Dinner by Heston Blumenthal

Dinner by Heston Blumenthal

Where:
Dinner by Heston Blumenthal
Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park
66 Knightsbridge, London SW1X 7LA

Phone:
+44 20 7201 3833 or fuck yeah, online booking here

Price:
Website provides very detailed guidance (add 12.5% for service charge).  We got out at an eye watering £290 (approx USD500) for 2 people, including wine.  We didn’t follow the sommelier’s recommendation of the £400 (approx USD750 post service tax) bottle (shit son, I wish I was a little bit taller, I wish I was a baller).

The deal:
Dinner by Heston Blumenthal has got some serious fuck off credentials – two goddamn Michelin stars (for whatever that’s worth these days) and a lofty as fuck number five ranking on the San Pellegrino World’s 50 Best Restaurant list.  Ashley Palmer-Watts currently heads up the kitchen and the concept is “the revival and modernisation of traditional British recipes, the menu…[featuring] simple contemporary dishes inspired by Britain”s historic gastronomic past and recipes dating as far back as the 16th century”. It’s at the Mandarin Oriental Hyde Park and it goes for a ‘casual’ vibe – it’s not quiet fine dining and there’s no white table cloths (this bothered the fuck out of me, I don’t know why I wanted some linen so fucking badly).  Just a fuck tonne of brown decor, as far as the eye can see.

For starters, we ordered the iconic Meat Fruit (fuck I know, borderline acceptability to use “iconic” but this fucking dish actually has its own meaningful #meatfruit hashtag) which even as a staunch, anti-photos at the dinner table supporter tempted me to take a goddamn snap.  I mean fuck, it’s a chicken liver and foie gras parfait in the perfect shape of a goddamn mandarin. It’s a rich, delicious little fucker too and we witnessed some lithe diners barely struggle through, but of course our table had no such issues.  I also ordered the Roast Marrowbone which saw a medley of bone marrow, snails, anchovy and parsley lined up down a sawn half of a bone accompanied by some fuck yeah baby pickled radish, onion and cauliflower – each vegetable brined in a different delicate as fuck spice profile. That protein combo inspired from the 1720s is a pretty fucking robust flavour combo and add to that the gelatinous, wobbly marrow and the chewy snails – this shit is not for the faint hearted.

For mains, I debated between the pork chop and the pigeon – but given the sheer quantity of pork I smash in HK, I opted for the sky rat and was warned that it’s served “slightly pink”. But yo, need to have some truth in advertising, because Monsieur Pigeon showed up rare as fuck.  This didn’t bother me because when I eat my steak, I have no issue with running the cow past me and I’ll grab a fucking bite out of it, but if you were expecting “slightly pink”, you would definitely be begrudgingly choking down that pigeon’s barely cooked existence like Daenerys Targaryen and a horse’s heart. It was tasty enough.  Spoiler alert – not tasty as fuck, just tasty enough.

I got the famous Tipsy Cake – which requires 45 minutes of advance warning for preparation.  Almost every review I read online has a serious stiff for the Tipsy Cake.  It’s a brioche / brown bread style pudding, soaked in salted butter caramel, pear and malted yeast syrup with a slice of caramelised pineapple.  Apparently it takes four hours to roast and smoke and caramelise each pineapple.  The brioche style pudding was a boozy Sauternes (fun fact:  a wine made from grapes which are suffering from ‘the noble rot’) soaked fuck yeah pudding but regardless of the hours of prep that goes into it, almost any sort of bread pudding soaked in a warm, buttery boozy sauce is going to be hard to fuck up.  I just couldn’t get excited about that seriously labour intensive pineapple.  End of the day it was still a warm bit of fruit with a bit of caramelisation on it – no, don’t think I like dem (pine)apples.

They threw in a complimentary chocolate mousse accompanied by an Earl Grey biscuit at the end, but it was a cloying little fucker and after my pancreas waved the white flag almost immediately, I abandoned almost all of it, in fear of the diabeetus.

So the low down is that the food was not bad and it’s clear that the Dinner by Heston homies are pulling out some complex as fuck preparation (check out the recipes here now for some of their signature dishes) and it’s a noble and innovative quest to put a 21st century spin on ye olde British noms. But while it was enjoyable enough at the time, my view is that a two starred, #5 ranked restaurant in the world needs to provide you with a dining experience which fucking floors you.  Not a congenial, pleasant first date that you debate whether to lean in for a polite good night kiss and you don’t give a fuck whether you get a fucking call back (or even a Whatsapp) the next day.

Verdict:
I fucking wanna know what love is and I want you to show me and just cause your pâté looks like a citrus fruit is not going to be whimsical enough to blind me.  Fuck no.

3 Comments

Fuck yeah or fuck no?

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