A Stolen Bag, Bad Hair And An Unforgettable Meal At Ferran Adrià’s El Bulli

The man’s shorter than me, his wiry hair beginning to thin a little. But there's something magnetic about him — his dark eyes gleam with an intense intelligence, and there's an assuredness in his movements that comes with being at the top of your game. Yet, no sign of cockiness, just a reassuring warmth despite the fact that he speaks only in rapid-fire Spanish and I understand almost none of it. He drapes his arm around me for the camera. A blinding flash later, I’m whisked away from the man they call the godfather of molecular gastronomy (though he hates the title), combining science and art in the most unlikely fashion: caviar made of apple, pea ravioli without the ravioli, translucent ham.

El Bulli is open only six months a year. Adrià spends the other six in his mad scientist-esque laboratory tinkering with new dishes. Unsurprisingly, the restaurant has a year-long wait list, with about, oh, just a million requests for a table annually. All rabid foodies dream of eating at this culinary mecca before they die. It’s not every day that you get an email that reads: “We have had a cancellation that permits us to offer you a table. Ferran Adrià will prepare a personalised tasting menu”, after mere months of shameless grovelling. FYI: I paid for my meal, but only managed to snag a table after revealing my media status.

To recap: the way there is long. First, a flight to Barcelona, then a train ride to Figueres (the birthplace of Salvador Dalí and capital of the Alt Emporda region) lasting over an hour. There, hop onto a bus for a half-hour trip to the sleepy coastal town of Roses which seems to be a retirement haven with bikini-clad geriatrics lounging on beaches. Finally, a 15-minute taxi ride. After a nail-biting spiral up the rocky hill with a majestic view of the glittering Mediterranean sea, my taxi stops before an illuminated flight of stone steps. I've arrived.

Welcome cocktails are served at the terrace. And what a terrace. Whitewashed Mediterranean-style arches frame an achingly pretty view of a pristine beach and mountains. The only soundtrack to the meal is the quiet chatter of diners accompanied by the whisper of lapping waves. Overhanging ferns fluttering gently in the breeze and the sweet scent of rosemary and thyme wafting earthily from nearby pots. Snapping out of my reverie, I notice local diners coolly dressed down in jeans — I stare at my somewhat fancy frock and feel slightly comforted when I see a similarly overdressed German couple, obviously tourists too.

“Would you like to see the kitchen?” asks the head waiter suddenly. Obviously. I’m escorted into the spacious kitchen fitted in cool steel and black. A flurry of 40 chefs (who serve about 50 guests every night) bustle like silent, systematic bees — no Gordon Ramsay-style red-faced cussing and pot-clanging here. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Ferran Adrià striding purposefully around like an orchestral conductor. I feel a little dizzy, but recover enough to ask for a photo. He motions me over, and puts his arm around me genially, breaking into an infectious grin. Then I’m promptly ushered away.

Now, my 35-course €165 (S$330) meal really kicks off. Service runs smoothly despite the staggering number of dishes, each bite-sized delicacy coursing into the next with barely a blink. The waiters expertly introduce each dish, issuing welcome instructions since most plates only have the remotest resemblance to regular food. My glass is tirelessly refilled with just a splash of cave each time I take a sip – so it remains deliciously frosty.

Right on cue, my ‘cocktails’ arrive – solid Campari and strawberries. First, a platter of pale discs and strawberries that resemble oversized tablets. The discs are wafer-thin and crispy, but instantly dissolve into intoxicating alcoholic syrup on my tongue. I chase it with a strawberry that bursts into a sour-sweet semi-liquid flourish. Next comes a jar of what looks like regular olives. Wrong. The shiny, quivering green orbs come undone on the first chew with a shiver-inducing tart juiciness. See, these olives are made from olives. But why do they taste so much better? Because Adrià extracts the pureed essence of the best olives he can find and magicks it into satiny spheres of juice barely held together by the finest film.

Then a “crab anemone” appears. It’s a mass of deceptively simple meat swathed in batter and lemon foam. But I’m immediately transported to the ocean. Every briny drop of crustacean juice seems to have been squeezed into one mouthful.

What would a Ferran Adrià meal be without some drama? A simmering hotpot arrives with two squishy yellow pillows floating languidly in broth like hot air balloons. I fish one out and it ruptures in a gush of savoury cream. Ah, parmesan cheese 'wontons'. Very tasty.

Photo: Diary of a Growing Boy

Main courses are served inside a cosy, almost rustic dining room. Here's honeyed foam fluttering with edible flowers — Legolas would approve. Later, a trio of incredibly springy razor clams comes washed up on a bed of sea foam.

An alarming moment occurs when a scary plate of what looks like mucus emerges. It turns out to be transmogrified Iberian ham, so fragrant and flavourful. Like translucent jamon from outer space.

One of several desserts, the amusingly named “The Cheese and the Wool” features clouds of pungent sheep’s cheese with a woolly texture.

Lamb brains given the delicate spherical olive treatment. This wasn't our fave — but definitely very elegant and clever if eating brain is your bag.

Photo: Ashkeling

A ring of seaweed that I was instructed to eat anti-clockwise (something about varying degrees of brininess I think, who knows?). I did as I was told, feeling somewhat foolish 'cos I couldn't discern the nuances between any of them.

Photo: Diary of a Growing Boy