I have a confession to make. I’m a muckraker. As I’ve gotten older I’ve fought to temper my natural tendency to find joy in unraveling other people’s world views, to not seek out conflict just because it feels so good. So when my good friend Tom Miller told me about his 50th birthday plan to fulfill his life dream of eating at the world-renowned Noma restaurant in Copenhagen, Denmark, my initial thought was that it would be silly to fly half way around the world to eat. As he spent weeks and then months insufferably talking about the “new revolution in food” or the “paradigm-shifting culinary genius” of Noma’s chef and founder Rene Redzepi, I was incredulous. It was hard not to be moved, however, that he chose me, a non-foodie who grew up in a trailer in an orange grove in rural Florida, to share in something that was such a seminal event in his life. I could feel how strongly he valued our friendship by including someone who was on record as not caring that much about fine cuisine. I love good food, but you’d be hard pressed to convince me that Brown’s Country Buffet isn’t the high-water mark of eating. But because I love my friend, I agreed to go. Not incidentally, there was also a free beach house across the bay in Sweden, compliments of fellow Operation Copenhagen/Noma team member Kim Chalmers.
Noma is a Michelin-Starred concept restaurant that has been ranked the number one restaurant in the world on multiple occasions, and I think at present is still ranked in the top three. Chef Redzepi’s concept is to exclusively utilize local ingredients. You might be thinking, “What’s so revolutionary about that?” It might not be, except for the nature of the Scandinavian region in which it is located. Because it’s an inhospitable icebox for much of the year, the region isn’t known for a wide array of locally-sourced ingredients. There’s a lot of fish and seaweed and more fish. Redzepi is a kind of mad scientist/naturalist that loves to scour the forests and beaches for ingredients that sane people wouldn’t think to put into food. For instance, he has famously discovered that smashed-up wood ants have a citrus flavor. In his test kitchen (an old steamship docked in front of the restaurant) he has various vats of things fermenting, which is a fancy word for rotting. Some weeds along the shoreline might be inedible when picked, but if they’re left to rot in vinegar for 2 or 3 years, suddenly they’re a key ingredient in a signature dish. A 200 year old mahogany clam paired with sea-grass and spoiled potatoes… why not? Redzepi, who in the culinary world has a messianic following of people, like my friend Tom, who hang on his every word about food, wants us to change everything about how we think about cooking and eating. I live in a progressive city obsessed with hipster idiocy and the idolization of the weird or obtuse above function or quality, so my bullshit meter was pinging with every new thing I read or heard about Redzepi and Noma.
So that’s the framework from whence I began the Noma adventure. I really (quietly) wanted to dislike the pretentiousness of it all, to come home and write a snarky review about how it was all a lot of hype and frivolity. One of the unsung features of getting older and growing as a person is learning to accept when we discover how wrong we are about something, to appreciate having our perspectives changed. Spoiler alert halfway through the review: I could not have been more wrong about what they’re doing at Noma. What follows is a description of, without reservation, the singular best meal I’ve eaten on earth.
Noma, which roughly translated means ‘Nordic food’, is located at the intersection of ocean canals in the heart of Copenhagen, Denmark, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It operates in a building that’s older than our American Republic, in a country instrumental in the discovery and colonization of much of the western world. The hyper-modern food wizardry happening there seems delightfully out of place with the 300 year old sailing ships cruising by and the heavy weight of history all around the place. We arrived an hour early for our reservation, and sat out on the seawall watching the sun go down over countless 16th and 17th century buildings and cathedrals, any one of which would be a national treasure in the states. While my companions grew emotional and overcome by anticipation, I was still relatively nonplussed. My attitude began to change when a hostess came out to the seawall to invite us in. We were the first ones in the restaurant, and the entire wait staff met us at the door with genuine enthusiasm that we were there. Seriously, they seemed actually thrilled that we were there to eat with them. Chefs from the open kitchen yelled out joyful greetings to us as they worked at a furious pace with instruments, non-food-looking ingredients and focus I’ve never seen in a restaurant before.
The interior décor of the restaurant was understated but chic, a mix of modern European design and old-world sensibilities. The dishes and glassware were nice without being overly-fancy. The lighting was soft but adequate, somehow perfectly accentuating both the food and the full moon reflecting out over the water. At Noma, you don’t order from the menu. A set 12-course meal is prepared (with unexpected little extras we were eventually served 18 courses) and presented in an order designed to take your palate on a food adventure. Trust me, I know how pretentious that last sentence was, but by the time they brought us bread and hand-churned butter, I was already drinking the Noma kool-aid. The entire experience felt like an adventure unlike anything I thought possible by simply eating a meal.
I will post the full listed menu at the end of this review, but wanted to highlight some of my favorite courses of the night. Right out of the gate, we were brought a small bowl sitting in a larger bowl of ice, containing apples and lemon thyme. That seems normal enough, but as soon as it hit my tongue my whole face was tingling with sensations you’d normally need rave drugs to experience. It was immediately clear that I wasn’t at Pearls Country Barbecue anymore—this was something new under the sun and I found myself actually nervous about whether I could handle it all.
I couldn’t have been more out of place, but the flawless service couldn’t have made me feel more at home. My water glass remained full, even though I never actually saw anyone filling it. Conversation from the wait staff was engaging without being overbearing, and their own exuberance for the food they were bringing us was evident. With each new course, a chef came out to describe what they had made for us, and thankfully how to eat it. Soon I had a bowl in front of me that just looked like a cabbage leaf kind of weirdly floating in water. Any initial doubts were gone the second I bit into it and discovered currants and some kind of voodoo sauce infused into the leaf. It had the texture of something much heartier and a soothing savory flavor to quiet the beguiling mind-warp of the first dish. Separately, the dishes were incredible. The interplay of one and another, which would become the theme for each successive dish, was sublime.
If the cabbage leaf was a reprieve, the next serving of green shoots with a scallop marinade doubled-down on the ‘wtf is happening right now’ theme. A small round plate with what looked like weeds from my front yard was sat in front of me, maybe 3 or 4 small bites of stuff that shoots out of your lawnmower. We were instructed to use our hands and rub the shoots into the glaze on the plate. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that a few springs of this stuff rubbed in the scallop marinade felt like a rib-eye steak in my mouth. The texture and bulk of the shoots shape-shifted and I was convinced I was chewing on a perfectly fatty piece of beef. To recap: I was eating weeds rubbed in scallop juice and enjoying it like a piece of meat Mark’s Prime wishes they could serve. Other highlights from the early courses included a piece of baby corn grilled in the husk that reminded me of being at the fair as a kid, sea urchin and hazelnuts without a hint of fishy taste, and monkish liver on toast that to a non-liver-eater was pleasant and crisp. I was brought a little slice of pumpkin in a bowl that looked as unassuming as your accountant friend who wears argyle and sweaters, but leapt out of the bowl with a death metal intensity that made my eyes water.
All of these and other courses, each surprising and delicious, led up to the signature entree course—roasted wild duck. You might be thinking roasted duck isn’t all that special, except this duck came out roasted whole on a bed of stable hay. The breast and back meat had been cut into sections still on the bird. We each pulled sliced sections of this tenderloin meat onto our plates, and the waitstaff took the rest of the bird back for additional cooking. The meat on our plates was tender and moist, the best cooked piece of duck I’ve ever eaten. Just when I thought I had decided on my favorite course of the night, out came the rest of the duck cut into sections and ready to for us to pick through. The wings and neck meat and even the tongue and brain were electric to the taste. The visual presentation of it all made me feel like King Frederick II in nearby Hamlet’s Castle.
Two desert courses were brought out to wind down the evening, the culmination of which was a bowl that looked like a forest-scene diorama, with various vegetables and even deer moss covered in chocolate blown on by a paint-sprayer. It was perfection.
We were given a tour of the whole facility—both kitchens, the research and development area, fermentation lab, even the back room where the books are kept. With every person we met, I was further convinced that what was happening at Noma was the opposite of pretension. While I may have had to endure droll comments from my effusive companions like “this is the intersection of art and science and food” and “you can really feel Redzepi’s soul in the food”… I was happy to stomach it because the people who worked here were simply joyful folks doing work that made them proud. A thing can’t be contrived or overwrought when it’s made with so much care and love.
A non-foodie with a closed mind flew to Denmark to eat at a fancy-pants restaurant, and left thankful to have been in the presence of excellence, to have had the meal of a lifetime with friends he loves.
Happy birthday, Tom Miller.
Noma is a Michelin-Starred concept restaurant that has been ranked the number one restaurant in the world on multiple occasions, and I think at present is still ranked in the top three. Chef Redzepi’s concept is to exclusively utilize local ingredients. You might be thinking, “What’s so revolutionary about that?” It might not be, except for the nature of the Scandinavian region in which it is located. Because it’s an inhospitable icebox for much of the year, the region isn’t known for a wide array of locally-sourced ingredients. There’s a lot of fish and seaweed and more fish. Redzepi is a kind of mad scientist/naturalist that loves to scour the forests and beaches for ingredients that sane people wouldn’t think to put into food. For instance, he has famously discovered that smashed-up wood ants have a citrus flavor. In his test kitchen (an old steamship docked in front of the restaurant) he has various vats of things fermenting, which is a fancy word for rotting. Some weeds along the shoreline might be inedible when picked, but if they’re left to rot in vinegar for 2 or 3 years, suddenly they’re a key ingredient in a signature dish. A 200 year old mahogany clam paired with sea-grass and spoiled potatoes… why not? Redzepi, who in the culinary world has a messianic following of people, like my friend Tom, who hang on his every word about food, wants us to change everything about how we think about cooking and eating. I live in a progressive city obsessed with hipster idiocy and the idolization of the weird or obtuse above function or quality, so my bullshit meter was pinging with every new thing I read or heard about Redzepi and Noma.
So that’s the framework from whence I began the Noma adventure. I really (quietly) wanted to dislike the pretentiousness of it all, to come home and write a snarky review about how it was all a lot of hype and frivolity. One of the unsung features of getting older and growing as a person is learning to accept when we discover how wrong we are about something, to appreciate having our perspectives changed. Spoiler alert halfway through the review: I could not have been more wrong about what they’re doing at Noma. What follows is a description of, without reservation, the singular best meal I’ve eaten on earth.
Noma, which roughly translated means ‘Nordic food’, is located at the intersection of ocean canals in the heart of Copenhagen, Denmark, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. It operates in a building that’s older than our American Republic, in a country instrumental in the discovery and colonization of much of the western world. The hyper-modern food wizardry happening there seems delightfully out of place with the 300 year old sailing ships cruising by and the heavy weight of history all around the place. We arrived an hour early for our reservation, and sat out on the seawall watching the sun go down over countless 16th and 17th century buildings and cathedrals, any one of which would be a national treasure in the states. While my companions grew emotional and overcome by anticipation, I was still relatively nonplussed. My attitude began to change when a hostess came out to the seawall to invite us in. We were the first ones in the restaurant, and the entire wait staff met us at the door with genuine enthusiasm that we were there. Seriously, they seemed actually thrilled that we were there to eat with them. Chefs from the open kitchen yelled out joyful greetings to us as they worked at a furious pace with instruments, non-food-looking ingredients and focus I’ve never seen in a restaurant before.
The interior décor of the restaurant was understated but chic, a mix of modern European design and old-world sensibilities. The dishes and glassware were nice without being overly-fancy. The lighting was soft but adequate, somehow perfectly accentuating both the food and the full moon reflecting out over the water. At Noma, you don’t order from the menu. A set 12-course meal is prepared (with unexpected little extras we were eventually served 18 courses) and presented in an order designed to take your palate on a food adventure. Trust me, I know how pretentious that last sentence was, but by the time they brought us bread and hand-churned butter, I was already drinking the Noma kool-aid. The entire experience felt like an adventure unlike anything I thought possible by simply eating a meal.
I will post the full listed menu at the end of this review, but wanted to highlight some of my favorite courses of the night. Right out of the gate, we were brought a small bowl sitting in a larger bowl of ice, containing apples and lemon thyme. That seems normal enough, but as soon as it hit my tongue my whole face was tingling with sensations you’d normally need rave drugs to experience. It was immediately clear that I wasn’t at Pearls Country Barbecue anymore—this was something new under the sun and I found myself actually nervous about whether I could handle it all.
I couldn’t have been more out of place, but the flawless service couldn’t have made me feel more at home. My water glass remained full, even though I never actually saw anyone filling it. Conversation from the wait staff was engaging without being overbearing, and their own exuberance for the food they were bringing us was evident. With each new course, a chef came out to describe what they had made for us, and thankfully how to eat it. Soon I had a bowl in front of me that just looked like a cabbage leaf kind of weirdly floating in water. Any initial doubts were gone the second I bit into it and discovered currants and some kind of voodoo sauce infused into the leaf. It had the texture of something much heartier and a soothing savory flavor to quiet the beguiling mind-warp of the first dish. Separately, the dishes were incredible. The interplay of one and another, which would become the theme for each successive dish, was sublime.
If the cabbage leaf was a reprieve, the next serving of green shoots with a scallop marinade doubled-down on the ‘wtf is happening right now’ theme. A small round plate with what looked like weeds from my front yard was sat in front of me, maybe 3 or 4 small bites of stuff that shoots out of your lawnmower. We were instructed to use our hands and rub the shoots into the glaze on the plate. You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that a few springs of this stuff rubbed in the scallop marinade felt like a rib-eye steak in my mouth. The texture and bulk of the shoots shape-shifted and I was convinced I was chewing on a perfectly fatty piece of beef. To recap: I was eating weeds rubbed in scallop juice and enjoying it like a piece of meat Mark’s Prime wishes they could serve. Other highlights from the early courses included a piece of baby corn grilled in the husk that reminded me of being at the fair as a kid, sea urchin and hazelnuts without a hint of fishy taste, and monkish liver on toast that to a non-liver-eater was pleasant and crisp. I was brought a little slice of pumpkin in a bowl that looked as unassuming as your accountant friend who wears argyle and sweaters, but leapt out of the bowl with a death metal intensity that made my eyes water.
All of these and other courses, each surprising and delicious, led up to the signature entree course—roasted wild duck. You might be thinking roasted duck isn’t all that special, except this duck came out roasted whole on a bed of stable hay. The breast and back meat had been cut into sections still on the bird. We each pulled sliced sections of this tenderloin meat onto our plates, and the waitstaff took the rest of the bird back for additional cooking. The meat on our plates was tender and moist, the best cooked piece of duck I’ve ever eaten. Just when I thought I had decided on my favorite course of the night, out came the rest of the duck cut into sections and ready to for us to pick through. The wings and neck meat and even the tongue and brain were electric to the taste. The visual presentation of it all made me feel like King Frederick II in nearby Hamlet’s Castle.
Two desert courses were brought out to wind down the evening, the culmination of which was a bowl that looked like a forest-scene diorama, with various vegetables and even deer moss covered in chocolate blown on by a paint-sprayer. It was perfection.
We were given a tour of the whole facility—both kitchens, the research and development area, fermentation lab, even the back room where the books are kept. With every person we met, I was further convinced that what was happening at Noma was the opposite of pretension. While I may have had to endure droll comments from my effusive companions like “this is the intersection of art and science and food” and “you can really feel Redzepi’s soul in the food”… I was happy to stomach it because the people who worked here were simply joyful folks doing work that made them proud. A thing can’t be contrived or overwrought when it’s made with so much care and love.
A non-foodie with a closed mind flew to Denmark to eat at a fancy-pants restaurant, and left thankful to have been in the presence of excellence, to have had the meal of a lifetime with friends he loves.
Happy birthday, Tom Miller.