A Farewell to the Restaurant for Which This Substack Was Created
A meal so frustrating it inspired an entire newsletter.
A little over two years ago, I suffered through a restaurant meal so unpleasant and so infuriating that I returned home and immediately wrote an 1800-word screed to vent my frustration, like writing a final letter you know you’ll never send to the person you’ve just broken up with.
I posted on Instagram stories, “Update, now that dinner is over: I’ve been threatening to start a substack for a few months now and this may well be the thing that pushes me over the edge, because hoo boy do I have THOUGHTS to share” and was immediately inundated with DMs encouraging me to do exactly that.
I did create this Substack a few days afterward, but I never posted my thoughts on that particular meal, not wanting to start things off with such negativity. I kept the draft, though. The restaurant is closing tomorrow, I’m told, so I figured it’s time to let this out into the world.
Let’s get right to the point: If you’re reading this, it’s probably because you’re wondering “Will I have a great experience at Ilis? Is it worth spending a ludicrous sum of money to dine at a place helmed by a founder of Noma?”
You might have a great time! It sounds as though many people have! But you might, instead, have the type of experience I did, which left me frustrated and then furious, regretting having wasted my time and my dining companion’s money on a dinner that fell short of expectations in nearly every way.
The evening began to hint at disappointment when we were led to our seats at the counter overlooking the kitchen. They were low and uncomfortable, the countertop in front of us oddly narrow and dark. I looked longingly at an empty table behind us, a spacious and well-lighted two-top. We’d made a reservation a month earlier, for the expensive “field menu” full 12-course tasting experience at $295 a person (versus the abbreviated version at $195); we had assumed we would be seated at a table.
Ordinarily, in fact, I prefer bar seats to dining at a table, but these counter seats were not the bright, convivial experience I associate with bar or kitchen-counter seating, as at, say, Blanca. They were placed at a much lower level than where the cooks were working, and the countertop was constructed of matte black wood, narrow and dark, with an equally black backstop that shadowed it entirely from the bright kitchen lights aimed just a few feet away.
Perhaps it was like omakase-style dining at a sushi restaurant, I told myself, where the counter seats were in fact the most coveted ones! I pulled the lone candle over to help me read the drinks menu; it wasn’t much help. The tables, in contrast, were all bathed in plenty of light. I briefly considered requesting to move, but I didn’t want to make a fuss. I’d never before requested a different table at a restaurant and judged those who did. I sat there trying to convince myself it would be fine.