Dining . . . Dans Le Noir

Rain started to fall as we rounded the corner and came face to face with the darkened façade of our restaurant. My heart sank. We’d commuted half-way across London for dinner, and the place didn’t exactly look ‘happening’. In fact, it didn’t even look open. But then it wouldn’t, would it? If the whole pretence was dining in the dark.

We’d fumbled around in the dark before. Four years earlier, in Hong Kong. Dialogue in the Dark had seen us feel our way through a labyrinth of every day simulations, growing a new appreciation for our alternative senses . . . and the many people who lived like this every day. So when we heard of Dans Le Noir in London, we jumped at the opportunity to relive the experience . . . with the added dimension of our favourite thing: Food.

Welcomed into the dimly lit foyer we stuffed our jackets, phones and other light-emitting sources into a locker, the sparsely furnished space only slightly more ‘happening’ than the façade. Our eyes adjusted to the dark as we took a seat and pondered the menu. Little more than a coloured flow chart, it encompassed four broad options. Traditional meat, exotic meat, fish or vegetarian. Because knowing what you’d be eating would be boring. Less than adventurous, we both selected traditional meat . . . even sharing in the dark wasn’t something we were ready to entertain.

The dim light of the foyer faded as we shuffled into the bowels of the building, behind another couple. The corridor ended in a black curtain and our waiter, Simon, greeted us. He assembled an awkward Conga line, right hands on the shoulder of the person in front, parted the curtains and inducted us into the dark.

“Keep your hands on shoulders,” a sultry Russian voice laughed ahead of Colby and the black nothing flooded with the scent of food, the hum of conversation and the delicate chink of cutlery. Sensing a non-existent step, I focussed on my shuffle. Despite my preconceptions I neither formed a mental picture of the restaurant, throbbing under the shroud of black, nor feared the dark. Only in the long moment Simon left us hovering as he seated our counterparts, did I feel a sense of angst. In the absence of his grounding presence I fought the pull of another dimension. One in which we would surely be lost if not for his soothing voice, and timely return to the human train.

Discovering our place settings in the relative safety of our seats was surprisingly simple, as was bonding with our faceless companions. But as Simon placed a water bottle in my hand, indicating the glass somewhere in front of me, our decision to forego the wine was justified. And passing on a chink-chink with our new friends was a given, considering the potential for a baptism in their wine . . . and a seven-year curse of bad sex, (being unable to maintain eye contact and all.)

Simon’s voice behind me announced the arrival of the entrée. He placed the dish on my place setting with such precision, I was sure he was wearing night-vision goggles. The hilarity of a restaurant full of diners, fumbling with their fingers and slopping food down their clothes would be a sweet incentive to turn up to work each day. But Ms Ruski saved me from my ignorance. The wait staff were all blind . . .

Still chewing over Simon’s skilful presentation, I tucked an oversized napkin into my collar and gave my meal a pat. The crisp pancetta garnish made convenient finger food before braving my knife and fork. Slicing, balancing and transporting the mystery dish to my mouth was surprisingly simple, the familiar flavours of beef cheek and mashed potato melting in my mouth. But on learning I’d left half my starter on the plate, I realised just how detached from my meal I’d been. So for the main course, I took another tack.

I ran my hands around the plate, imagining it as a flower, split into three compartments. Touching the food was a given, if only to know where it was, so if the wait staff weren’t watching . . . I cast aside any ounce of refinement and dug in. If I couldn’t see my food, feeling it was a close second. I scooped the bite size morsels into cupped fingers, shoving them in my mouth like a child, sure to slurp up every last drop of sauce. But in the shadow of the starter, the not so familiar flavours seemed impossible to place. Something sweet, something spicy. Chicken? Perhaps pork? Yet what they were was immaterial. The changing shapes, textures and flavours didn’t need a label. It was food, and I was loving it.

Having crazily passed on dessert we savoured the atmosphere for a final moment, then left our new friends arguing over whether their dessert was apple or pear. With Colby clamped to my shoulder, Simon took my hand, guiding me from my chair. His chaste touch oozed empathy, his voice patiently reassuring; there were no stairs for me to fall down, regardless of how I might feel. And as we shook hands at the curtain, my eyes readjusted to the light and I was filled admiration. For his courage. For his skill. And for everything these people achieved in the absence of sight.

As for the mystery meal? The dim foyer revealed all. A slow-cooked beef cheek, complete with mashed potato and crispy pancetta. The photo stared at me from the bar, exactly as I’d imagined. But I turned the page and the main looked nothing like I’d pictured. The plate was far from a flower, and what I’d thought was pork had been Wagyu. Yet what did that matter? I’d enjoyed it without seeing it . . . and without knowing what it was. There’s more than one way to experience life and perhaps Dans Le Noir was timely reminder to go beyond my sight . . . and beyond my need to know everything.