A couple of months ago I was reading David Lebovitz’s blog about the hottest table reservations in Paris right now, one of which – he claims – is at Hidden Kitchen. Part of an exclusive underground dining scene, the French Hidden Kitchen is run by two young Seattle chefs from their apartment, where they invite 16 guests to eat from a fixed tasting menu.
The more I read about it, the more I wanted to know. Further research revealed that the concept was already popular in Latin America, the States and the UK. It seemed that people the world over were turning their apartments into miniature, intimate, high-quality restaurants on an ad-hoc basis… the idea was so simple it was genius.
What happened next was one of those light-bulb-above-head moments: ‘I have an apartment, I have a dining table (albeit only big enough for eight), I have an untapped market in Amsterdam… how hard can it be?’
As it turned out, it was quite hard: not hard-difficult, but hard work. I set a date, I set a menu, and I got emailing. Within days I was sold out. And then I realised I simply didn’t have eight of everything I needed to feed eight people. I spent about three days just sourcing glasses, table decorations, a mise-en-place table… not to mention the practice runs of all the dishes, the wine to go with them and the administration involved in any kind of event organisation. But – lest I sound like I’m moaning – as one friend reminded me when I reeled off my list of Hidden Kitchen-related stress: ‘But Vic, you love this sort of thing – you’re enjoying it really, I know you are.’
He was right of course. So on Saturday morning, I woke up at six, all excited and raring to go to the market. I’d already staked out the Noordermarkt for exactly what I needed to buy a couple of weeks previously, so I was none too pleased to discover that the herb stall (which had four varieties of basil for chrissake!) did not happen to have any lavender ‘that day’. Ok, so I should have been more flexible, but my planned dessert required poaching in lavender, my table decorations involved lavender, the lavender was meant to match the colour on my menus… ‘What do you mean you haven’t got any bloody lavender today?!’ I wanted to yell at the shrugging market seller. I didn’t, of course. I’m English. I stammered a polite ‘jammer – volgende keer dan’, knowing full well that next time would be far too late, and walked away.
Needless to say, I finally managed to source an entire lavender bush (now growing on my windowsill) and the other necessary ingredients, before heading back to my kitchen to get on with the prep.
My first guest – one who’d heard about Amsterdam Foodie via word-of-mouth and who I didn’t therefore already know – arrived at 7.30. ‘Good evening, Hidden Kitchen’ I smiled down the intercom, nervously trying to sound confident. I handed her a glass of my specially-for-summer house aperitif: crushed raspberries, a dash of cointreau and champagne. And then I poured one for myself – I was clearly going to need it.
In the end, the menu went swimmingly. As I cleared the plates, I saw that every one had been scraped clean (hopefully not because people were still hungry!). The wine flowed. The candles danced in the twilight.
And then came the interesting bit: I’d thought and thought about the food, the wine, the flowers… but I hadn’t really thought about the people. I’d deliberately encouraged guests to come alone and meet new people, but I hadn’t really considered how they’d interact with each other when they got there. As the chef and host, I was both key to the experience and outside it – and from my vantage point in the kitchen, I watched the sparks fly.
By the end of the evening, I thought two of my guests might kill each other, and two might leave together for sex. In the event, neither happened (as far as I know!)… But as I lay on my sofa at 2 am reflecting on the night’s proceedings, I had a Mrs Dalloway moment: I’d brought together an unlikely mix of people for dinner and watched a microcosm of Amsterdam international society. The food may have been complimented, the wine appreciated – but what I’d really created was a backdrop, an excuse, a stage on which to play out the fascinating rhythms of the human ego, the group dynamics of human interaction.
The final menu (designed by Andrea Ibargutxi)
Footnote: the autumn edition of Hidden Kitchen will be in the second half of October – date TBC. For more information or to make a reservation, contact me.
