My relationship with Mugaritz is contradictory and somewhat masochistic. I’ve always liked and been interested in it, though I must say I’ve always preferred to space my visits more than a year apart to avoid tiring or becoming bored with it. In other words, by following it from a distance and accessing it in small doses, it has made me very happy. Despite Andoni’s personality and some bad experiences with service, like the one on this visit, I have mostly considered myself a defender of the restaurant.
The day after having lunch at Mugaritz, I tweeted, “If I write a review, it will be titled ‘Agur, Mugaritz’.” It’s curious how everyone understood it as me saying that I never wanted to return, and no one thought I was referring to the idea that we had lost Mugaritz as a restaurant, as if it had closed down or changed so much that it seemed like a different place. No one understood it as “we’ve lost it; it’s no longer what it used to be.”
This last time, I left feeling disappointed, a bit angry, and somewhat deceived, even irritated, offended, and indignant.
Some say that because we pay a premium, customers who go to these restaurants applaud and don’t want to be critical, that we turn a blind eye because we’ve spent a lot of money and don’t want to admit we’ve been fooled. That might be possible, as “eating well” means something different for everyone. But I don’t think that’s exactly the case for me.
That being said, Mugaritz is not a restaurant that leaves anyone indifferent or generates moderate opinions. Rather, it evokes extreme reactions from customers: they either passionately defend it or despise it.
Although it symbolically removed its “restaurant” sign years ago (I imagine it still holds its bar-restaurant license), perhaps a museum curator or a contemporary art director should review it. However, I will try to review it from a culinary point of view because, in the end, that’s what I went there to do — to eat at lunchtime.
THE CULINARY OFFERING
Years ago, the option of ordering à la carte disappeared, and after offering two menus, they eventually settled on providing only a tasting menu.
The 2024 season’s menu is titled “What Cannot Be Seen” and will be served from April 27th to October 27th at a price of €253, with a €115 prepayment. I see that for 2025, an advance payment of €135 will be required from the total price of €297 per guest.
They only open 6 months of the year because they say their 50 workers (40 in the kitchen and 10 in the dining room) dedicate the rest of the months to creating. They are open from Tuesday to Sunday.
Regarding the graphic support, they provide a notebook, which I mention and explain at the beginning of the meal, and a keepsake with the phrase “Izena badu, bada” on the cover, which translates to “If it has a name, it exists.” On the back cover, there is a passage from a text that talks about what is unseen: the hours behind every effort, the shape of a virus or a neuron, heartbeats, anxiety, love, stupidity, experience, knowledge, research, incompetence, etc. It says that we don’t always perceive flavors, textures, or temperatures because they are not visible, because the eyes remain silent, and sight doesn’t always grant perception.
THE MEAL
23 dishes.
Upon arrival, there was a smell of herbs and embers; it turns out they pass through with a censer just before opening.
They bring a warm, damp towel to wash your hands, which will remain throughout the meal since most dishes will be served without cutlery and are meant to be eaten with your hands.
At the same time that they bring the first dishes, they give us the notebook they’ve handed out in previous years, with a key drawn on the cover, which they say is “the key to their experience, a travel guide with various definitions created by the team and previous clients, along with some blank spaces for new words to be defined by customers so they can learn from us, though we can also take it home as a keepsake.”
They begin the meal by serving the first 4 dishes at the same time.
1. Suspension: Flower fingers.
They tell us that the first dish of the experience is a game, a small wooden plate that opens into two different parts:
- A dome with a kind of paste (a textured oil made from buckwheat) and toasted buckwheat seeds (which they purchase).
- A base shaped like a cube with buckwheat flowers (from their garden, which produces them from May to September; that’s why when they opened in April, they made this dish with apricots and apricot oil) inside.
They say it’s about catching flowers, a childhood game, where we dip our finger into the paste and pass it through the flowers so they stick to it.
The paste looked like lard, both in appearance and with its greasy texture. I enjoyed eating the buckwheat flower, a new ingredient for me.
A dish that revolves around a single ingredient, buckwheat, which is not a cereal (from the grass family) but a pseudo-cereal (from the polygonaceae family) and, therefore, gluten-free. Although it is used similarly to a cereal, botanically, it cannot be classified in the same family. A mono-ingredient dish with different parts and preparations.
Next, they tell us that we will be eating their surroundings, and that we can enjoy the next three dishes in any order we like because the only rule at Mugaritz is that there are no rules.
2. Caldo Madre.
A Bloody Mary served in a small white bowl, Mugaritz-style, made with mezcal, basil seeds, and a scoby gel (kombucha cultures) cured in sugar, along with distilled water from a garlic and pepper infusion.
The garlic flavor of the transparent broth (the distilled water) was noticeable both in the nose and mouth, and it was the taste that lingered. What I couldn’t detect was the flavor of eel or any fish from the garlic and pepper infusion. I’m unsure how exactly this water was made or if it contained any fish. Upon tasting it, the mezcal was predominant, although it seemed more like another type of alcohol, such as brandy.
Aside from the reddish color, I found it hard to see the connection to a Bloody Mary, as it was made with mezcal instead of vodka and basil seeds instead of celery. In that sense, it felt like a variation of a Bloody Mary, much like a Sherry Mary might be.
I also found it curious that it was served in a porcelain bowl and not in a transparent glass, which I associate with Japanese culture, especially as it was served at the beginning of the meal, like a “welcome cocktail” or one of the welcome drinks at Disfrutar.
I don’t recall Aduriz serving cocktails in his menus. I’m not sure if it was a novelty and why he decided to join this trend, assuming it was the first time.
As a cocktail, I loved it. I’ve been a Bloody Mary drinker for years and have tried quite a variety. I’ll remember this one from Mugaritz as vividly as I remember the delicious yellow Bloody Mary from Fera at Claridge’s Hotel when Simon Rogan was there, or the Bloody Mary served in a bread glass by Marian Beke during his time at The Gibson, both in London.
3. Blurred Nature: Fennel.
A piparra (green chili pepper) mimicked with a fennel sprout from their garden, dipped in tiger nut.
It had an aniseed flavor, like a fritter, due to the fennel. I couldn’t detect the tiger nut, or perhaps because I usually consume it as horchata, I didn’t recognize it.
In terms of texture, it had two completely opposing ones: the greasy (from the cream) and the rough and astringent (from the vegetable). I was surprised to find these two textures together. It was unique; I had never come across that combination before. I really liked the idea of encountering them together, even though it was presented using such a well-known technique as trompe-l’oeil. But Aduriz usually does this: if he serves a new ingredient, he offers it with a familiar technique; if he offers a new technique, it’s applied to a well-known ingredient; the same goes for a new concept; and so on, so that the diner always has a point of reference to hold onto.
4. Subterranean Mantle.
A kind of mosaic made with thinly sliced summer truffle, glued together with cod broth, and topped with black basil flowers.
When they say summer truffle, I assume they mean the Tuber aestivium variety; it seemed so, but who knows, they didn’t specify the origin either. As for the black basil, it was leaves, not flowers.
It smelled and tasted like mushrooms and porcini, not like truffle; in other words, it had a damp, earthy smell. They used the collagen from the cod as if it were glue, but the taste wasn’t noticeable. With how good this dish could be with a proper truffle in season, it instead resembled a mushroom carpaccio.
5. Shore: Sea rush (Juncus maritimus).
They present it as a tribute to a marine plant that has been widely used along the Galician coasts to make baskets, the sea rush (Juncus maritimus). This plant is not typically eaten because it is tough and has an unpleasant texture. They source it from Cantabria and Galicia, confit its thick rhizomes (which are very starchy) for 12 hours in a steam oven to nixtamalize them, and add a touch of fermented lemon on top.
A kind of aquatic stem, sticky with the consistency of seaweed. It had an incredibly fibrous texture! Now we understand why it’s not typically eaten—this texture is not favored. Personally, I didn’t mind it; it’s nice to chew a bit, after all, that’s why we have teeth. Besides, there’s very little solid or substantial food in the menu. It wasn’t very flavorful, with the lemon dominating. It didn’t taste like the sea either. It wasn’t particularly impressive, and I certainly don’t feel bad about not being able to buy it to eat at home. It’s more of a reflection on foods we haven’t traditionally eaten but are perfectly edible.
I found the steaming technique very appropriate to soften it while masking as little as possible, presenting this unusual product in the most natural and transparent way. In that sense, I would reduce the intensity of the citrus: either use a smaller quantity, treat it in some way so it doesn’t overpower the sea rush, or use a less intense citrus.
6. The Navel of the World.
They present it by explaining that at Mugaritz, they’ve always enjoyed serving body parts, but this year we won’t eat it; instead, we’ll lick and suck on the part through which we are first nourished when we are still inside our mother’s womb, which would be the navel. They leave the dish without explaining what the liquid is made of.
It was a whitish mass (made from milk coffee and gelatins), gummy, plasticky, and gelatinous, slightly warm, and served without any plate underneath, simply wrapped in a white napkin. From this mass, a transparent liquid emerged, which we were meant to consume. When I tasted it, I detected a flavor somewhere between dairy and nuts. There was only a small drop, and it was not very flavorful. Once we had consumed it, they told us it was kefir serum with toasted walnut oil.
In this dish, I don’t think the main point is finding the flavor of the food, as it’s excessively small, just a drop.
The dish had a slightly disturbing appearance, a reflection that I find interesting to consider, and while it was well-executed, it could have been more aesthetically delicate and poetic.
They changed our napkin afterward.
The next two dishes were served together.
7. Bread, ham, and tomato.
They explain that they are “revisiting a dish as Spanish as a ham sandwich,” in this case, in the form of a nigiri.
I’ll refrain from sharing my thoughts on whether a bread, tomato, and ham sandwich is a Spanish dish to avoid going on too long, and for the same reason, I won’t make any reference to the term they used, “Spanish dish.”
The base of this fake nigiri, which would traditionally be rice grains, was a mass made with bread and Iberian ham, inoculated with Penicillium candidum (also known as Penicillium camemberti), the fungus used to make soft, white-rind cheeses like Camembert or Brie. On top, there was a “petal” of tomato (which I assume was a thin, skinless slice of tomato).
In this dish, “What Cannot Be Seen” was the filling of the white part of the base. Inside, there was a ground-up mixture similar to what you’d use to stuff a sausage, with some chunks of ham that turned out to be quite chewy. It tasted like tender fuet and was like eating that fuet with its typical white rind but much thicker, like the rind of Brie. I liked the taste; it was intense. However, at no point did it remind me of a ham and tomato sandwich.
For years now, they’ve always included some kind of nigiri on the menu, and fermentations are also a recurring element, one of their fascinations.
That said, organoleptically, I much preferred the aged cow nigiri from 2021, which was inoculated with Roquefort whey (and therefore Penicillium roqueforti), with a slice of aged cow on top.
They served the bottle of wine we had ordered while we were eating this dish, which particularly bothers me, as I believe it should never be done. It’s better to wait between courses. After all, for just one bite, they could have easily waited until we finished it peacefully. But who knows, maybe doing something unpleasant is part of the restaurant’s game and reflection. Oh, no, wait—it’s not a restaurant, they took down the sign. Let’s call it a “space for reflection.”
8. Pasta, cheese, and walnuts.
An Italian dish, pasta with Roquefort and walnuts.
On one side, a blue pasta, meaning dough made with flour, Penicillium roqueforti, and Roquefort cheese. On top, there were little dots of sauce made from sage cream (the white ones) and a toasted walnut praline (the greenish-brown ones).
I’m not sure why they called it a praline when it was a creamy sauce, just a bit denser than the sage one.
It tasted of walnuts and had two textures: soft, like a tender walnut, and the drying astringency of walnuts. Overall, it was gummy, with an uncomfortable, artificial texture. I felt like I was eating something inedible, like plastic. The taste was rough and slightly unpleasant. That said, it was, of course, uncommon.
For the third time, they served two dishes at the same time.
They explained that Mugaritz is surrounded by many cider houses where a lot of meat is served, especially txuletas. And since they wouldn’t know how to prepare them as well, they buy whole cows and experiment with different, less commonly used parts (I assume by “experiment,” they mean “serve”).
9. Body: Everything but the steak.
A small piece of cow cheek, slow-cooked in a wood-fired oven (when I asked, they said it was a Josper) for 7 or 8 hours. On top, there was a terrine of tendons and a “very interesting and succulent” sauce made with cod broth, meat broth, and roasted pepper nectar. They finished it with a bit of chives and truffle.
Very well cooked, without any grilled flavor. The cheek seemed to have been pre-cooked at a low temperature to soften it, as it was very tender and soft.
As for the chives, they were still visually noticeable, but I didn’t see the truffle at all. The nasturtium flower on top was larger, and they didn’t even mention it.
It was a bland dish, served in a bite-sized format in a rather absurd way. Besides, beef cheek doesn’t seem like a part that would typically be discarded.
10. Tenderness: A Comforting Bite.
A small piece, about the size of a nigiri, of braised beef shank, topped with a tartare of picanha (rump cap) and a brunoise of cooked cow’s foot. They finished it off with a meat powder made from the parts that are discarded for being too fibrous.
They didn’t specify whether the shank came from the front legs or the hind legs, but given how gelatinous and juicy this part usually is, I don’t understand how it ended up so fibrous and dry. If this is the comforting bite, it’s a bit of a stretch. I didn’t like it. The picanha on top was better.
Between the explanations and the fact that we had to finish the previous dish first, the meat got cold. The service was rushed and showed no respect for either the product or the diner.
A sequence of meat dishes—it’s surprising that they serve meat so early in the menu. As always, they include traditional and conventional touches, with this being one of the few “pleasant” and “friendly” dishes on the menu.
For the fourth time, two dishes were served at the same time, now presented as the fish sequence.
It’s curious to serve fish after meat. In the context of Mugaritz, I don’t think there’s any logic other than to provoke reflection on the order of the courses, but in terms of taste, I don’t think it did any favors to the sole we ate next.
11. Game of Skins.
A small piece of sole that they undress to dress again. First, they remove the skin, toast it, and blend it with a hand mixer to make a praline. At the base, there’s another praline made with the juices of the sole. The sole itself (without the skin) is cooked at a low temperature.
*Although they referred to them as pralines (as in dish number 8, “Pasta, cheese, and walnuts”), they were actually sauces or emulsions.
I’m not sure why they say “skins” in plural when they only ruin (or as they would say, “denature”) the skin of the sole. The white sauce was a kind of dense and creamy emulsion from the sole’s pil-pil.
The sole fillet came without its natural skin, replaced by a “skin” they recreated using hard, unchewable pieces that felt like the sharp bones of a turbot or the hulls of popcorn—something you’d practically want to spit out.
It was a bland dish in terms of flavor and unpleasant in terms of texture.
12. Summer Disguise.
A slice of tomato (without skin) with an anchovy praline that received the same treatment as the sole skin, meaning it was toasted and blended in a food processor.
Served cold to room temperature.
The dark green part was grainy and gritty, unpleasant. I didn’t notice any anchovy flavor. The light green part was more oily, resembling a glaze—it was very good, flavorful, and smooth. However, it tasted like olives, not anchovies.
They recommended mixing both dishes together. When eaten together, it tasted like tomato but had an unpleasant texture due to the hardness and graininess.
If they want us to combine them, why not serve them on the same plate?
Out of both dishes, only the tomato, as a product, was worth it.
In the end, under the excuse of reflection, anything goes at Mugaritz—it doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. There are no rules, as they say.
13. Tender Almonds Resting in a Poultry Broth.
They presented it as their version of chicken with almonds.
On one side, there was a reduced, gelatinous chicken consommé (they mentioned it was thickened with some seeds but couldn’t recall the name, and eventually said they used agar-agar, which is seaweed). On the other side, there were 5 fresh almonds (which I assume were raw but not tender), halved. On top, there was almond oil.
The gelatin was cold and had a familiar taste (more like beef broth than poultry), but it was quite flavorful.
Conceptually familiar, a kind of deconstruction from the 2000s.
At this point, they gave us two glasses per person for the pairing with the next dish.
They told us we would take “a small gastronomic journey to Japan, a sensory journey,” and for the liquid pairing, what better than a small tasting of sakes, both from Miyagi on Japan’s east coast.
On one side, a Junmai Daiginjo from the Urakasumi brewery (around €70), made with Manamusume rice, polished to 45%, and containing 16% alcohol.
A sake with a floral profile, delicate and soft in intensity.
On the other hand, there was a Yamadanishiki Junmai-Shu from the same Urakasumi brewery (around €40), made with Yamada Nishiki rice (generally more highly regarded), polished to 65%, with 15% alcohol.
It had medium aromatic intensity (with banana as the predominant note), a medium body, and a sweet, indulgent character.
This sake had a more umami profile, where the rice was more noticeable—rustic and deeper.
On the palate, between the sweetness and flavor profile, they both felt more like sweetened energy drinks.
I’m not a big fan of sake, and therefore, I’m not a regular consumer, which means I don’t know much about this world that I’ve never really gotten into. However, it’s worth noting that the waiter who served us also seemed unfamiliar with it, confusing the name of the prefecture, the producer, and the rice variety, and getting quite mixed up with the rice polishing percentages for each sake. Additionally, both were served cold, while I feel the Junmai Shu could have been served warmer.
14. Hanami.
They explained that with this dish, they wanted to make a nod to Japanese culture and asked if we knew what Hanami is—the traditional Japanese custom of admiring and enjoying the beauty of flowers, especially cherry blossoms (sakura), when they bloom in the spring.
Their intention was to represent Hanami in this dish, which consists of a glutinous rice dough baked in the oven for 8 minutes and filled with dahlias. At the base, there was a buckwheat praline. On top, dahlia petals.
Meant to be eaten with your hands.
It was served extremely hot, hotter than anything usually served in restaurants—you couldn’t even hold it with your hands. That was surprising, I must admit!
It was tasteless, heavy, coarse, and monotonous; it was hard to even finish. What was meant to resemble a mochi felt more like a churro, or rather, a fritter, both literally (the fried dough) and figuratively (a flop). The worst mochi I’ve ever had.
A terrible tribute to a moment as poetic as hanami can be.
15. Bonito Wrapped with Lilies.
They explained that after going to Japan, we were returning to the Basque Country to eat a cube of bonito, which they cure in a mixture of honey and garum. On top, there was a petal from a lily they grow in their garden, which seems to bloom for only one day, and to preserve and make use of it, they store it in vinegar and pollen. On top, they added a bit of pollen powder.
Served cold.
The lily tasted of vinegar, pollen, and honey. I find honey to be very typical of Mugaritz—it always appears at some point in the menu.
The bonito was soft and had little fish flavor.
In terms of ingredient families, the combination reminded me of the dish “Oxymoron,” that wonderful honeycomb over the oyster I had in 2021, but I didn’t like this combination.
Can we no longer expect good cooking from Mugaritz? I understand there’s a part of pure entertainment, but has everything been reduced to experimentation and reflection?
For the fifth time, two dishes were served at the same time.
They explained that we would now continue with the Christmas dinner sequence, as what we had in front of us was a version of duck in orange, playing with the contrast between sweet and savory.
16. Pine Nut Nougat.
A nougat made with fermented and blackened pine nuts and orange. At the base, there was a duck sauce.
The sauce seemed more like a classic beef reduction than duck, almost like a soft caramel. The nougat had two layers of wafer, and inside, there were pieces of orange. When mixed (nougat and sauce), the orange flavor dominated more than the duck or pine nuts.
It felt like the first dessert of the menu, a bridging dish to connect the savory part with the sweet part. Very classic.
17. Textures of Childhood.
Another tribute (yet again), this time to the gummy candy known as marshmallow, based on a fake marshmallow made of bread gelatin with a surprise filling of chili miso and black garlic.
A marshmallow, though they didn’t tell us what it was made of, only that it was unusual, floating in a broth of toasted bread crumbs (chilled from the fridge) inside the fishbowl they had placed in front of us. They topped it with garlic oil.
This was the first course served directly in front of the diner.
It was very good, the best bite of the menu, along with the mezcal and scoby Bloody Mary.
A marshmallow made with syrup, egg albumin, and bread crumb powder to give it texture, molded into shape. It had a slight flavor of fermented black garlic. When cutting it in half and confirming with them, it turned out that, indeed, there was a drop of spicy miso with black garlic paste inside.
I hadn’t even finished the marshmallow when they served the next two dishes. It was the dish we were meant to eat together with the entire dining room, a tactic they’ve used in recent years—eating a dish in unison that generates sound, like the mortar dish where we had to crush seeds with a pestle.
For the sixth time, two dishes were served together. Now, the lamb sequence.
They gave us a keepsake and welcomed us to “The Mugaritz Flock.”
18. Yubas of Sheep.
A trompe-l’oeil, a fake slice of cheese resembling Camembert or Brie, where the rind was made from a concentrated, almost fermented lamb broth with Penicillium candidum. The filling, though they didn’t say what it was, tasted like foie gras. At the tip, there was a dark sauce made from onion molasses (which I assume means extremely caramelized onions).
The rind was the same idea as in dish number 7, the nigiri “Bread, ham, and tomato.” We haven’t even reached dish number 20, and they’re already repeating techniques and preparations.
It reminded me of the fake cheese at D’O by Davide Oldani.
19. Lamb Skin.
Presented as a carpaccio of aged sheep, it was just a single slice of lamb with a milk film (yuba) attached to the meat.
It smelled of lamb but had little flavor.
It was very tender, though, with a very pleasant texture.
I also didn’t notice any lactic flavor or the wonderful silkiness of the yuba.
It was chewy, but I couldn’t leave it on the plate because they had already taken it away while I was still chewing. They seemed to be in a hurry for us to leave and to finish the service.
At this moment, they had us scan a QR code found next to the “flock” definition in the notebook, which linked to a website with four onomatopoeic sounds of a flock of sheep, like the clanging of bells and the bleating of different sheep, which played throughout the dining room, sounding at the various tables at the same time. This made the diners laugh, like a class of overly excited students. I had the sense that I was the only one who interpreted it differently. So, smiling and downplaying it (at least outwardly), I asked the waiter if we, the customers, were the flock of sheep. And he, very skillfully, responded that perhaps they were too. It seems that we all, in one way or another, are part of this slightly degrading and almost pathetic spectacle. I understand that the critique Aduriz wanted to make is that no matter how much we try to escape it, we all become part of the circus that both gastronomy and society have turned into.
On the other hand, dishes with sound or background music have been done before. In 2007, Heston Blumenthal already offered those oysters that were eaten while listening to the sound of the sea through headphones, with the intention of intensifying the diner’s perception of the salty taste thanks to the audio. Or, to give another example, the Roca brothers from El Celler de Can Roca also served “Messi’s Goal,” a dish served with the live commentary of Joaquim Maria Puyal.
For the seventh time, they served different dishes together—this time, three canapés at once.
They introduced them as three Basque dishes because we had three pintxos, dishes that are closely tied to them and their creative process, as they bring together the Basque Country with other cultures.
20. Meeting of Cultures.
The first of the three pintxos. Made thanks to a young man in the kitchen this year who is from Portugal. So, we have a cod omelet pintxo, although they say the idea and concept were based on Bacalhau à Brás.
It’s incredible how complicated they make it to explain a simple piece of omelet, or an omelet emulsion, or a soft omelet.
On top, there was a burnt onion pil-pil and parsley powder. And a garlic flower, though they didn’t mention it.
Served cold and, like many other dishes, without cutlery, even though it was too soft to be picked up with your fingers. Maybe we were supposed to lick or slurp it like a flan? Despite all their talking, no one told us. This made it difficult to enjoy a dish that seemed like it could have been good. I would have served it hot and with cutlery.
21. Flysch: Fermented Horizons.
An almond tempeh with prawns.
The second of the three pintxos. Inspired by a landscape, specifically the Flysch of Zumaia, the famous rock formation, recreated with almonds bound together with tempeh (which they told us was a fungus—good thing we already know what tempeh is). I assume they ferment the almonds with the fungus Rhizopus oligosporus, though who knows if they use soy or not. On top, there were two prawns.
It smelled of prawn. But they took so long to serve it that the prawn lost the delicious mucous or sweat it has when served raw.
I didn’t find the tempeh good as tempeh, but the preparation (which I would have titled differently) was enjoyable and paired very well with the crustacean. As tempeh, it was quite mild.
23. Fenugreek: Bitter Chords.
The third of the three pintxos.
A cracker (though I’d rather call it a slice of bread) made from fenugreek, a rather bitter seed used in curries, which they pass through five syrup baths to remove its characteristic bitterness. Then, they make it into a tempeh. On top, a bit of hollandaise sauce (made by infusing butter with fenugreek), mixed with pieces of green chickpeas (since they were in season). On top of it all, a bit of ossetra caviar from Tibet.
I’m surprised they didn’t dare serve the fenugreek as it is and felt the need to sweeten and soften it. After so much reflection and altering excellent products to make them unpleasant in order to provoke thought, now that they have a product that falls a bit outside the established taste parameters, they alter it to soften and make it more palatable? How ironic. Is he now trying to appeal to the masses?
So, a second tempeh, this time made of fenugreek, with hollandaise sauce, green chickpea, and caviar.
It smelled of fenugreek.
It didn’t taste like hollandaise sauce and seemed more like a thick mayonnaise.
The fenugreek tempeh looked like a slice of dense German black bread or one of those honeyed, heavy breads. It wasn’t as well-made as the good tempehs prepared by Jordi Coromina at L’Horta de Tavertet, served warm, just to give an example.
The caviar—it had to be included in the menu somehow, even if forced. I suppose it was indispensable and “acted as the salt.”
24. Sweet Churro.
The exhausting empty narrative: the waiter approaches us asking, “Do you like churros?” But of course, since we’re at Mugaritz, they tell us that they make them completely different here and that these churros are not churros.
A “churro” made from fried plantain, accompanied by a sauce that was a kind of dulce de leche flavored with soy (and fermented with koji). On top, they sprinkled a bit of powder to give it more texture.
It smelled and tasted like corn. In the mouth, it was quite dense and compact, like a heavy lump. If I remember correctly, it was the only fruit offered on the menu. One final flop to end the meal.
They told us that with this dessert, they were ending the sequence of dishes and hoped we had enjoyed it. Quite contradictory to what they had said at the beginning of the meal—that they don’t serve desserts—and also contradictory to Andoni’s message that he hasn’t served desserts for years and isn’t trying to please or entertain the diner.
COFFEE AND INFUSION
Very good infusion service, just like at Bardal (where it was exceptionally good), with fresh lemon verbena.
The coffee had more spoons than any dish.
THE LIQUID OFFERING
If I’m not mistaken, they still offer three wine lists, plus the Vis à Vis pairing, which is a selection of wines labeled for Mugaritz and also includes sakes, ciders, and kombuchas.
They also continue to offer the most ridiculous wine list I’ve ever seen, which I already mentioned three years ago in this review. Now, on top of that, you also have to say three words in addition to choosing the image you like most for them to “interpret” the wine you want. It seems they have a predetermined set of wines and, no matter what you say, they’ll serve you those.
As for the more traditional wine list, it was accessed via QR code, which didn’t work well, adding even more difficulty to choosing a wine quickly.
WHAT WE DRANK
A glass of Ribolla 2015 from Gravner (IGT Venezia Giulia) in magnum format, served as a courtesy while waiting for the ordered bottle. The bottle had been open for two days, which made the wine very open, with a well-presented aromatic profile of stewed fruit. A magnificent mature counterpoint to the wine we ended up drinking.
A bottle of Ribolla 2011 from Gravner (IGT Venezia Giulia, 14.5% vol.) (€150). As always, with an intense and bright color. This 2011 showed a profile leaning more toward waxes and sultanas, which made me think of a bit of botrytis. Mature, with considerable intensity, vinous, and mouthwatering. A wine and a vintage I’ve followed for years, and lately, I find it stable, neither evolving nor declining. Fantastic—I always enjoy it.
CONCLUSIONS
THE DISCOURSE VS. THE FOOD
I often say of many chefs that I would rather attend one of their talks than dine at their restaurant. In other words, I am interested in their research and what they have to say (the discourse and content), but I find they don’t manage to translate that into something satisfying in their restaurant (the food and presentation), whether it’s because of a menu format with portions that are too small, techniques applied without a hedonistic approach to taste, or because it’s communicated through a narrative delivered by waiters disconnected from the discourse, using a tone, style, and vocabulary that generate repulsion and boredom, or for many other reasons. This visit to Mugaritz felt like that, or even worse, because I didn’t find any intellectual content either. I find the reflections on cuisine from others, like Baronetto of Del Cambio or Niko Romito of Reale, much more interesting.
In this visit to Mugaritz (where at various points in the menu they question why there are edible foods we don’t eat or what tastes and textures we consider good and bad), while I find these topics very interesting, after eating the menu and seeing the results applied in the dishes, I concluded the same: I’d rather read something like The Omnivore’s Dilemma (2006) by Michael Pollan than pay €253 for a meal of fibrous, plastic-like, and rubbery dishes. I can reflect from home by reading a book—I don’t need to drink a boiling broth and burn my tongue to confirm that if I drink something too hot, I’ll burn myself, and that it’s a temperature academically considered incorrect. Besides, who hasn’t, as a child, chewed or licked a pen or pencil cap and knows what that woody taste is like? Or had to lick a stamp? Or accidentally eaten a bit of plastic or paper that was wrapping a sandwich or some food? It makes no sense for a restaurant to offer these ingredients just to confirm that there’s an established code of socially accepted tastes and textures. We know that taste is acquired and that much of our opinion is shaped by trends that have evolved over centuries. Often, it’s simply a survival instinct to warn us about spoiled foods that could intoxicate or even kill us.
I had the feeling that the narrative was merely a distraction to draw the diner’s attention away from the culinary shortcomings.
THE CREATIVE PROCESS
As for the starting point, the inspiration behind the menu is “what cannot be seen.” You could say that, like every year, it’s a thematic menu, though I’m not sure why no one seems to see it that way or, at least, I’ve never read anyone describing Mugaritz’s menus as thematic, despite this criticism being leveled at other chefs.
On the other hand, THE THEME is nothing new. Many chefs have talked about it, and many have created dishes and menus around the same idea. Not long ago, Dani García was offering the menu “The essential is invisible to the eyes” at his BiBo restaurant in Hotel Puente Romano in Marbella, and Niko Romito always says, “The essential is invisible to the eyes.” If you’re interested in this subject, I wrote an article titled La Inspiración where I explored the history of cuisine with many examples and practically created an essay on inspiration as a method of creation.
THE TEAM’S ABSENCE (or, if you prefer, the delegation of responsibilities to the team)
Andoni titles his menu Lo que no se ve (“What Cannot Be Seen”). Well, I’d say, “the one who cannot be seen is him,” and I’d add, “and his team.”
Out of curiosity, I asked the waiters how often Andoni comes to the restaurant, and they told me he only visits “once every 15 days,” and when he does, he’s in the offices, so even the team might not see him.
At least from the customer’s perspective, his team defends and justifies him very elegantly. In the end, Andoni has many projects going on, many new external ventures, travels (he had just returned from Greece and Mexico), etc. Since the system is already established, everyone knows how everything works, and they don’t require him. As he delegates a lot, he sees that everything is running smoothly and flows, so he focuses on other things.
In short, that day, neither Andoni was there (which has always been the case—of all the times I’ve been to Mugaritz, I think I’ve only seen him twice, and given his personality, maybe it’s better that he wasn’t there), nor was Joserra, nor Kristell Monot, nor Julián Otero. That is to say, neither the chef and owner, the maître, the head sommelier, nor the head of the kitchen or R&D chef were present. In plain terms, that’s what people call “a house without a master” or a place that’s “set up and left to run on its own.”
THE DINING ROOM
A very young team (all around 20 to 25 years old), disciplined, and trying to train themselves in dining service, wine, cooking, and even pastry. These are young people who believe in Andoni and Mugaritz and give their all to defend his project.
We were attended to very well by Miguel Martínez (born in 2002) from Zarzalejos (Madrid), a cook who spent the entire season working as a waiter during the midday service and as a cook at night. It was a combination I had never seen before and found very interesting. As a diner, I always miss having waiters with more knowledge of what’s happening in the kitchen. After all, they need to communicate what they’re serving, and to do so clearly, they must understand the dishes in depth. So, I find it very logical that the person attending to us in the dining room is someone with culinary training or directly a cook from the team.
We were also attended to by Danniela Juárez, the Mexican sommelier from Mexico City; Brandon Jordan Belmonte from Bolivia, though he had lived in Jumilla (Murcia); a young woman from Huelva; and Blanca Garrido from Murcia, who had been working at Mugaritz for 4 years and was the most experienced, at least in the dining room.
THE SERVICE
The fact that they served the dishes 2 by 2 (or 3 by 3) seemed more about reducing time and costs than about having any logical sense in terms of taste or benefiting the diner in any way.
EATING WITH YOUR HANDS
Most of the dishes are eaten with your hands, supposedly to encourage diners to have a multi-sensory relationship with the food.
Until a few years ago, cutlery signified a restaurant’s status. Now, cutlery appears only when absolutely necessary, returning to its original function as a tool or utensil and no longer being considered “jewelry” or a display of luxury. I’m the first to find it terrible to eat, for example, a prawn with a fork and knife, but many dishes cannot be comfortably or fully enjoyed without cutlery. If they want us to eat with our hands to return to our origins, then they should strip the table entirely, removing the tablecloths too (which, seen this way, are also superfluous and unnecessary), or we should eat in a tent in the garden, outdoors, which would be even more primal and connect us more with nature and their naturalist narrative.
Goodbye, Mugaritz. Farewell for the following reasons.
ORGANOLÉPTICALLY, the menu didn’t offer pleasurable dishes, neither in terms of taste nor texture, and in the case of the mochi, not even in temperature. Additionally, there were no bold, daring flavors or anything truly extreme. In fact, when there was the chance to present a more bitter profile than usual with the fenugreek, they sweetened it with syrup and softened the excessive bitterness. Is it a lack of daring, or has Mugaritz finally become constrained by the academicism they always claimed to escape and discard?
There was no QUALITY PRODUCT to speak of. A fibrous, inedible vegetable? A drop of kefir serum? A scrap of tomato? A small, flavorless piece of sole? A bland cube of bonito, despite being in peak season? Doughy, undercooked, gummy, and rubbery masses?
There was even very little cod gelatin (in the few dishes where it was used, like the truffle mosaic or the beef cheek), which was so characteristic of Mugaritz. Back in 1999, Andoni already used it to provide natural gelatin, as for him, it was the best part of this fish. Cod broth used to be one of the base stocks at Mugaritz: it added shine and texture and allowed them to emulsify using a fish protein that acted like fat. For them, stocks and broths were so important that they had a section in the kitchen dedicated exclusively to them. Who knows if it’s still there.
There were no rare or unusual ingredients either, except for the buckwheat flowers, sea rush, and dahlia. And, of course, they couldn’t resist serving caviar, even if it felt forced.
There was no product, and when there could have been, such as in the case of the sole, bonito, truffle, or beef, the quality of the product didn’t seem to matter. And if there is neither good product nor good cooking, the menu becomes indefensible, lacking a solid foundation. Without quality ingredients, the menu turns flat, poor, and lacking nuance, yet they pass it off as a high-end dining experience. It’s like those short-sleeved Moschino T-shirts costing over €600 with “DHL” written on them, or the tote bag copying the Ikea bag that Balenciaga sold for €1,700. Even if the idea was to criticize compulsive buyers, they end up selling clothing made without good materials, tailoring, or elegance—vulgar products sold at exorbitant prices as if they were luxury or cult items.
There was no good COOKING either. After so many years of not cooking, maybe he’s forgotten how. There were no good nigiris, no good meat, no good fish, no good ham, and no good mochis. The entire menu consisted of bite-sized dishes, about 3-5 cm, canapés, as if we were at a standing event—completely inappropriate for a restaurant dining room.
How is it possible that the best dishes on the menu were a Bloody Mary with mezcal and scoby and a marshmallow? Mugaritz has entered a realm where, in the name of communicating a pseudo-intellectual discourse, anything goes on the plate. And I think they should never have crossed that line. Neither that one, nor the one regarding the respect that seems to have been lost—for the product, for the cooking, and for the customers.
In these initial aspects, the menu was on par with the one at Coda or Miramar in 2016.
And, oh, surprise, he wasn’t at the restaurant. It’s becoming curious that chefs who offer smoke and poor cuisine aren’t present at their workplace, wandering off who knows where. In this sense, Andoni is not a good HOST. He doesn’t welcome the people who come to dine at his house, many of whom also come to meet him, people who dedicate their vacations, time, and money, traveling many miles. Since he mirrors himself so much on El Bulli, I think he could start valuing one rule that Ferran Adrià never failed at: both he and Juli, Oriol, Eduard, Mateu, Garcia, Xus, Biosca, the sommeliers, and the entire team were always there to welcome us (and to see us off!!!—a gesture that is even more endangered) like at the great houses—like El Celler de Can Roca, Disfrutar, Ca l’Enric, Motel, Sant Pau, Can Fabes, Zuberoa, and so many other dining establishments. Even many simpler and more popular bars and restaurants, where people who love the hospitality profession and the art of restoration greet and serve their clients from the moment they enter until they leave. I’m talking about the main house, not Muka or any other place he advises.
There was no TECHNIQUE. I don’t know if they’ve made progress in terms of fermentations (they didn’t explain it during the meal either), and I don’t know the effects of fermenting with one fungus or another. I don’t have the chemical or culinary background to confirm anything just by eating the dishes, and I don’t know the multitude of preparations they likely do for the menu. But I can say that the result—the dishes they served—didn’t seem to be made with any new technique or executed well, when years ago, he was so precise, perfectionist, and stood out, precisely on a technical level.
There were no new CONCEPTS or REFLECTIONS that he hasn’t already done. I saw a lot of “leftover” cuisine. Is he copying himself? Is self-copying a euphemism for living off past glories? Even within the same menu, there was a repetition of techniques, ideas, and reflections.
There was no quality in the IDEAS. A Bloody Mary with mezcal instead of gin, versions of nigiris and mochis, versions of duck à l’orange or chicken with almonds made with agar-agar gelatins, deconstructions, trompe-l’oeil dishes, a braised beef cheek like at so many other restaurants that braise meat, a marshmallow… Are we in 2024 or the 1990s-2000s? I came to one of the leading edges of global culinary innovation, not to a restaurant that is trailing behind, of which there are many.
In this regard, this visit felt like dining at a chain or group restaurant, like the high-end offering from Grupo Ixo.
Also, as disruptive as he tries to be (he calls it “rupturist”), in the end, he does the same thing as countless other restaurants, many of them far less significant:
- He makes nods to Japanese cuisine (as if it’s the only cuisine in the world we must always gravitate toward) in a simplistic way, with only a superficial reading of the country’s cuisine, offering yet another version of nigiris and mochis.
- He offers tributes and journeys.
- He presents the menu with the same narrative.
- He communicates with the same empty, poor, and repetitive lexical terminology that’s abundant in most Michelin-starred restaurants that don’t know what they’re doing, acting out of inertia and mimicry, without thought or a clear culinary concept.
- He offers desserts and ends with something sweet, even though he’s been saying for years that he doesn’t offer desserts.
Has Andoni Luis Aduriz not done his homework this year, and does he have nothing good, interesting, intellectually stimulating, new, or surprising to offer? Has his proposal turned into a caricature, and if he continues down this path, will he end up as a minor prophet (internally, of course; in the media, it’s always a different story)? Have Andoni and his cuisine become predictable and boring? There wasn’t even a familiar team—no staff (at least in the dining room) who had been there for more than 3 or 4 years. And, sadly, because seeing an empty dining room is also depressing for the diners (and for me, at least, it hurts), there weren’t even clients, with the dining room almost empty.
THE FINAL CONCLUSION
Andoni asks many questions. In the end, I only have one: What has become of the Andoni and the Mugaritz that once drew me in so much?
To quickly go back to his roots and remember his culinary foundations, I would place Andoni Luis Aduriz (born in 1971) within the third generation of the original 14 members of the Nueva Cocina Vasca, alongside Eva Arguiñano (1960), José Mari Arbelaitz (1961, Hilario’s brother), Elena Arzak (1969), Diego Guerrero (1975), Eneko Atxa (1977), and the youngest of them, Josean Alija (1978)—part of the new Nueva Cocina Vasca.
But what has become of that original Mugaritz from the Grupo Martín Berasategui, opened as the personal project of two young and naive chefs like Aduriz and David de Jorge, under the mentorship of Berasategui and Bixente Arrieta?
What happened to that Mugaritz where the food was so good, offering a Bulli-inspired Basque cuisine done right? He was a chef who started by fusing traditional Basque cooking with the philosophy and cuisine of Ferran Adrià, rather than following the path of Nueva Cocina Vasca, which combined the traditional cuisine of Euskal Herria with French cuisine. From the beginning, I remember that he didn’t enjoy coming out to talk with the diners and that he understood cooking as a natural science (highlighting his passion for botany, incorporating flowers and wild plants), interpreting the Basque Country and developing a distinctive cuisine that also incorporated his interests in literature and the visual arts. There was a strong connection between the cultural moment in the Basque Country that emerged with the creation of the Guggenheim and the revitalization of Bilbao, and the proposals from Mugaritz and other restaurants that followed, like Nerua.
I still remember that grilled foie gras with bomba rice broth and sea lettuce that was served under a bell jar.
What has become of that second stage of Mugaritz—much more evolutionary, progressive, mature, personal, singular, bold but thoughtful and enjoyable? Even when he started doing more theory than cooking, there were still moments of brilliance, with culinary constructions that combined imagination and perfection.
That expressive minimalism that I’ve always loved is still there. But where has all that naturalist cuisine gone, the one that sought to maintain a connection with nature through respect for the ingredients? Where has the Basque Country gone?
From that era, I also loved the element of culinary abstraction and the philosophy of learning from mistakes and failures, using them, along with intuition and chance, as part of the creative process and as creative tools. I enjoyed the results he achieved and the dishes he created after learning, for example, that submerging vegetables in a quicklime bath converted pectins into calcium pectates (2004), or when he discovered that the enzyme pectinase disintegrated those pectins, turning them into almost a puree (2016).
I even still understood and liked his desire to provoke and gain media attention with the recent controversies surrounding his famous taboo dishes, like the dish simulating a fetus in amniotic fluid, the gel condom filled with a fermented viili dairy, the “original consommé” with live eels entering our mouths, the moldy bread, etc., even though some of these dishes were never actually served in Mugaritz’s dining room.
But I get the sense that he grew tired of cooking, as has happened to so many other chefs.
In recent years, not only Mugaritz and Andoni, but many chefs and restaurants stopped wanting to be the best craftsmen and instead became communicators. Communicators of a message, a philosophy, a concept… And we, the clients, became consumers of their kitchens and their stories, not just during the menu (where we stopped experiencing excellence) while at the restaurant, but also before and after our visit. Therefore, I find it incredibly important—the tone, the style, the vocabulary, the image, and the content of the message they are constantly sending out from the restaurant and other media. The DAMNED COMMUNICATION that bombards us.
In his case, I would say he wants to project the image of a wise man, a creative, an intellectual, a multidisciplinary person, a philosopher, a poet, someone who questions everything. But often with an arrogant and pretentious tone, artificial, forced, and imposed—a tone that’s a bit vain, unnatural, and not relaxed, and, above all, empty, without depth or a solid foundation to his discourse. But of course, Andoni and Mugaritz have made a name for themselves, and they play to that advantage. Criticizing what he does or offering constructive criticism is difficult: it requires knowledge, experience, and the ability to construct the critique well.
For years, Mugaritz had become a restaurant with a rebellious, insurgent ideology, a clear vocation for defiance, rising against authority and the established. A rebellion that, for his mentor Ferran Adrià and his El Bulli—whom Andoni always seems to look to for inspiration—was not necessary; it came naturally. I like the idea of wanting to change the status quo, but not as the sole objective, but rather as the result of something. In this way, I don’t like the forced rebellion for rebellion’s sake that he currently offers. Quo vadis, Mugaritz? So many questions and reflections, but are they leading anywhere?
I agree that pleasure isn’t only found in the mouth and that it’s not necessary for a dish to please you (organoleptically) in order for you to like it (conceptually). But I preferred the discretion and elegance that could be felt in Mugaritz’s cuisine a few years ago. But of course, Andoni was contemplating leaps into the unknown, and not everyone dares to do that. Seeing that this leap leads nowhere saddens me.
I agree with Aduriz when he says that sometimes trying to please is a mistake. But once again, it’s inconsistent. He says he wants to be groundbreaking and disruptive, says he’s not trying to please, and that trying to please can sometimes be a mistake. Yet, at the end of each of the 23 dishes, the waiters told us, “Enjoy,” “I hope you enjoy it.”
I’m not saying I’ll never return to Mugaritz. Who knows if he’ll change the direction of the cuisine again, if I’ll forget this meal, or if I’ll trust him again in a few years. But I will likely space out my possible next visit even more. And in the end, as I say at the beginning of the text, “my relationship with Mugaritz is contradictory and a bit masochistic.”
Now, for real: Agur, Andoni.
