Alone In The Dark
As I fumble in the dark for my cutlery, there is a soft thud somewhere across the room. "Oo la la!" Exclaims a flustered woman, as the smell of red wine seeps over the table. Almost immediately, a waiter is at her side, presumably with a cloth or a serviette.
This is no ordinary Parisian restaurant. Whilst other cities make food presentation an art form, the French culinary capital has launched a venue contesting the emphasis on appearances. In fact Dans Le Noir restaurant presents a truly novel approach to visual artifice - diners eat entirely in the dark.
If this sounds disconcerting, it is. As I and my fellow diners enjoy pre-dinner drinks, we could be in any restaurant reception. But this evening the aperitifs brave us for a very different experience. We've already chosen our wine, and can designate either the fixed menu, or a surprise meal. So now it's time for the fun to begin. Our waitress Christine appears, and is briefed with our names and meal choices. Like all of the waiters here, Christine is blind, and memorises us by sound alone. With our hand on the shoulder of the guest in front, we form an anxious crocodile, following Christine's steady walk into the pitch black interior of the restaurant.
I find my seat with some relief, and set about the novel process of assessing the surroundings in total darkness. Linen table cloth, bread basket, and cutlery, all seem present and correct. If I feel a little further I can define the boundaries of my own table by touching various accoutrements of the positions either side of me. By now I'm aware of other diners in the room, and of strange disembodied floating conversations.
Somewhere to my left, Parisian two strangers chat about various areas of the city. It's a relaxed exchange, which would probably never take place in a sighted restaurant. Something about the darkness suspends usual self consciousness, and silences which might be uncomfortable in the light become quite natural by the sheer logistics of the situation. If you can't see someone struggling to reply, it doesn't seem to matter.
By now I've located my water glass, and begin the shaky pouring process. Sitting my finger in the top of the glass, I try feeling for the level before it overflows. Tipping what I think to be a decent slug of water into the glass, I slowly tilt it back to take a sip. No water. I have a momentary panic. Did I accidentally pour it all over the table? In fact I am simply over-cautious. What I assume to be liquid flowing from the bottle is the sound of water tipping to the bottle neck. I try again with a little more success. And having managed to take a seat at a dining table, and serve myself a drink, I feel a slightly ridiculous surge of accomplishment.
My comfort zones are challenged again when the starter arrives. Without visual cues, the smell of food is almost overwhelming. And it's rather disconcerting to realise how little attention we pay to this basic sense when eating out. Initially, I begin to tackle the plate with cutlery. It's a frustrating experience. I can smell the meal in front of me, and feel out the areas of resistance on the plate. But somehow the food evades my fork. After a few minutes I opt for a compromise, which is not available to blind restaurant goers. Feeling for larger morsels with my fingers (the meal is red mullet with a rocket and anchovy sauce), I cheat, and push food onto the fork.
The next course is a mystery. On my plate are tantalisingly unfathomable pieces of juicy meat, with a slight overlay of fat. They have the dark and gamey flavour of beef, or venison, but the texture much too dense. I've either been served very well-done steak (unthinkable in Paris), or something different entirely. And as I savour the last, piece, I am forced to admit defeat. I really have no idea what I'm eating.
Later the puzzle is revealed - pan fried pieces of duck in a pink peppercorn sauce. An utterly delicious, but rather humbling experience to be unable to identify something so commonplace. As a fellow diner remarks, mistaking food is sadly indicative of how little attention we pay to our other senses when eating. In Dans Le Noir, people frequently mistake red wine for white, and vice versa.
Another effect of the darkness, is to bestow a uniquely meditative element to food. With no visual distractions, and self consciousness all but stripped away, it's a surprisingly liberating way to eat. Unlike blind people, of course, I have the option of baulking convention, and using my hands, but it is nevertheless an education into disability. On first arrival, it's all I can do to pour myself a glass of water. But it's not long before the feeling of dependency ebbs, and I become keen to try out other challenges without the use of sight.
Dessert is apricot tart, and the cup of coffee to finish is served with a lid to prevent spillages. And by this stage, I feel entirely relaxed and at ease. It is only later, when I return blinking and disorientated to the bar area, that I realise I have spent three hours in the restaurant. Three hours well spent. Dans Le Noir is one of the best dining experiences I have had in France - enhanced by the sense of challenge. And I would thoroughly recommend it to those who think they've tried everything Paris has to offer. Although if some diners are anything to go by, you might want to keep a tight grip on your bottle of wine. Or avoid wearing white.