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[title]Man the harpoons. Light the torches of Gondor. Stone the crows and let slip the dogs of war. Do everything and anything to make a fuss, a noise, a scene: the only restaurant that matters has come, finally, to our shores. Pray silence, and prepare your tastebuds, for Hawthorn.
I am, of course, being slightly facetious. But only slightly. To call Hawthorn a word-of-mouth sensation is like calling Dwayne Johnson 'physically fit'. It's a restaurant that danced across the lips of the internationally gastronomically curious, long before its mysterious bricks-and-mortar site appeared. Rumours abounded for months about a bread course that featured no bread, a Berghain-esque ban on all cameras and a intimidatingly severe head chef whose customer service was less silver spoon and more iron bars.
The tantalising rumours, it turns out, did not go far enough.
Hawthorn's dishes are not your regular Michelin-tickling combinations of texture and flavour. These things are statements. Some culinary, but others flagrantly philosophical or even political. I came away from my main course feeling as though I had been debating the nature of my own existence. It was terrifyingly profound. And also tasty.
I’d suggest wasting no time in booking your own experience at this remote, sensational eatery. Go in hungry, come out humbled, edified and probably desperate for a wee (the chef doesn’t allow you to leave your seat while dining).
If you clicked that link expecting a restaurant’s homepage (or at the very least a posh Resy page), uh, sorry. But you’re not as gullible as you might think. It says a lot that the concept of a berserk, conceptual culinary institution with a terrifyingly exacting head chef doesn’t exactly require the suspension of disbelief these days. Fine-dining is basically hilarious, and new film ‘The Menu’ neatly skewers contemporary culinary tropes like a decent shish kebab.
‘The Menu’ is in cinemas from November 18. Book your tickets now!
