Dans Le Noir, 31-33 Clerkenwell Green, London EC1 (020 7253 1100).
Meal for two, including wine and service, £120
It was when the woman downtable from me said, 'I'm propping my plate on my boobs, so I don't spill any', that I concluded Dans Le Noir really was a restaurant like no other. Mind you, I hardly needed to hear a complete stranger called Helen lose all her inhibitions to clock that. Dans Le Noir, on London's Clerkenwell Green, is the British branch of a Parisian concept, which invites diners to eat in a blacked-out room. It is literally like no other in this country. I will confess that, when I first heard about it, I wanted to nail my own feet to the floor so I wouldn't have to go. It struck me as silly and gimmicky. Having been, though, I would challenge anybody not to find the experience at least vaguely intriguing. I will not, however, return, for reasons we will get to.
As my companion I invited Peter White, the BBC's disability affairs correspondent, on the grounds that to a blind man, it would be just another bloody restaurant. This, it turned out, was not quite the case. As he explained, the blind live in the world of the sighted and therefore have an expectation that those who can see may be relied upon for certain basic practicalities: where a step or doorway might be located in an unfamiliar room, for example. Tonight we would all be blind.
'It really is a bit inconvenient,' he said. Still, he hoped there might be compensations. 'Usually in restaurants, people read me the menu. If there's a Braille menu I can read it to you.' There wasn't, though they did have the wine list in Braille. I suggested it was because they thought all blind people are big drinkers. 'Not a bad assumption, actually,' Peter said.
As decor is not going to be a big part of this, I'll get it out of the way. At the front is a dimly lit, wood-floored bar area, lined with lockers where you stow personal items. A darkly lit corridor then leads, via two sets of blackout curtains, to the dining room. Just so we are in no doubt, it really is completely black: closed eyes, behind a blindfold in a blacked-out room. While the staff in the bar are sighted, those in the dining room are not. The service we received from them, Peter said, was 'confident but familiar. We can make any length of journey, but the last two feet are always difficult. We lack precision. It was interesting to feel the waitress groping about in the way I might.'
Once at the table, I asked Peter if I was now a tourist in his world. 'No, because a part of it is knowing that you will never not be blind. It isn't something that just happens for an hour or two.' Still, I encountered some interesting practical problems. A few years ago, Peter ate at the Paris branch and found he was the only one with the self-confidence to pour the wine; none of the sighted people felt able to do so. With his guidance, I eventually did OK, slipping my thumb over the rim to find the level of liquid.
The blind do not, of course, want our pity. Understanding is more useful. However, I did end the night feeling truly sorry for one blind person: Peter. I made him eat some gruesome food. That is why I shall not go back. Obviously there is an opportunity here to do something interesting, to put together unlikely flavour combinations in a way that, without visual cues, will intrigue and divert. But it also has to be nice to eat, and at Dans Le Noir it really isn't. It's horrible.
We ordered the surprise menu, the surprise being that it's almost inedible. At £39 for three courses, it's also no bargain, and larceny for dishes this grim. The starter: some sludgy gnocchi swamped by a blue cheese and whisky dressing with, on the side, a scoop of nasty floral lavender ice cream, which tasted like the inside of an old lady's sock drawer. The dish was slimy, bitter and cloying, adjectives generally applied to failed politicians. The main course was no better. Curiously, to concentrate on flavours, I found myself sitting in the dark with my eyes closed. I identified a white fish, perhaps bream, which had been overcooked to a fibrousness. Afterwards I was told it was monkfish. I spotted the stuffing of pineapple and wished I hadn't. Another plate of disastrous food.
We finished with appalling profiteroles - think shoe pastry rather than choux pastry - accompanied by a chemical-tasting wasabi ice cream. I found myself wishing that the Fat Duck's Heston Blumenthal was in the kitchen, not just screwing with our heads, but also serving stuff that was nice to eat.
Still, in the darkness, inhibitions slipped away and we became locked in deep conversation with complete strangers, and Helen announced that her watch had somehow fallen into her knickers. At which point, I realised actually this had nothing to do with eating in the dark. She was just that kind of girl...
