I don’t love fancy food. If I see a dish topped by a dollop of foam, my brain does not think “yum.” I’m happiest eating a steaming bowl of ramen (including the 25-cent variety) or a heaping platter of nachos. So when I found out that a restaurant at the all-inclusive resort we booked for spring break had been awarded a Michelin star, I was not tempted to eat there.
My husband felt differently, mainly because he is a frugal Midwesterner who can’t pass up a bargain. “Why not try it?” he asked. “It’s free!” (I countered that a more accurate description was “pre-paid,” but I took his point). And so, against my better judgment and under the influence of FOMO, I agreed to give it a try.
By the time we stopped dithering, the only reservation available was at 9:00 p.m. This should have been a huge red flag since we’re usually putting on our pajamas by then, but everything about this scheme was outside our comfort zone, so we forged ahead. We weren’t sure what the meal would be like, but we expected a unique experience.
We were not disappointed.
Immediately after seating us, our server teased the impending arrival of a “welcome drink.” Have I mentioned that it was practically my bedtime? I was tempted to order a Diet Coke, but I kept my head in the game. The drink arrived deconstructed, on a cart featuring a crystal decanter of sweet vermouth, a chilled bottle of sparkling wine, and a little canister of gold dust. Our server expertly mixed the liquids in champagne flutes, then sprinkled the surface of the drink with the gold. It looked like glitter.
Suppressing a lifetime of experience successfully discerning what is edible and what is not, I gulped it down. By this time, I was willing to consume trace amounts of the periodic table just to stop my stomach from grumbling.
Alas, satiety was not forthcoming. The first course — three separate plates for three different micro-appetizers — arrived with an artistic flair, but it was hard to tell where the serving vessels ended and the edible parts began. In front of me was a bowl of marbles, upon which sat two orbs that looked suspiciously like eyeballs. One for each of us. I popped mine into my mouth and bit down on the delicate membrane that burst to reveal — I don’t know — some liquid that I guess was good? My single bite was gone before I could decide. The construction and presentation were impressive and obviously the dish took someone a very long time to prepare (“cook” seems like the wrong word here; it wasn’t warm). But was it food in any recognizable sense? Not to me.
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Next came a parade of main courses consisting of things I’d never eaten before and could not have identified had they not been described as they were placed before me. Sea urchin. Otoro, which the internet tells me is “the fattiest, most expensive, and highly prized belly cut of the Bluefin tuna.” If you’re thinking this morsel was wasted on a person who eats 25-cent ramen, you’d be right.
More raw fish followed, then some mushroom thing served with “corn truffle” (the internet tells me this is a mold that grows on corn — I was eating fungus topped with fungus). I imagined the chef elbow-deep in a vat of pot gummies, mindlessly snacking while he created this menu as a test of how many crazy things he could convince strangers to eat.
Courses kept arriving, each delicacy more beautiful, mysterious and dainty than the last. Every tiny portion was served on a gigantic piece of stoneware, as if I needed this absurd ratio of food to plate to remind me I wasn’t at Applebee’s. I felt sorry for whomever was washing the dishes.
As the meal approached its conclusion, I had yet to see any food that resembled its original form. This restaurant had fed me the same way I fed my kids their first foods: one bite at a time and heavy on the purees. Eating like a baby made me want to sleep like a baby. By the time the dessert courses arrived, it was nearly 11:00 p.m. One dish was called “Chlorophyll” and described as “quelites + basil + green apple.” Another new frontier for my taste buds.
Unfortunately, my digestive system wasn’t super thrilled with all the first time visitors. I awoke during the night with a stomachache and spent the next day sipping water and nibbling crackers.
My husband felt badly for me because I was sick. He admitted we shouldn’t have eaten that meal, even if it was free (or prepaid). Then he said those three magic words every wife loves to hear: “You were right.”
I was right. Just because the gastronomic elites at Michelin and fans of “The Bear” appreciate this kind of food, doesn’t mean I have to. I need to remember that I’ve passed the halfway mark in my life and time is precious. From now on, when contemplating an invitation, a commitment or an adventure, I will ask myself “If I only had a year to live, would I say yes to this?” A ballgame hot dog and an ice cream cone that drips down my wrist on a summer day will make the cut. Raw fish and fungi will not.
Starting tomorrow, I pledge to listen to the experts less and my gut more. That said, the Michelin inspectors and I are in violent agreement about one thing: the restaurant’s rating. One star.
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