For those of us afflicted with vivid imaginations, it can be disturbing to
hang out with Heston Blumenthal. Odd thoughts cross your mind such as what
would it be like to be served a life-sized head of the chef-owner of the Fat
Duck. First: you and your fellow diners would be invited to insert earphones
connected to iPods which would play barnyard sounds of contented chickens
clucking. A waiter would waft a distilled essence of something suitably
earthy: fresh hay, say, laced with something borderline unpleasant to
stimulate the senses. You would then be presented with a silver spoon and
instructed to tap the patron’s bald pate which would crack open to reveal a
rich brew of truffled brains, which you may or may not find delicious
depending on how easily you could overcome your conditioned resistance to
cannibalism.
This tasting menu special came to me on the back of a highly unusual voyage of
discovery that managed to eclipse even the extremely high standards set by
the usual Fat Duck experience.
The punishing brief was to spend a day with Heston, half of which would be
devoted to eating the 17-odd (in both senses) courses on his legendary menu,
accompanied by my elder son, Tom, who had previously picked the Fat Duck as
the restaurant at which to celebrate his 18th birthday. The thinking behind
this mission was that there is something about the chef’s experimental
approach to food, with his test tubes and lab, that is particularly
appealing to rather clever adolescent boys. Tom was clearly up for the
challenge, with his pronouncement that “Heston is really safe” (ie, “cool”)
and that he was “totally psyched” about the whole prospect.
The first person we see by the narrow road that curves through Bray is the man
himself, in his white chef’s jacket, nursing a broken hand from a recent
cricket injury. This, so his wife Zanna tells him, is someone’s message that
her husband should be spending more time at home with his family. Not much
chance of that, however, with a hefty book to promote (The Big Fat Duck
Cookbook, a compendium of his life’s work), a television series in
production, a new menu to create for the Fat Duck, as well as an intriguing
commission to transform the Little Chef motorway chain into an altogether
different dining experience (also to be filmed for Channel 4). There is
something fitting about this last project given Heston’s parents’ admirably
– if true – left-field decision to name their son after a service station
near Heathrow.
He is every bit as friendly and blokey as his television persona, with no
immediate signs of the rather more complicated personality that emerges in
our interview. We chat about Feast, the first of his Channel 4 commitments
(he defected from the BBC earlier this year), which is proving to be quite
time-consuming. The idea behind it is to recreate various dishes and
experiences from different periods in history, and we will get a chance to
sample some of these works-in-progress in his “laboratory”.
Tom is riveted by one that is recorded in the new book, which is spectacular,
but not in a good way. This involves plucking the feathers of a chicken
while it is still alive – not so dissimilar to a Brazilian perhaps – then
somehow lulling it to sleep (presuming it has not already passed out in
shock), whereupon it is placed on a giant platter surrounded by his fellow
fowl who have already been roasted. The poor creature’s rude awakening
apparently comes as the host starts carving, and the pièce de résistance –
oh what japes – is to watch the bald, freaked-out chicken run amok down the
table. Heston wishes the Channel 4 production team had never got wind of
this particular blast from the past since they keep badgering him to stage a
re-enactment. We agree that he should hold firm.
The lab is no longer in the garden shed behind the restaurant where Heston and
his team conducted the experiments that led to the creation of his first
astonishing taste-sensations: the nitro green tea and lime mousse in 2001,
for instance. He bought a neighbouring pub, the Hinds Head, principally
because it came with a house – formerly used for staff accommodation and now
containing an overspill kitchen, various offices and the new laboratory. As
it turns out, the pub has been a great hit, too, with its more conventional
(and affordable) bangers and mash and steak and chips, allowing him the
freedom to be ever more recondite in fine-tuning the menu of his flagship
restaurant.
We meet the lab team and the head chef-technician, Kyle Connaughton, arms
covered in tattoos, who is not given to small talk. On the main table there
are bowls filled with chopped truffles and pomegranate seeds and a sort of
home-made Rice Krispie concoction, as well as the aforementioned dishes for
the TV series. Heston, who has two or three tasting sessions here a week,
reappears and tells us about one of his many collaborations.
It is important here to stress, perhaps, that although his ability to cook has
been internationally recognised (three Michelin stars for the Fat Duck, and
voted best restaurant in the world), Heston is also an inventor, a pioneer,
alchemist, teacher and explorer, as well as being fascinated by history and
psychology, science and the arts. He may be something additional for which
we have not yet created a word, since he is pushing all sorts of boundaries
in his curiosity to see where this might lead. All of which could make him
sound a bit annoying – particularly in England where we don’t like to be in
awe of individual virtuosity – which is where his natural, unassuming manner
comes in handy.
He is continuing his Odorama investigations, which have already gone down
well, as I remember from our first visit, with his introduction of a sort of
bosky woodland smell to accompany one of the starters of oak moss and
truffle toast. Now he’s working with a guy to produce a blast of campfire
smoke, a vanilla-scented cloud intended to summon the memory of an
old-fashioned sweet shop, and the fresh hazelnut blissfulness of a newborn
baby’s head. He produces a vial of the final one but, alas, it has curdled
and (rather spookily) replicates that precise tang of regurgitated breast
milk that I last smelt coming at regular intervals from someone standing not
very far… happily, a veil of discretion descends.
We join the tasting team for Frog Blancmange, a Heston tweak of a Tudor
recipe: a beautiful vast wooden bowl, with a giant water lily settled on a
bright green resin, a puddle of some kind of white cream, the Rice-Krispied
frog legs rising up like little spears, and a scattering of rosy pomegranate
seeds. The maestro is not happy with the cream-cheesiness of the taste and
says it needs more work.
Then Blackbirds in a Pie, which after six weeks on the job is declared to be
perfect. The question is: will Channel 4 release four-and-twenty blackbirds
(probably not) when the pie is cut. Next come a Roman dish of doormice
(sausagemeat) that still leaves a lot to be desired, a Victorian edible
garden (to be served with the smell of grass and the sound of a lawn mower),
and an incredibly complicated business that combines Mock Turtle soup with
the Mad Hatter’s tea party, involving templates of a fob-watch encasing an
intense broth, wrapped in gold leaf, which dissolves in the teacup when
boiling water is added, so that the heady black liquid is flecked with
specks of gold, which is simply the accompaniment for another dish which…
well, you get the general idea.
