There is no menu at Table 8, and there is no choice. You arrive at seven, a waiter asks about your allergies and dislikes, and then you surrender. For sixty-five euros, the kitchen sends you seven courses without telling you what they are. "Surprise is a flavour," says the chef, Mr Roca, a man with a very straight back and a very quiet voice.
The first course, a piece of warm bread with burnt butter, was the best thing I ate all year. The second, a cold soup of cucumber and green apple, was also excellent. By the fourth course, a tiny fish with something that tasted like the sea, I had stopped checking my phone and started thinking about my childhood.
Then came the sixth course. I will never know what it was. It was grey, it was warm, and it tasted like a campfire. "Smoke," said the waiter, with calm confidence. "Many guests need a moment."
The dessert saved the evening: a sweet plum with salty cream.
Is it worth it? That depends on what you want from dinner. If you like to control your choices, you will suffer. You cannot compare prices, plan your diet or send back a dish. But if you accept the chef's rules, you may discover that choice is sometimes a burden. I will go back. I will, however, eat a sandwich first.
Fiction note: All people, places and events in this text are fictional.