INTRODUCTION
Last February, I visited Patrizia, run by Tommaso Zoboli, who offers thematic menus at his restaurant in Modena. The fairy tale menu I experienced there is clearly rooted in inspiration. Therefore, assessing and describing Tommaso’s cuisine, in my view, first requires forming an opinion about this approach. As noted in Tast a Tast, I have often leaned toward being a critic of such menus. However, realizing that I could not clearly articulate the reasons behind my rejection of this approach, noticing that this opinion lacked solid grounding and wavered somewhat, and considering that creativity is a ubiquitous theme in gastronomy, I decided to delve deeper into the matter.
DEFINITION
At first, I understood inspiration as the following: any non-culinary element (visual art, films, operas, singers, nature, emotions, etc.) that generates an intellectual stimulus for the chef to create a dish that suggests and hints at something for the diner to interpret, with varying degrees of accuracy. I did not include adaptations (and consequently deconstructions), which I associated more with the creative process based on existing preparations and dishes, whether from traditional or modern recipe collections. Nor did I include associations, which for me were a series of concepts (ingredients, cooking techniques, preparations, garnishes, etc.) grouped into lists and combination tables—a sort of game or systematized process often used precisely in the absence of inspiration.
However, I now understand that inspiration, adaptation, and association are all creative methods and procedures—tools and resources that are often combined to refine and perfect the final dish. Therefore, although I will focus on inspiration from non-culinary elements as a starting point for the creative process, when I speak of inspiration, I will also refer to and include adaptations, tributes, deconstructions, trompe-l’oeils, variations, and associations created from combination tables.
I also consider inspiration a method of creation and believe it is part of a chef’s style, defining their unique character, personal taste, way of thinking, organizing, conceiving new dishes, originality, presentation style, means of self-expression, communication of their ideas, and, ultimately, their culinary language.
I find that inspiration from a non-culinary element must be the most challenging way to approach a new dish because it essentially starts from nothing, with no points of reference. It is a leap into the void born of euphoria—a daring attempt to create something without knowing the consequences, materialized through the chef’s intuition, analysis of details, and persistence until the desired result is achieved, if such a result exists at all. Sometimes, the desired outcome evolves during the process. For this reason, when the results are satisfactory, they carry the added value of being a bold and risky endeavor.
EXAMPLES OF DISHES
As far as I can tell, creativity in the kitchen began with Nouvelle Cuisine, which allowed each chef to develop their own style. To give a specific example, I think of the year 1987, as Ferran Adrià often recounts, when Jacques Maximin, an icon of technical-conceptual creativity and a pioneer of vegetable-based cuisine, was asked what creativity meant to him. He responded, “not copying.”
For centuries, the phenomenon of creativity has prompted countless interpretations. It is very likely that in the 15th century, or even long before, there were chefs who referred to this idea, though perhaps not with this exact word. Adding something new to the discourse is not easy. For this reason, speaking from my own perspective and with my extremely limited experience, I first tried to recall dishes I’ve eaten that were created from inspiration and to remember chefs who use this resource to craft new dishes.
When I think of “dishes inspired by,” the first person that comes to mind is Raúl Balam and the desserts he first created at Sant Pau, inspired by planets and the solar system. I also think of the thematic menus he continues to offer at Moments, such as those inspired by films, operas, the Wonders of the World, the cookbook Les dîners de Gala by Dalí, poetic appetizers dedicated to the Year of Espriu, the 17 Sustainable Development Goals of the UN for 2030 (the “Disset” menu), the recent “La Vuelta Ciclista,” or even “Once upon a time,” inspired by fairy tales, like the menu at Patrizia. I have always “blamed” and associated this approach with Raúl.
However, Carme Ruscalleda had already been offering such dishes and menus at Sant Pau, with themes like the “Coca Joaquín Sabina,” the “Gastronomic Mondrian,” petits fours dedicated to the Catalan bestiary like “the dragon” or “the lion,” or the menu of pictorial styles with dishes like the “Balearic Figurative,” the “Catalan Abstract,” the “Dutch Post-Impressionism,” or the “Empordan Surrealism.” The list is immense.

As an example, let me describe the “Gastronomic Mondrian,” a dish inspired by the painting Composition with Red, Yellow, and Blue (1928), an oil on canvas by the Dutch painter Piet Mondrian. This dish was an appetizer featuring cod, peppers, and black olives. The base of the painting was a slice of sandwich bread, or possibly tramezzino, a soft, crustless white bread.
On top, the inner rectangles were made of pepper sauces in red, green, and yellow, respectively, and cod brandade (the white rectangles). The lines forming the frame and separations were made of black olive sauce. It was a highly visual dish, instantly recognizable, with clearly identifiable ingredients—a colorful and cheerful plate. However, as often said in the context of visual art, it lacked substance. It was a dish with more bread flavor than the sauces, which were present in only minimal amounts.

I also recall two desserts I tried in 2019 at Xerta by Fran López: the “Deconstructed Tatin” and “Water and Soap.” On the one hand, the “Deconstructed Tatin” was a dish that visually resembled pulpo a la gallega, where the octopus was a vanilla panna cotta, and the potatoes were apples. It looked like a fairly artificial Galician-style octopus, especially the “octopus,” and, to make matters worse, it wasn’t even good. On the other hand, there was “Water and Soap,” a playful trompe-l’oeil in the form of a sponge and soap that was, in fact, a piña colada. Both were trompe-l’oeil creations inspired by this artistic technique, designed to deceive the eye and play with optical effects and illusions.
On the one hand, I think of these initial examples, which I am not at all fond of and have always dismissed as childish and unimpressive. On the other hand, I’ve realized that chefs and restaurants I hold in high regard also use this approach. Let me elaborate.
I recall Gaudí’s ceramics, which inspired Ferran Adrià in the early 1990s to create a vegetable mosaic for the dish “Gaudí Red Mullets” or his “Nest of Green Beans with Lobster Claws,” inspired by a bird’s nest. Another example is his “Pistachio Tempura,” inspired by the challenge of making pistachios with an edible shell.
I also think of an array of dishes by the Roca brothers, such as those inspired by landscapes, which they began creating in 2002, like the “Mediterranean Garden” or the “Zen Garden.” Or the “Chromatisms,” which they started in 2003, inspired by colors and linking the chromatic aspects of ingredients to their flavors and the sensations they evoke. There’s also the appetizer “Around the World,” inspired by the simplified tastes of different cuisines.
Then there are desserts: those inspired by perfumes; others inspired by scents, such as “Old Book“; or even “Messi’s Goal,” based on the Argentine’s goal against Getafe in April 2007 during a Copa del Rey match at Camp Nou, which was served while listening to Joaquim Maria Puyal’s commentary. More recently, there are the “Playroc” desserts, inspired by Play-Doh modeling clay, or the brilliant “Anarchy,” inspired by chaos.
The Roca brothers even created an entire menu inspired by sustainability for the climate summit, The Earth is Exhausted, featuring dishes like “Clear Water and Dirty Water.”

I also recall many dishes from Mugaritz inspired by emotions, feelings, or nature. One example is “Ostra y miel,” inspired by a rhetorical figure like the oxymoron, embracing contradiction and provocation: an extraordinary, meaty oyster placed on top of a honeycomb. Another is “Primer beso. Natura,” inspired by a kiss—a ceramic face adorned with flowers and jellies meant to be eaten by licking and kissing it intensely. While it had a certain aesthetic appeal, it felt forced and lacked gustatory appreciation for me.
There’s also “Sotobosque. Setas y arbustos,” inspired by the scent of an undergrowth, which featured shiitake mushrooms confited with juniper butter. Or “Esponja de leche,” inspired by a culinary technique, consisting of a milk sponge made from milk gelatin into which air was incorporated just before it gelled, trapping the bubbles at the precise moment. This was a visually striking dish with an interesting narrative but, in my opinion, quite forgettable in terms of flavor.
Another example is “Disonancia. Lomo bajo cero,” inspired by surprise and rejection—a magnificent beef tartare served on top of an ice cracker made from the beef’s own fat and paired with confited peppers. The dish played on the unsettling sensation of encountering something as sublime as the perfect integration of fat in a cut of beef alongside the unpleasantness of biting into a piece of ice.

This resource is also utilized at Disfrutar with dishes like La por: gamba a la catalana (Fear: Catalan-Style Prawn), La gallina dels ous d’or (The Hen of the Golden Eggs), and Efecte òptic: corall d’amarant amb garoines i maionesa de còdium (Optical Illusion: Amaranth Coral with Sea Urchins and Codium Mayonnaise). These creations draw inspiration from challenges, reflections on how we eat and perceive food, thoughts on garnishes and plating, and emotions such as fear or uncertainty when discovering an ingredient in a dish. Others stem from fables like Aesop’s The Hen of the Golden Eggs.
Inspiration is a way of focusing on a theme or even setting limitations to achieve clarity. In this sense, I think of Paco Morales at Noor, restricting himself to Andalusian cuisine and ingredients of that era without incorporating products from the New World, such as potatoes, tomatoes, corn, or cocoa. Each year, he creates menus centered on a single century, starting from the 10th century. Similarly, Albert Raurich at Dos Pebrots limits himself to the cuisine of Mediterranean civilizations, including the Greeks, Phoenicians, Romans, and Etruscans.
Heston Blumenthal at Dinner also comes to mind, offering marvelous dishes like the soft, boozy Tipsy Cake, inspired by traditional English recipes dating back to the 14th century. His passion for history provides an intriguing counterpoint to his reputation for approaching cuisine through science.
Specialized restaurants are another example, whether focusing on a technique like grilling, as seen at Etxebarri or Gueyu Mar, or on specific products, such as seafood, meat, or rice-based dishes.
Fusion cuisine, inspired by blending elements from different culinary traditions, also fits here, with Diverxo as its ultimate exponent.
On the scientific side, I would include dishes created through molecular gastronomy, inspired by molecular structures and ingredient combinations. This encompasses some recipes by Pierre Gagnaire and many from Heston Blumenthal’s Fat Duck.
I also think of Alberto Gipponi at Dina, with dishes like Cannellone e tartufo bianco (Cannelloni and White Truffle), inspired by the invisible and the idea that absence (an empty cannelloni) can become presence (filled with air, making the flavors of egg more pronounced). His Bianco su bianco (White on White) menu, focused exclusively on white ingredients and preparations, and his subsequent Grasso su grasso (Fat on Fat), celebrating the flavors and textures of fat, are also remarkable. One standout dish was Boreto. E lardo, featuring a turbot fillet served with two slices of lardo, one paired with the turbot and the other accompanying the next dish, Panna cotta e santoreggia (Panna Cotta and Savory Herb). This explored the duality of fat—whether it diminishes or enhances flavor—showing how the lardo softened the spiciness of the pepper in one dish but amplified the flavors in the panna cotta.
Chefs like Rasmus Munk at Alchemist (Copenhagen) and Anika Madsen at Iris (Norway) create dishes inspired by messages, critiques, or calls to action, addressing issues like sustainability, global food system challenges, animal exploitation, pollution, deforestation, climate change, and child labor. Their work blends haute cuisine with activism while suggesting innovative solutions to these problems.
Ca l’Enric also comes to mind, with dishes like Castanya i eriçó (Chestnut and Sea Urchin), inspired by the visual similarity between a chestnut husk and a sea urchin. There’s also Volcà en erupció (Erupting Volcano), served as petits fours with dry ice in volcano-shaped crockery, or appetizers like Patata and Taco, inspired by a honeymoon trip to Japan and other Asian countries in 2017. Another example is Auslese, a dessert inspired by a German Riesling wine.
I also think of the annual thematic menus offered by Moreno Cedroni at Clandestino, which he calls “collections.” These include menus inspired by colors, flowers, Greek mythology, Vikings and Norse mythology, fairy tales, cinema, and even prehistoric eras.
Reflecting on these restaurants, I realize that dishes inspired by non-culinary elements are not usually my favorites organoleptically, with some exceptions like Ostra y miel at Mugaritz and La gallina dels ous d’or at Disfrutar.
Through this review, I’ve also noticed that inspiration is intrinsic to cooking, belonging to its very essence. Whether chefs copy (to varying degrees) or strive to create from scratch, whether it’s traditional, classical, avant-garde, haute cuisine, homemade food, street food, or even industrial and commercial products, inspiration is always present. It is equally relevant in ancient and modern cuisine and in both Western and Eastern traditions.
Inspiration is so tied to cooking that it can even stem from the lack of time and resources in our daily lives, arising from exhaustion, haste, or reluctance to cook. It can also be driven by illness, dietary restrictions, or religious beliefs.
For example, the Paris-Brest is a traditional dessert clearly inspired by the bicycle race between Paris and Brest in 1891, with its round shape evoking a bicycle wheel. Attributed to different individuals, such as Pierre Giffard, this dessert was initially crafted based on earlier creations by pastry chefs Bauget and Louis Durand in 1909. Whether it originated in 1891 or 1909, the innovation that amazed people at the time is now seen as a tradition. From this perspective, we can trace the many versions, variations, and adaptations inspired by the original recipe, including rectangular versions resembling éclairs or profiteroles, like the Senigallia-Brest by Uliassi, which stray from the circular wheel shape but still retain the dish’s essence.

Another example would be Mont Blanc, a traditional dessert inspired by a natural element: a mountain. I think of Juanlu Fernández’s Montblanc-Grazalema at Lú Cocina y Alma, Enrico Crippa’s Mont Blanc at Piazza Duomo, or Jordi Vilà’s version at Alkimia, which even includes a savory variation with white truffle.
Then there’s the biquini, a sandwich made with crustless bread, buttered and filled with ham and cheese. It gained popularity at Sala Bikini in Barcelona during the 1950s and 1960s as an adaptation of the French croque-monsieur, to the point where the name of the venue became synonymous with the dish itself.
Looking at culinary history, we see that haute cuisine dishes were often “inspired by” something. A prime example is Paul Bocuse’s famous Soupe aux truffes noires VGE, created in 1975 for a banquet at the Élysée in honor of French President Valéry Giscard d’Estaing’s admission as a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. Though the dish was initially a commission, Bocuse drew inspiration from two recipes: a chicken and beef soup garnished with grated truffles he had tasted among farmers in Ardèche and a truffle topped with puff pastry, resembling a chicken pie, served by Paul Haeberlin at Auberge de l’Ill during a hunting trip in Alsace.
This inspiration chain continued when Francesc Fortí at El Racó d’en Binu crafted his Sopa Maresme as a tribute to Bocuse’s soup. This dish was also commissioned, this time to commemorate the reappearance of the weekly magazine El Maresme. Such a long chain of inspired dishes reminds us that the creative process has ancient roots.
Santi Santamaria’s “Tòfona al caliu amb cansalada,” inspired by Raimon Casellas’ Els sots feréstecs (1901), is another marvelous example.
Even dishes like Cim i tomba, created by fishermen to use broken fish that couldn’t be sold, reflect the power of inspiration, as does the zero-waste philosophy of Doug McMaster at Silo in Brighton, later expanded to The Cub in London.
Post-war hunger also inspired dishes, such as llumeners (sheep intestines), also called trunyelles de be in Menorca, and cucina povera, a humble cuisine based on inexpensive ingredients like legumes, cereals, and offal. This philosophy is exemplified by Antonia Klugmann at L’Argine à Vencò in Friuli.
Dishes designed for specific diets also reflect inspiration, like Michel Guérard’s cuisine minceur, first introduced in 1975 and still served at Les Prés d’Eugénie. Similarly, Pietro Leemann’s sattvic menu at Joia in Milan, which excludes garlic and onions, as well as alkaline, vegan, and flexitarian cuisines, showcase how inspiration often stems from dietary needs.
Monastic cuisine from the 17th and 18th centuries also draws on restrictions, traditions, and religious needs, producing simple, unadorned dishes rooted in local products. This style, exemplified by monks such as Fra Francesc Roger and Francesc del Santíssim Sagrament, and more recently by Korean Buddhist nun Jeong Kwan, celebrates the wisdom of centuries-old practices untainted by modern trends.
Even “à la” dishes—à la française, à la napolitaine, à la bolognaise, etc.—are rooted in inspiration. One extreme example is Moreno Cedroni’s Susci at Clandestino, an Italianized take on sushi based on an idea by Gualtiero Marchesi. This opens up discussions about cultural appropriation in cuisine, which deserves its own exploration.
Commercial products like the donut also originate from inspiration. Hansen Gregory, a young sailor, created the famous hole in 1847 out of frustration with undercooked centers. This innovation led to countless international variations, from Greek loukoumades to Indian vada.
Inspiration is global. Consider sushi, originally devised as a method for preserving fish with rice and salt, or the numerous Japanese culinary references to nature—stones, water, or the sound of wind through leaves. At Mibu, La lluna en un plat (The Moon on a Plate) is a simple daikon broth, yet it embodies profound inspiration.
All of this underscores that inspiration is a fundamental aspect of the act of cooking.
INSPIRATION BEYOND THE KITCHEN
A great chef like Alain Chapel once said that cooking is much more than recipes. Even Pierre Gagnaire, the father of culinary abstraction, is convinced that cooking, like a painting on a canvas, can convey emotions, ideas, and states of mind. He believes that cuisine can take an intellectual path, creating an expressive language with ingredients. Gagnaire stripped ingredients of their sensory qualities (while respecting their flavor) to craft dishes without visual references, creating a cuisine of isolated context, new forms and aesthetics—joyful, poetic, and almost lyrical.
Carme Ruscalleda shares a similar philosophy, asserting that cooking should aspire to be more than mere sustenance. She argues that while nutrition and quality ingredients are essential, there is always a point where cooking can transcend this, becoming a way to consume culture in the most literal sense.
Rasmus Munk takes this even further with his so-called holistic cuisine, aiming to change the world through gastronomy. He redefines and expands the concept of food by integrating elements of gastronomy, theater, dramatic arts, science, technology, and design to create a global sensory experience. Using audiovisual effects, installations, architecture, and performance art, Munk crafts a universe that goes beyond the plate and immediate physical surroundings, transcending time and space.
The Roca brothers also embraced this multidimensional approach in 2013 with El Somni (The Dream), a project with Franc Aleu of La Fura dels Baus. This total, multidisciplinary work was an “opera” served in 12 “acts” or courses, a dinner for 12 guests from diverse disciplines but united by a shared curiosity for experimentation. Guests included Ferran Adrià, Miquel Barceló, Sílvia Pérez Cruz, Josep Pons, Rafael Argullol, Joël Candau, Freida Pinto, Harold McGee, Dr. Bonaventura Clotet, Nandita Das, Ben Lehner, and Lisa Randall.
Held at the Arts Santa Mònica Center, the event featured 3D projections and imagery, blending reality, digital elements, and dreamscapes. It united gastronomy with art, culture, music, opera, painting, cinema, theater, poetry, philosophy, science, and virtual reality. Artisans, roboticists, anthropologists, biologists, chemists, physicists, composers, and chefs contributed to this groundbreaking experience. While many viewed it as a unique and fascinating project, others saw it as an elitist spectacle lacking substance.
A documentary about the event premiered in 2014, showcasing the creative process of over 40 international participants. Although the film was described as a work of art in itself, it felt more like a “making-of” to me, exploring the genesis of ideas behind the Roca brothers’ culinary philosophy and attempting to simulate the sensations experienced by the dinner guests.
In 2016, the Roca brothers offered a different iteration of this concept with Òpera Samfaina, a multimillion-dollar project in the basement of Barcelona’s Liceu. Open to the public at affordable prices, it combined neo-modernist and surrealist design with five distinct “stages,” such as a wine cellar adorned with ceramic charcuterie. A tapas bar, featuring dishes by chefs like Carles Abellan and Albert Adrià, donated part of its proceeds to local charities. Despite its noble intent, the culinary quality seemed secondary, reducing the experience to a kind of audiovisual extravagance akin to eating popcorn at the cinema.
This reminds me of the 2008 Ten Menus for a Concert, perhaps a prototype for El Somni. These menus featured 40 dishes inspired by 10 musical fragments from Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and others, adapted to be played on the piano to maintain coherence. Memorable dishes included “Oyster with Solid Cava,” “Mussels with Riesling,” and “Foie Gras with Lychee, Rose Water, and Gewürztraminer Sorbet,” inspired by Puccini’s Tosca, as well as the “Apple and Foie Gras Timbale with Vanilla Oil,” linked to Verdi’s Nabucco.
These examples illustrate how culinary inspiration can transcend the kitchen, creating experiences that merge disciplines, provoke reflection, and redefine the boundaries of taste and art.
The “Viva” Table or Table M#01 at Disfrutar, introduced in 2021 or 2022, is a concept designed for a maximum of six people. Situated in the restaurant’s R&D kitchen (on the -1 level) and crafted by Merche Alcalà, this table is equipped with 48 boxes containing surprises revealed using magnets in a synchronized manner, all while classical music plays. The result is a spectacle that blends aesthetic and emotional beauty. This unique table promises a “completely new and different experience,” inviting diners to engage with the gastronomic journey by interacting with the table.
The experience emphasizes changing textures (starting with tablecloths and later removing them), volumes, colors, touch, sensations, and emotions. It’s not entirely clear if the menu served is different from the main dining room’s or if exclusive dishes are offered for the table. However, guests can request tailored preferences in advance, and the experience is reportedly more comprehensive. Diners get to witness the chefs at work in the R&D kitchen and enjoy personal explanations from Xatruch and Castro about the ingredients, techniques, and philosophy behind their creations at various points during the meal. This table aims to provoke reflection on whether gastronomy seeks to transcend its limits through such creations.
It’s also worth mentioning that before the Roca brothers created Ten Menus for a Concert (2008), El Somni (2013), the documentary about El Somni (2014), and Òpera Samfaina (2016); before Disfrutar introduced the Viva Table (2021); and before Rasmus Munk opened Alchemist (the first in 2015 and the second in July 2019), Gualtiero Marchesi had already spoken about “Total Cuisine” and the palato assoluto in his book Il Codice Marchesi (2006). This text comprises 14 chapters corresponding to the guiding principles of his cuisine, each associated with one of his dishes, as follows:
- Harmony (Polenta, lumache e finocchio – Polenta, snails, and fennel)
- Beauty (Riso, oro e zafferano – Risotto with gold and saffron)
- Civilization (Piramide di riso Venere – Pyramid of Venus rice)
- Color (Dripping di pesce – Fish dripping)
- Genius (Quattro paste – Four types of pasta)
- Flavor or Taste (Riso, cozze, zucchine e zafferano – Risotto with mussels, zucchini, and saffron)
- Invention (Cubo di finanziera – Cube of finanziera)
- Lightness (Insalata di spaghetti alle alici scappate – Spaghetti salad with “escaped” anchovies)
- Myth (Raviolo aperto – Open ravioli)
- Territory (Savarin di riso integrale, rane e crescione – Whole-grain rice savarin with frogs and watercress)
- Tradition (Stracci di pasta al pesto – Pasta rags with pesto)
- Truth (Seppia al nero – Cuttlefish in its ink)
- Simplicity (Penne, asparagi e tartufi – Penne with asparagus and truffles)
- The Idea, present in every dish.
In this way, it becomes clear that all these elements together form the portrait of a “Total Cuisine,” one that integrates seamlessly with life, where everything has the potential to become a recipe.
The precursor to this approach could be Vatel, the chef to Louis XIV, often credited with inventing Chantilly cream. In the 17th century, Vatel already considered everything surrounding the table, laying the foundations for a gastronomic protocol that matched the refined art of French haute cuisine. He curated menus, managed purchases and provisions, supervised dish preparation, decided on table and dining room decorations, coordinated the service staff, and selected entertainment for guests. Vatel was more than a maître d’; he was a master of ceremonies, an organizer of exceptional festivities, and an innovator in the art of hospitality. According to legend, his perfectionism led him to commit suicide during a banquet when the fish delivery was late—a trait for which he has been criticized, as calmness is considered essential in both gastronomy and life.
While such an approach might sound innovative, particularly in the context of gastronomy, it echoes concepts from various historical moments. Consider Wagner’s Gesamtkunstwerk (“total work of art”), which, in the 19th century, integrated the six arts—music, dance, poetry, painting, sculpture, and architecture—so thoroughly that he even built his own theater in Bayreuth.
Going further back, we find similar ideas in the late 16th and early 17th centuries with Peri and Monteverdi, who developed opera (“work” etymologically), combining music (orchestra and singers) with poetry (libretto), performing arts (dance and ballet), scenography (painting, decoration, architecture), lighting, costumes, and makeup. Their concept was rooted in the classical Greek tragedies of the 5th century BCE.
Goethe pursued this totality through literature with Faust in the 19th century. The Vienna Secession artists of the late 19th and early 20th centuries also aimed for a total aesthetic experience. Similarly, cinema in the 20th century sought this sense of completeness.
Thus, modernity has always sought to fuse the senses, and the Viva Table at Disfrutar can be seen as part of this broader cultural trajectory, merging gastronomy with multisensory art.
Dani García also believes that cuisine must go beyond the plate. He argues that when creating, one must approach it like a child, noting that if you just want to eat well, you stay at home. Fine dining, for him, is much more than eating well; it must be an experience that transcends the ordinary, that entertains and evokes a different level of emotion. He offered a tasting menu titled Once Upon a Time at BiBo in Marbella’s Puente Romano Hotel, inspired by tales like Alice in Wonderland and The Little Prince, with references such as “what is essential is invisible to the eye.”
This phrase, echoed by Niko Romito at Reale and Andoni Aduriz in his latest menu at Mugaritz, brings to mind a definition of creativity: “the ability to see what others cannot.” It’s a notion exemplified at Etxebarri, where Bittor Arginzoniz treats smoke as an ingredient in its own right—intangible but perceptible.
Similarly, Pierre Gagnaire’s Sketch in London, open since 2002, blends cuisine with art, decoration, design, music, videos, and technology to create a sanctuary-like space. The goal is to escape the city’s bustle while feeding other senses and intellectual curiosity. This idea, taken to the extreme, resembles Heart Ibiza, a collaboration between Albert Adrià and Cirque du Soleil’s Guy Laliberté, which fused art, music, circus, dance, and gastronomy to turn meals into performances and pure entertainment. Similarly, Paco Roncero’s Sublimotion at the Hard Rock Hotel in Ibiza takes this concept to new heights.
Perhaps these innovations draw inspiration from Jacques Maximin’s Théâtre, opened in 1988 in Nice’s former Sacha Guitry Theater after he left Chantecler at the Negresco. This 3,600-square-meter venue featured a million-dollar investment and a kitchen located on the theater stage, protected by glass and hidden by a curtain. At the end of service, the curtain rose, and the chefs—referred to as actors—bowed to the diners seated in the auditorium, receiving applause like performers. The restaurant earned two Michelin stars within 18 months but closed by 1992, reportedly lasting less than four years.
Ultimately, when fishermen prepared suquets de peix to make use of damaged fish they couldn’t sell, they were also going beyond simply feeding themselves—they were building community. Similarly, the idea of going beyond cooking can be as simple as the now-closed Disaster Café in Lloret de Mar, where the floor simulated an earthquake and alien-themed performances entertained children. Or it can resemble those dinner shows that feature anything from monologues and jokes to belly dancers or mariachi bands.
Seen in this light, any restaurant that plays background music, offers live performances (whether it’s a piano at Giardinetto or L’Europe in Saint Petersburg, a jazz band, or a DJ at a nightclub-restaurant like CDLC), or decorates its walls with paintings aims to make the dining experience more pleasant, offering something beyond just food. However, such experiences often turn meals into light entertainment, akin to television-level amusement, as opposed to more intellectual, profound, and thoughtful engagement.
So, if great chefs like Chapel, Gagnaire, and Marchesi believed—and still believe—that cooking must transcend its basic purpose, why do I often struggle to fully agree with them? Why do thematic menus initially leave me unimpressed, despite some dishes managing to amaze me? Why do some dishes garner little respect from professionals and enthusiasts, while others are well-received? Is there an unspoken culinary hierarchy dictating that inspiration from emotions is superior to inspiration from fairy tales?
What are chefs trying to achieve—experimentation, elevating cuisine to the status of the eighth art, or simply testing our patience? Whatever the case, since our basic needs are more than met, these creations entertain us in much the same way that 18th-century aristocrats were entertained by watching a young Mozart play the piano.
WHERE DO I WANT TO GO WITH THIS?
FACTORS, VARIABLES, AND OTHER ELEMENTS A DISH OR MENU MUST HAVE TO AVOID BEING SIMPLE AND UNFINISHED.
At first, I thought, “I don’t care where chefs draw their inspiration from as long as the dish is good.” Naturally, the final result must always be edible and provide a minimum level of pleasure when tasted. Originality, aesthetics, and message should never come at the expense of flavor. However, I personally enjoy knowing the origins of the products I eat and understanding how the different components of a dish are prepared. Similarly, I like learning about the creative process and how the chef arrived at the final result.
I also considered the degree of similarity between the dish and its original concept, evaluating how well the idea is executed. In many cases, this is more of a visual resource than a gustatory one, as it pertains to aesthetics and plating. From a flavor perspective, there are few distinctive traits linking non-culinary elements to ingredients. Little Red Riding Hood doesn’t taste like chicken or chocolate, and an oxymoron doesn’t taste like oysters or honey.
So, should dishes be executed so perfectly that diners can immediately identify the fairy tale or non-culinary element that inspired the chef just by looking at them? If so, few dishes achieve this level of representation. Beyond the spaghetti simulating Goldilocks’ hair at Patrizia, most fail to deliver this clarity.
I also pondered whether the chef’s age mattered—whether there was a difference between a 25-year-old’s work and that of a supposedly mature 50-year-old chef.
Proximity was another factor I considered—perhaps I undervalue certain chefs because they are local. I have always been tougher and more demanding with chefs from home, expecting higher standards and more remarkable proposals. But that wasn’t entirely it either.
I evaluated whether repetition played a role—whether it was a one-off dish or if the chef used the same approach across an entire thematic menu.
I find the presence of quality ingredients and the consistency of a dish indispensable. A simple slice of tramezzini bread spread with pepper “pâté” is not a sufficiently developed or refined dish, especially when compared to La gallina dels ous d’or (The Hen of the Golden Eggs) at Disfrutar, which features perfectly fried egg whites, tiny shrimp, a magnificent prawn tail, complex layers of aromas, flavors, and textures, and cutting-edge culinary techniques like their “impossible fried egg.” Here, the yolk is a rested spherification within a fresh egg white, fried as if it were a whole egg but infused with an aromatized sauce resembling sriracha. Compare this to Moments’ version of The Hen of the Golden Eggs, which consisted merely of a low-temperature egg with gold leaf and white truffle shavings.
Dishes like the Mondrian or the deconstructed Tatin-pop seem to be the work of chefs with a limited understanding of creativity. They remain confined to the initial idea, merely combining existing products or making minor variations. These chefs do not introduce new concepts or techniques, resulting in kitchens that are original but neither creative nor evolutionary—typical of professionals still in the formative stages, searching for their identity.
These are some of the variables I consider crucial when presenting a dish as complete. Yet, I still couldn’t pinpoint why some dishes feel lackluster while others are brilliant until I reached a conclusion.
Inspiration—especially from non-culinary elements—cannot stand alone as the sole line of creativity. It must be enriched with quality ingredients, technique, flavor, multiple creative approaches, and other sources of inspiration (minimalism, local traditions, memory, academicism, school learnings, detachment from territory, decontextualization, fusion, tapas as a style, habitual use of specific ingredients and techniques, plating and serving styles, the mar i muntanya approach). These elements shape a chef’s unique style, enhance the dish’s personality, and create more varied menus.
Chefs must work with multiple creative lines, generating synergy among them to achieve complex and memorable results. A chef must refine the idea until the dish or recipe has solidity. Themes like The Tour de France should not be the main draw to a restaurant, as this diminishes the culinary quality. If a cuisine is limited to one or two styles, even if it benefits the chef to focus on a single theme, the resulting menu risks monotony.
Inspiration and the creative process can vary in depth and execution, but to achieve solidity and maturity, the proposal must be imbued with meaning, coherence, and good taste.
Once again, I realize that one of the things I value most in cuisine today is the thought behind it. Laboratories, country houses, creativity departments, or R&D teams aren’t essential. Consider Bagá, which apparently lacks all these but still manages to astonish. What’s crucial is a chef who thinks and reasons through their actions and steps when creating a dish.
Thus, when we talk about inspiration, we should not see it merely as the starting point (a color or a fairy tale). Instead, it should remain an anecdote, with the entire process leading to the finished dish also taken into account. In many cases, I find this process more significant than the result itself.
This perspective likely explains why we appreciate Mugaritz, even when some of its dishes provoke rejection. It’s one of the few kitchens where we forgive the lack of hedonistic pleasure in the final product while still considering many of its creations genius. Gualtiero Marchesi also explored this idea, proposing two menus: one “good and tasty” and the other “conceptual.”
These ideas are deeply tied to the evolution I discussed in the article Fer (Auto) Crítica, where I attempted to explain what dining means in the 21st century, when basic needs are more than met. Eating is no longer about satiating hunger (as in post-war compulsive eating) or purely about hedonistic pleasure focused solely on flavor (as seen at aristocratic and bourgeois tables of the 19th century and even in the Nouvelle Cuisine of the 1970s). At some point, dining out became a hobby, a pastime.
But today, I believe it’s not just about light entertainment or the “experience” rhetoric I dislike. Since El Sabor del Mediterráneo in 2024, a minority of food enthusiasts have learned, traveled, and moved past this superficiality, seeking more than just surprise or emotional impact. They now look for intellectual stimulation, knowledge, and cultural enrichment, whether through traditional or modern cuisine.
I also believe it’s important to recognize that inspiration evolves. Cuisine is alive and constantly changing, much like language. Even concepts themselves evolve. For instance, what tapas were originally is entirely different from what we understand today as “tapas.” A wide variety of interpretations have emerged, encompassing everything from montaditos, banderillas, and pinchos, to croquettes, fries, and olives, to small portions of tortilla, Russian salad, or stews, and even avant-garde dishes from elBulli and similar restaurants, which are also considered tapas.
The concept of tapas has evolved so much that verbs like “tapejar” or “going out for tapas” have developed around this social way of eating. New versions emerge daily to suit every palate, variations that are always “inspired by” something. Inspiration, therefore, is even more omnipresent in cuisine than Bulli-style cooking itself! Forgive me for the playful exaggeration.
The topic of creativity and inspiration can be controversial, but it’s essential for distinguishing one restaurant from another. Creativity and inspiration may even serve as marketing tools for gastronomy, just as terroir and minerality do for the wine industry. They undoubtedly represent a turning point in the history of cuisine.
In conclusion, I hope this discussion (which I’ve tried to make as methodical and organized as possible) serves at least to encourage us not to dismiss or penalize a dish or menu outright—armed with a host of preconceived notions—simply because it employs inspiration as a resource.