Ynyshir Restaurant, Wales

An iconoclastic restaurant that walks to the beat of its own drum... and DJ.

An imposing chef stops plating and turns as his 5-year-old son rushes behind the three other chefs and jumps into his dad’s arms. They start cuddling and laughing as the young boy in his pyjamas tickles his dad’s ears and muscular tattooed forearms while holding his electric toothbrush. The exchange is as touching and intimate, as it is out of context: it is symbolic of what this restaurant is. When was the last time you saw that in a 2 Michelin star restaurant? They are writing their own rules here.

It’s a restaurant where 29 courses are served, yes, I know there is cost of living crisis and my timing is questionable, but do not stop reading!!! I also am aware that it sounds ridiculous and indulgent, and that this type of hedonistic palaver is not really in vogue anymore; some of you may even think that the film “The Menu“ with Ralph Fiennes, as the demonic chef, is a fly on the wall documentary; this is much more fun, and nobody dies; that I know of. This place is not a revered temple to gastronomy, far from it; it is more exuberant than that. The chef and his team have created an immersive experience that overloads the senses and ramps up the serotonin levels to an unspeakable, primitive intensity.

When you dine here you are part of a three-act play, the first act is a wave of pristinely fresh and cured seafood dishes that slowly build in flavour and texture. The second act features multiple dishes that highlight dry aged poultry and beef; the third and final act is a myriad of small fruit-based desserts that are both comforting and surprising.

Prelude
The dinner begins with a drink in the lounge overlooking the rolling lush verdant hills and gardens. The room has a primal dark aesthetic with a copious amount of sheep’s skins resting on old wooden chairs, and a ram's skull complete with horns on the wall; ten minutes later, the sous chef takes us on a quick tour to the salt room, an underground bunker walled with pink bricks of Himalayan salt. Dry aged ducks and squab hang from the ceiling, there are slabs of white marbled wagyu beef, and sides of cured sea bream, black cod, and yellowtail.
We return to the foyer where a lovely young lady opens a magic box of luxe ingredients that will feature in our meal. There is a tin of beluga caviar, a large oyster from Carlingford, an Orkney scallop, white truffle from Croatia, fresh wasabi from Japan, passion fruit from Vietnam and Medjool dates from Morocco. It’s an opening salvo that screams “we only source the best and most interesting ingredients.”
It’s an engaging introduction, one that would have Greta Thunberg screaming obscenities as she runs out the door to jump on her electric bike. Carbon miles for hungry dials, I say. We stay at the counter as a young gentleman prepares a dish they call ‘Not French Onion; ‘it’s a classic Chawanmushi, the savoury Japanese custard is spiked with mirin, sprinkled with cured diced duck liver, nori, herbs, all topped with a miso and onion broth.

The dining room is essentially a small black cube, the ceiling and walls are coated in a hue that might be described as ‘matt blackboard black’ there is a mirror ball, eight school room tables with each guest looking towards the open kitchen, and a DJ is blasting ‘The Passenger’, by Iggy Pop; the space feels like a collaboration between Harry Potter and a death metal band. On a blackboard near the kitchen, written in chalk are the words, “get comfortable being uncomfortable.” I will drink to that, but only with the help of the obliging young sommelier who brings a different wine to bridge across three to four of the dishes.

It’s showtime!

Act One
There is a slice of raw red snapper with white ponzu, followed by hamachi (Yellowtail) two ways, firstly with white soy, the second iteration with teriyaki; bluefin tuna from Spain is showcased in three different dishes, a slice of the immaculate fish is blanketed in a thin slice of raw wagyu with ginger, wasabi and soy; a hand roll of tuna, sushi rice, white truffle and nori powder; the rich flavour of the toro (raw tuna belly), is balanced with yoghurt, jalapeño and olive dressing. There is an exquisite dish of Carabinero prawns; diced scallop with scallop gravy, oyster emulsion and white truffle is like being tongue kissed by an alluring sea creature. I close my eyes, and I can still taste her glorious salinity and velvety texture.
The kitchen pass is a frenetic flurry of chefs in black T-shirts; fish, crustaceans, and herbs are all sliced moments before each dish is plated; dots of flavoured oils and emulsions are dispensed from an array of labelled squeeze bottles, before the twenty assorted rustic ceramic bowls and plates are swiftly carried to the guests.

The thudding bass of the house music is the soundtrack to a steady volley of tiny umami mouthfuls; black cod is laced with iberico fat, followed by a shot of unctuous cod soup sprinkled with plankton powder;  a chilled glass of Riesling from the Mosel is delivered from the shadows by the black uniformed Ninja waitstaff, an inspired choice to match the shrimp in green curry; a tiny lobster tail is dressed with Nam Jim and Thai basil; peanut sauce adorns a barbecued lobster claw; a shell less crab meat claw is dressed with a chilli dressing and a fried manitou bun.
Each dish leaves you wanting another mouthful, just as your ravenous desire recedes, another plate of intense flavours reignites the endorphins; there are 15 courses left; am I having performance anxiety? Can I last this tantric taste test? A plate of frozen pickled ginger signifies the end of the Act 1, as the chefs disappear for a post coital cigarette.

Act Two
Slivers of smoked eel and duck liver ice cream is doused in Tokajii wine; a slice of dry aged duck is as crisp of skin as it is moist of flesh, with a zealous plum sauce; a superb lacquered squab breast is requisitely rare and tender, its gamey flavour balanced by an opaque leaf of pickled iceberg lettuce. A piece of wagyu beef is sliced into translucent wafers that cook slightly in a warm shiitake broth in the style of shabu shabu.
The final savoury dish is a cheeseburger. A what? A cube of roasted Wagyu is topped with a pickle, cheese sauce, onion purée and sesame seeds, you eat it as one bite: it is the flavour profile of a cheeseburger without the carbs.
My lord, it was so good I had steal my wife’s.

Act Three
My head is spinning like a mirror ball as I dig into the banana soft serve with birch syrup and salty caviar; the only slight glitch in the entire meal is a compote of Bramley apples which is overly tart and viscous from its pectin, the vanilla cream is too sweet, the grated frozen foie gras (David Chang has a lot to answer for), feels gratuitous.
A Japanese shaved ice maker, called a Kakigori, is on the pass, a young chef grinds a luminous raspberry frozen disc into shaved granita over a dollop of Italian meringue. The purity of the raspberry flavour is astonishing, its crunchy, acidic, and floral.
A medjool date pudding, tiramisu and a set cream with Vietnamese passion fruit and mango are all stunning.

There is a ceremonial closing moment as the chef walks through the dining room with a large bucket of burning logs to a blazing furnace outside, the whispers of smoke catch the rotating lights of the spinning mirror ball, as the DJ cranks the volume, ‘Small Town Boy” by The Bronski Beat, engulfs the entire room.
There is a feeling of unadulterated joy and finality.
The greatest Michelin star rave party I have ever been to.

It is £1300 for the dinner for two and it was one of the best Mac value meals of my life. The frugalist fringe will scoff at that amount of coin spent on a dinner. Some people know the price of everything and the value of nothing. This is not a restaurant for everyone, vegans, Nigel Farage, and carbon footprint worriers will leave disappointed, angry, and hungry.

I thank the chef for a night that will be etched forever in my culinary memory.
I jokingly ask him "when will Karl, (his 5-year-old son), will be out the back washing dishes?” a proud smile spreads across his ruddy face and he replies, “you won't believe it, but yesterday he said, daddy I want to come and work with you!”

The chef is Gareth Ward.
The chef in waiting is 5-year-old Karl Ward.
The restaurant is Ynyshir, in Wales.
It is audacious, playful, and uncomfortably brilliant.

Ynyshir Restaurant, Wales
https://www.ynyshir.co.uk/