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Julian Vance rested his forearms against the cool linen of table twelve , feeling the fatigue of two and a half hours spent inside a culinary theatre of silence . Around him , the dining room offered the austere serenity of a contemporary gallery : grey polished screed , recessed pinpoint spotlights , and waiters who moved with the rehearsed deference of museum attendants . The menu had promised an odyssey through northern coastal ecology , yet by nine o'clock Julian was painfully conscious of an uncomfortable physiological truth : after thirteen exquisitely choreographed bites , he remained acutely , hollowly hungry . A junior waiter approached with solemn poise , setting down a slab of dark slate on which rested a solitary translucent disc . With hushed reverence , the young man announced course fourteen : a dehydrated roundel of pickled Jerusalem artichoke , dusted with pine - needle ash and resting upon a drop of fermented birch sap . Silver tweezers had been placed beside the plate in lieu of cutlery . Julian grasped the utensil , lifted the brittle wafer , and placed it on his tongue . It disintegrated almost instantly into an astringent burst of vinegar and woodsmoke . There was technical precision in the balance of acids , certainly , but not a single calorie of genuine nourishment . Through the tall glass frontage , rain was beginning to streak the pavement outside , reflecting the warm amber lights of a corner brasserie across the avenue . Through the steamy windows of that modest establishment , Julian could see two diners breaking a loaf of sourdough over an earthenware bowl of steaming lentils . The contrast struck him with sudden force . The modern tasting marathon , in its quest to transform dinner into conceptual performance art , had severed its ancient pact with the human stomach . Hospitality had been replaced by submission , where paying guests were expected to marvel at laboratory technique while their palates grew numb from sensory exhaustion . When the server materialized once more , eager to recite the backstory of course fifteen , Julian gently raised his palm . The ritual had reached its natural conclusion . He declined the remaining dishes , asked for the invoice , and retrieved his overcoat from the cloakroom . Five minutes later , the autumn drizzle hit his face , and he crossed the street toward the smell of garlic and toasted yeast .
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