It would appear that I had forgotten that I have an attentive boyfriend, the White Russian, who remembers the things I ramble on about, even when he is preoccupied with Xboxing. A few days before our one-year-anniversary he phoned me and told me to keep the following day free, for a ‘surprise’, and so it was that we arrived at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, myself in heels and him in a suit, for what was to be the most extravagant meal we had eaten to date.
We began in the bar, as would any fine diner. I had a ‘Red Sea Daquiri’, which was an exciting, tangy, rum based slush puppy for grown-ups. Bright green, in a large martini glass, it had a poke of mango and a pinch of basil, and was perfect for me as a sour-lover. The White Russian had…well, he had just that- a White Russian, which he enjoyed, although it looked too creamy for my liking. The barmaid brought some seasoned nuts and crisps in tiny, borrower-sized bowls, which we would later discover cost £4 each, but we restrained as we wanted to save our appetites for the molecular gastronomy that we were here to try.
I won’t beat about the bush- the menu was fabulous, although we did have to ask the waitress to find out what some items actually were. I settled on the ‘meat fruit’ as a starter, as I’d seen it on ‘Heston’s Feasts’ on Channel4. When it arrived it was perched expectantly on a wooden board, next to a tower of grilled rounds of Italian bread. It did indeed look just like an innocent (if not slightly too shiny) mandarin, complete with a stalk and tiny leaf. Inside was a globe of smooth chicken liver parfait, so fine it was almost a mousse. The mandarin peel added a jazzy, citrus kick to the rather murky (in a good way) undertones of the centre , and spread on top of the grilled bread we both agreed it was a spectacular mouthful, and ‘fun, as well, because it looks like fruit!’.
The White Russian opted for ‘salamagundy’, although by the time it arrived we had both forgotten what it actually was, and we couldn’t tell by looking at it, so we had to ask the waitress. It was a posh salad of chicken oysters (the small, round, dark pieces of meat on the back of a chicken’s thigh), roast bone marrow, parsnips and horseradish cream. Squeamish as I am, I had a taste of the bone marrow and was pleasantly surprised. The White Russian never leaves an unclean plate, and this was no exception. I took his silence as a sign of appreciation.
My main of powdered duck was moist, dark, dangerous, the meat melting on the tongue, and the pureed potato accompanying it was velvety in texture yet far from being bland. I had only ever tried duck in the duck rolls from my local Chinese (which were greasy and disgusting), but I had read reviews of Heston's duck online and although it would not usually have been my first choice on the menu, I decided to branch out. There was no chicken on the menu, which was perhaps a blessing in disguise as I now know how good duck can be. There was only one vegetarian dish on the menu- braised celery with parmesan and pickled walnuts- which certainly did not sound appealing to me. The White Russian devoured his ‘spiced pigeon’, with much ‘mm’ing, although he did remark that for a dish with ‘spice’ in the name, it was perhaps lacking in said department. Nevertheless, another plate was scraped clean. We were both surprised by the generous portion sizes of the meats on our plates, as we had arrived with the preconceived notion that food in so prestigious a restaurant would be borrower-sized, as were the bowls of nuts on the tables in the bar. We were beginning to feel rather full...
We still ordered desserts though, obviously. It’d be rude not to. As a lover of all things tangy I chose a poached rhubarb and rosehip, Campari infused, spaceship shaped sorbet, which was electric pink and decorated with sugary, rosy, alien details. Perhaps for those with less of a tolerance to sour it might be too much, and they might be better suited to the White Russian’s choice, which was brown bread ice cream with salted butter caramel and malted yeast syrup. Think of a freshly baked loaf, warm, with salted butter, in the same mouthful as a smooth spoonful of caramelised, malty ice cream. He particularly enjoyed how the dessert became saltier the closer to the middle he became, something we both decided Heston must have planned deliberately.
To finish, we ordered teas (rose for him, ginger and lemongrass for me) and they came in two beautiful little glass teapots, displaying the flowers within. They are poured into a glass inside a glass instead of a teacup, which was pretty but also practical as the extra layer of glass prevents your hands from burning. The teas themselves are very easy on the eye, and the two of them next to each other (mine a Japanese greeny-yellow garden and his a romantic pot of rosehips and petals) looked almost too pretty to drink. They were served with an amuse-bouche, a tiny teacup filled with earl-grey flavoured ganache, the colour of milky tea, with a spiced, herby biscuit on the side. This was a small detail, but it was possibly my favourite part of the meal as it was so cleverly thought out- to serve a sweet that looks like tea with tea that looks like art.
And so it ended, and as we left we joked that from now on we would only be satisfied with meals created by Michelin starred chefs, featuring at least one luxury ingredient. It wasn’t true, of course, as the next day the spell ended and we ate lunch in Chicken Cottage. It was a very special experience, however, and now we both know how it feels to be bewitched by a scientific sorcerer, and we have both seen the food work its magic.
XXX
