The Fat Duck

It's been the biggest story in Restaurant Land. Heston Blumenthal's Fat Duck restaurant is three weeks into a six-month season in Melbourne while the English original is being renovated. Bookings were allocated via a hysterically oversubscribed ballot. I didn't score a table but was invited last-minute by a friend whose husband was unable to go. I do not wish sickness upon anyone but if it results in a Fat Duck meal for me then I'll just have to send a get-well card and frock up.

There are two questions people ask about a meal at the Fat Duck. Was it amazing? And was it worth it? Yes and yes. The experience was fun and thrilling, threaded with theatre so immersive that the spoilers don't wreck it. That's art, possibly genius.

Highlights included a cocktail made solid with liquid nitrogen that disappeared like a flavoured cloud in the mouth. It gave me that feeling of being at the top of a terrifyingly steep waterslide - then, whoosh, elation. Salted foam and seaweed accompanied by a crashing wave soundtrack was a perfect beach interlude, with everything except sand in the bathers. Tea – half hot, half cold – made me feel inside out, upside down and giggly. And there's great bread and butter, all the better for mopping up your snail porridge.

The Fat Duck doesn't sit easily in a contemporary dining landscape steeped in reverence for produce. Here, food submits to ideas. It's like watching a gymnast bent into unlikely shapes: you'll gasp and applaud but you don't consider trying it at home.

People spend silly money on all sorts of silly things; dropping a thousand dollars (oh yeah, expensive, crazy-good wine) on a meal is among them. It's a stark illustration of the inequity that's evident everywhere, every day. But still, I loved it and I felt like a lucky duck every magic minute.

Rating: Four and a half stars (out of five)