Young zaf’s earliest toy was a big bowl of water. She’d mix in little squeezy tubes of food coloring, flour, sugar, sand, eyeshadow, and whatever else happened to be lying around. The resulting gloop was called ‘cake’. The nearest adult was asked to eat it.
Finally, zaf discovered He-Man dolls, so no lasting harm was done (except to the carpet), but in a universe without Matell, zaf might have gone on to work at Mini Bar.
Hopeful diners must plan their meal one month in advance. The day exactly one month prior to the meal, to be precise, and Minibar’s website goes so far as to suggest calling early in the morning if you want your first choice of the 6 PM or 8:30 PM seating. There are only six chairs, and confirming the reservation requires a dizzying back and forth of credit cards on the phone, confirmation by fax, and finally a signed contract. On this particular night I waited downstairs in Café Atlantico with five other apprehensive diners, at least two of whom had been looking forward to this for six months. We talked with that hushed, nervous intimacy among strangers that usually means an imminent bungee jump or something. I calmed my butterflies with a mojito poured over cotton candy. I’m telling you, butterflies. For a meal.
The counter, set upstairs with chairbacks to the rest of the restaurant, was manned by two chefs; one who acted as ringmaster, and one who prepared little things in the background. Our particular chef said he could perform both sides, but not at the same time. Why? I have seen cooking technique whittled down to such minimalism that it looks choreographed, but that’s always been just a metaphor. This was like they were doing some kind of crazy ballet that also happened to turn ingredients into tiny, bite-sized dishes. At the end of each act they’d pick up the plates (or wire baskets, or gelatin-glass trays), nod at each other to get the timing just right, and click them down on the glass counter in front of each diner at precisely the same moment.
Each of the 30-odd dishes was constructed, passed out, and whisked away: the famous olive oil bon bons. The pork rinds with Maple syrup. The smoked oyster with apples. Some of them were downright tasty: I could easily eat a whole bowl of the Zucchini in Textures (creamy zucchini seeds – light but savory) or the Linguini made from jellied feta water. Also perfect was the tomato sorbet wrapped in avocado that made up the Guacamole. And the single spoonful of England clam chowder: Squirts of creamy potato foam with a single clam. Other dishes seemed more like modern art – there to make an interesting point instead of to please. The deconstructed glass of wine consisted of a number of herb and spice shreds, embedded in gelatin with alcohol sprayed on top.
And some of the dishes were just fun. I started giggling at course 7 (saffron yoghurt meringue), continued on through the cotton candy fois gras and Lobster Americain (served skewered on a pipette of its own shell-juice) and didn’t stop laughing till after course 32, a Halls lollypop.
I highly suggest the wine pairings, dumbed down for us plebeians into either “Lively & Fresh” or “Luscious and Sexy”. They say that dishes change about every six months. I’ll be back then to feed my inner 3-year old.