This week we took the train from Milan to Modena just to have dinner at Osteria Francescana. This has been hailed by some as the best restaurant in the world. The restaurant is run by legendary Italian chef Massimo Bottura, and I only know about it from seeing the episode of Chef’s Table about him on Netflix. Please do not look up how much a meal at Osteria Francescana costs, it is embarrassing that I am willing to pay this much for a fancy-shmancy meal. Weeks ago I realized we would be nearby in Milan and checked to see if there were any tables available. I didn’t really think anything would come of it—they are always booked for months in advance. Sure enough the whole calendar for June was grayed out … except for June 12, the one day we were free to take the train down to Modena.
Osteria Francescana has a 12-course tasting menu, and this might make you think that you should show up hungry. We barely had any lunch, starving ourselves for the feast that evening. Do not do this! The courses are tiny little masterpieces. Even if you add them all up together, it isn’t a big meal. (This is where Kate Moss eats.) The food is artfully doled out over the course of three hours or so. We started our meal at 8pm. I was still jet lagged, so by 10pm I was both tired and hungry. Just knowing that the meal is so expensive also makes it less fun for me. Like, this trompe l’oeil lime filled with cream is a fun creation but one bite of it costs the same as a whole meal somewhere else.
I must admit, the food was delicious. One renowned course is a “take” on bruschetta, but instead of bread with tomato on top you get toasted-bread-flavored ice cream and a clear tomato gel. The crunch is provided by crunchy wafers of oregano dusted with gold. It’s all very theatrical, which I like, but I should have eaten a big pasta meal for lunch. Overall I would put this in the category of I-did-this-so-you-don’t-have-to, and suggest that if you are in Modena to go to Franceschetta58, Bottura’s other restaurant for people who don’t need to empty their bank accounts in order to eat at the “best restaurant in the world.”
And truly the only thing better than telling everyone you have eaten at the best restaurant in the world is telling them you weren’t that impressed. Such sweet sorrow.
There was, of course, more to the experience than the food. The restaurant is a warren of tiny rooms, and in our room there were four tables with four couples, including us. One American couple was our age, but the other two couples—one Polish, one Italian—each featured a man about ten years older than us and a woman about ten years younger. The women were both tall and extremely thin. The Italian couple spoke very little during the meal but frequently leaned forward to forcefully suck at each other’s faces. They seemed slightly unhinged, how I imagine wealthy psychopaths might behave. After the second or third time they did this, I decided I had to get a picture. It was just too strange not to document. At one point the Italian man pulled out his cell phone and had a long conversation, as if they were the only ones in the room. I imagined he might be talking to his mother. When they left, he paid in cash with stacks of fifty-euro bills. At the time they seemed obnoxious but in retrospect it was obviously the best part of the meal.
The next day I tried lunch at a supposedly more traditional osteria in Modena, and I expected to enjoy the meal much more. Instead I had the feeling that they were trying to achieve the same thing as Osteria Francsecana but less effectively. Like Francescana, the items on the menu had witty names and self-conscious presentations on the plate—but unlike Bottura’s creations, they didn’t taste particularly exciting. If I was going back to Modena, I might eat at this restaurant instead. You have to make reservations months in advance, but not because it is the “best restaurant in the world.” It’s in the back room of a deli and has only four tables. Apparently the food is good and the portions are generous.
Now we are in Oslo, leaving for Svalbard tomorrow. My overall impression of Oslo is that it is very hard to do your laundry here. Today we had a sea kayaking lesson to prepare for our kayaking expeditions in the Arctic Ocean. I’m getting nervous about our polar adventure. Svalbard is as far north of Oslo as Oslo is north of Venice—maybe even a bit farther. If Oslo was Los Angeles, Svalbard would be in Saskatchewan. It is so inhospitable that the island was uninhabited until the 17th century, and even now it is a “visa-free zone”—anyone can live and work there as long as they like. At this time next week, we will be north even of Svalbard, seeing the polar sea ice.
