Noma review blasts ‘the best restaurant in the world’

Even the best restaurant in the world has its critics. 

Earlier this year, Noma — the three Michelin-starred restaurant that has topped the World’s 50 Best Restaurants list five times — announced it was closing its doors in 2024 and foodies were quick to mourn the impending death of the Copenhagen dining destination.

But, British journalist Farrah Storr says good riddance. In the Times of London, she penned a hilarious, scathing review of her recent experience at the restaurant.

Storr prefaces the tirade by saying she and her husband have been wanting to try chef René Redzepi’s edible opus for the past decade, noting that it’s “impossible to get a table.” This year, they were finally able to snag a lunch reservation. With the “juice pairing,” the meal ran about $700 a person — about the cost of a “second-hand Ford Fiesta.” It was hardly worth it.

“You go with high expectations – gold-star stuff,” Storr writes. She was well acquainted with the restaurant and the sort of unorthodox foods she might be served.

“Yes, you might find ants on your plate, or ‘reindeer brain custard,’ as we did; hey, maybe even reindeer penis, which it turns out we were also served, in a cold, nutty salad (they don’t reveal exactly what’s in said salad until the very end, when they pass you the menu with a half smirk) — I’m OK with all of that,” Storr writes.

But the hospitality — or lack thereof — was not OK.

The dining experience began with a “cup of tepid tea that was proffered as though it was a bowl of Mayan gold,” Storr writes, noting that there were 15 guests ahead of her hailing from New York, Switzerland and the UK. She described the vibe and ambiance as having a “whiff of a certain Roald Dahl story about it: a mad genius revered the world over and us, the golden ticket winners, come to claim our prize.” 

The diners were then greeted by the “entire kitchen staff” grinning upon entry into the dining room. Every server seemingly looked the same, while the chefs uttered the familiar “yes” each time a dish was ready to be served.

“It was fun at first, but an hour into lunch it felt like aural torture,” Storr writes, portraying the “strange and frightening”  “slavish devotion” she referred to as Noma-core. 

“When I left some of my reindeer brain custard inside the skull in which it was served (as did the table behind us) — not because it was essentially brain juice, but because it was chalky and unpleasant — the waitress looked angry as she went to lift my plate. ‘Not comfortable with offal?’ she asked. I explained that was not the case at all, rather that the texture rendered it difficult to eat. There was no smile, no apology, only a sneer — I felt as though I had somehow failed Noma.”

Two courses later, Storr’s husband was forbidden from getting up to use the facilities. 

“Your next course is coming, you’ll have to wait,” a server said, then proffered “yet another cup of tepid tea that tasted as though someone had put their Marlboro Red out in it.”

When Storr left the tea cup half full, she was scolded at and asked: “Could you at least appreciate it?” 

The duo sat through a parade of another 15 dishes – one of which included a saffron ice cream dish that tasted “simultaneously like Play-Dough and nothing at all,” Storr writes, noting a server commented “Not a fan of saffron?” 

“’No, not a fan of ice cream that tastes like Barbie’s legs,’ I wanted to scream — Noma was beginning to feel less like a treat and more like an endurance test,” Storr continues. 

By the end of the meal, Storr questioned her own journalistic integrity, wracking her brain about why she wasn’t enjoying the meal. 

“Was the problem us?” she questioned. Then she realized other diners were rejecting their cold plates of food as well. 

What’s worse? They left hungry.

“Noma now feels more like a cult than a restaurant,” she concludes.