Frantzén

Dining here is akin to a royal audience, and you’re wise to be on time. The slots are every quarter of an hour, dingdong, knock-knock, and a young vassal receives you with courtly airs. The ritual is meticulously timed. A glass of water, perhaps, as your coat is taken and meat aging cabinets signal that any transition from red to green is best done elsewhere. Ready? A lift whisks you, if not to seventh heaven at least to the top floor, where the lord chamberlain, Carl Frosterud, awaits. Despite the precisely timed protocol, nothing here is stiff or contrived. The staff are skilled at reading each guest’s temperament in order to hit the right note. The amuses arrive at a brisk trot. They include an airy grape macaroon with whipped duck’s liver, condensed port wine, and hibiscus on a rye bread crisp – almost decadent in the frivolous flavours and ethereal textures. Before we descend a flight of stairs to the Kitchen Theatre – a peek into the secret box. The evening’s artistes preen on a bed of ice: beautifully pale pink otoro from Ibiza, pickled myoga ginger of almost exactly the same hue, live Norway lobsters scrabbling for an escape route in the unexpected light. Downstairs, the otoro and myoga turn up as ‘crudo’, an exceptionally pretty presentation of purple radish, fermented anchovies and tomato water, with a gossamer texture and esoteric, complex flavours. The Norway lobster met its destiny with bravado: the tail, deep-fried but 12 seconds, on a thin bed of crispy-puffed Japanese koshihikari rice, to be dipped in ginger-infused melted butter, is as unbeatably delicious as ever. The hybrid drinks package, with every second selection non-alcoholic, is a perfect idea – and the non-inebriating items are excellent. New on the menu this year is a piece of turbot hidden under an enormous blond wig of Alba truffle (hey there, Trump) on a beurre blanc flavoured with matsutake. A Frantzén classic follows: French toast ‘grand tradition 2008’, a true gastro-gem and elegantly yummy scrumptious. A Barbaresco Riserva ‘Baluchin’ 2001 has an unexpectedly tough tussle with a purple carrot drink enhanced with smoked maple syrup from Blaxsta. After three or four hours of eating and drinking your way through harmonious compositions you can suddenly ask yourself: is it all a bit too monotonously good? That’s when the bbq dove comes crashing down. Until now it’s been silly-easy eating, and gorge-worthy too. This dove slams on the brakes. It’s hard eating, and testy flavours. But it wakes us up. Still, no respite yet. Smoked ice cream with ginger, dried egg yolk and date syrup weighs down our steps up to the lounge – where another 14 frivolities await us, to go with the coffee. More is more. A small dome of liquorice bavaroise with toffee-like beetroot and violet vinegar is sublime. And we can but certify: the set, the direction, the acting and the whole performance is stellar – right there at the summit, probably among the five or ten foremost in the world.

Published december 2019