yes, a Toast Sandwich is two pieces of bread with a slice of toast in the middle.  What else could it possibly be? 

I simply can’t pick a favourite dish: I can, however, pick a least favourite.  “Sound of the sea” achieved its mission admirably, because it completely evoked the sounds, smells and tastes of the ocean.  Trouble is, I hate the beach.  At least that course gave my face a break from smiling like an idiot. 

We chose one of the matched wine packages for the relatively bargain price of $200 per person.  Money. Well. Spent.  All of the wines we had were Australian (except the sake, of course) and they were amazing.  I just can’t image what the $450 per person wines must be like, let alone the $1,150 per person package.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Bevan was delighted by a tea menu that was notably longer than the coffee options, and I was delighted to hear our waiter admit that they knew they’d have to improve their coffee game when they moved to Melbourne. 

With a 1:30pm allocated reservation time, we were the last table to arrive and the last to leave.  We watched the sun set over the Yarra and had the Crown Casino fireballs outside our windows at 6pm with a few dishes yet to go.  Each of the courses was small enough that, despite their quantity, the total volume of food wasn't stomach-bursting.  I probably could have gone a kebab on the way home actually, except that now I can never eat again because I have tasted perfection.