The last time I visited Bray, a fatwa was pronounced. Retired military
publishers and the widows of departed high-ups in photocopying and
agricultural pharmaceuticals rioted round the war memorial, burning copies
of Style and chanting that it was the duty of every citizen of a Britain in
Bloom village to put weedkiller in my crusty filled rolls, or run me over
with an ornamental wheelbarrow. The local newspaper, the divinely and
provocatively titled Maidenhead Advertiser, led with a story headlined
“Untermensch scum pollutes historic soul of England” or something. There was
a reward for my deserving dispatch: lunch for two at an agreeable thatched
pub on the river, a ladies’ midweek round at an exclusive golf course
(conditions apply) and a free introductory offer to a “pudding wine of the
month” club.
My sin was that I had pointed out the perfectly obvious fact that Bray is the
worst hellhole on earth. It has never had a single illegal-immigrant gypsy
or relocated mafia witness, because even the flat-out desperate draw the
line somewhere. Bray is a twee, smug cancer of self-regard, its leitmotif
the hanging basket and the double yellow lines, which neatly encapsulate the
town’s philosophy: “Come and envy, but don’t think of stopping.” And most
people wouldn’ t dream of it if The Fat Duck wasn’t here, like a missionary
among the heathen, or an optimist who threw a dart into the map and came up
double bottom.
I returned after dark, slipping past the municipal flowerbed, which had “Keep
moving, stranger” spelt out in marigolds. Dodging the Neighbourhood Watch
patrols, I made it to the restaurant. It must be said that this is not an
ideal space to turn into a public dining room. Low ceiling, awkward shape;
it’s a knocked-about cottage. It ought to be in an abused-architecture
refuge. This must be the most unlikely room ever to glean three Michelin
stars, considering the sort of overstuffed, righteous plush generally
insisted on. What is even more astonishing is that the kitchen, which is
about the size of an average racing- yacht galley, is able to produce any
sort of Michelin-star food at all. But turning out the sort of grub that
Heston Blumenthal invents makes you believe in alchemy and mortgaged souls.
I went to celebrate a small anniversary; it is 20 years since I had my last
drink, so I took the Blonde to toast my health from the extravagant wine
list. We also brought along Maya Flick and Jacob Rothschild to help with the
wine. Blumenthal’s food is a bit like transubstantiation: you are either
Catholic or Protestant about it. By chance, I looked up The Fat Duck on the
internet and there were dozens of reviews, all of which say either “This was
the most amazing meal I’ve ever had”, or “This is the worst con in the whole
of catering.”
We had the tasting menu. Normally I wouldn’t touch the set gourmet list in a
restaurant; I would always order à la carte. But here, it makes sense. We
started with green tea and lime mousse poached in liquid nitrogen, which
makes you blow steam like a dragon. Then, snail porridge with Spanish ham
and shaved fennel. Roast foie gras with almond fluid gel, cherry and
camomile. Sardine-on-toast sorbet — they tried to make this with fresh
sardines and nice bread, but it only tasted authentic with tinned sardines
and Wonderloaf. Salmon poached in liquorice. Poached pigeon breast with
pancetta and a Moroccan pastilla of its leg with pistachio, cocoa and five
spice. White chocolate and caviar. Smoked bacon and egg ice cream.
Chocolates flavoured with leather, pine and tobacco.
There were other things, but you get the idea. This is food of extreme
flavours, textures and temperatures. Nothing you put in your mouth is what
you think it is going to be. The combinations are not the attention-seeking,
phoney sophistication of international fine dining, but intensely
thought-out, lonely-hearts ingredients.
Most food begins by being regional; it starts as French, Indian or
Californian. Chefs refine it and play with variations, but always within its
geographical and cultural limits. Blumenthal ignores culture and geography
and goes back to the two things we taste with — our palates and our
memories. He pitches one against the other, so our heads say, “Snail
porridge is disgusting,” but our mouths say, “This is fantastic.” This isn’t
just a party trick, it’s a profound questioning of the how, what and why we
consume. A lot of Blumenthal’s inspiration comes from childhood, that time
when the map of pleasure and preference is being laid out.
Technically, the production of the delicate dishes is faultless. Their power
rests on their precision. They have to play your head and tongue like a harp
plucking just the right notes. The associations and the memories must be
instant; if there is any cloudiness or doubt, the whole dish collapses into
mush. Blumenthal is obsessed with how we taste and how flavour is conveyed.
He has had monitors superglued to his tongue and electrodes attached to his
head. He will eat absolutely anything — once. In fact, he is a combination
of Jackass dadaist, Freudian analyst and Frankenstein. That is a pretty good
mix for a cook. His food will always infuriate or entrance, because it
questions the most basic wisdoms and beliefs and sense of taste. Many people
(a lot of them living in Bray) would think that to talk about food, wisdom,
intellect and philosophy in the same sentence is errant pseudery.
Personally, I think Blumenthal is one of the most inspired chefs in the world;
he may also be the greatest confidence trickster. The two are not mutually
exclusive. He is, though, a one-off, not the start of a school — he is not
like Marco Pierre White, who taught and tormented many chefs who then went
on to become great cooks themselves. You don’t want to find Blumenthal
spin-offs in every best-kept village, you don’t want sardines-on-toast
sorbet in the freezer section at Tesco, but all of you should save up (it
costs about £100 a head) and eat here at least once to find out what is
really going on in your mouth.
Blumenthal told me a good story about taste. A man went to do business in
Japan and his host gave him soft-shell crabs to eat. They were alive. When
the Japanese gent came to England, the bloke thought: “Right, I’m going to
get him back.” He had him over to dinner and served him rice pudding. The
Japanese man couldn’t eat it — too weird, too disgusting.
The Fat Duck
01628 580333
Lunch, Tues-Sat, noon-2pm, Sun, noon-2.30; dinner, Tues-Sat, 7pm-9.30pm
