(it’s too bad places like this seem to have a shelf life; they’re here for the moment and in the moment. Post-pandemic, I can’t imagine this concept would fly, but if it did I’d try it again and urge you to do it too. Great experience with great friends)

September 16, 2018

I’m always up for a good, or at least interesting adventure. And if that adventure involves a meal, all the better.

And, sometimes the meal is the adventure.

Imagine placing a fork full of food into your mouth, and not knowing what to expect…

Here’s an example: if you look down at a plate of chicken parmigiana, you see the breaded cutlet, covered in rich red tomato sauce with little spikes of garlic and flakes of basil and oregano blended in and pouring down the sides of the meat, and you can tell the sauce has cooked for hours; a beautiful crust of mozzarella and parmigiana is nicely melted onto the top; some perfectly cooked linguine–maybe in this case covered in freshly made pesto, the earthy combination of the basil, oil, cheese, garlic and the pine nuts coating the pasta…and maybe there’s some broccolini to the side, dusted with bread crumbs and butter and topped with the slightest shaving of lemon zest. There’s a glass of red off to your right, and a basket of garlic knots, dripping with oil and parsley and oh-so-much-garlic-but-who-cares-everyone-is-eating-them resting squarely in the centre of the table, which is, of course, covered in a red-and-white checked tablecloth with one of those old wine bottles, covered in wax, a candle nub contributing to the rivers that run down the sides of the bottle.

(Great. Now I’m hungry.)

Take a forkful–what tastes will you get? You pretty much know exactly what to expect.

Now imagine you can’t see any of it. Sure, you have your sense of smell to rely on–and of course, you ordered it, but how would you know the chicken isn’t veal before you taste? Or turkey? Would you be able to tell? Would you even know it was parmigiana, that the sauce on the pasta was pesto, or that there was that hint of lemon on the vegetable? How would you know? How would you find those damn garlic knots?

Imagine if every meal was like that.

A new concept restaurant came to town last year, and I had the opportunity to try it out, not once but twice.

It’s called Dark Table, and the entire dining experience is different.

The idea is to give people who are sighted the opportunity to experience, just for a little while, what it’s like to move around in a world you can’t see.

For us, luckily, it’s a contained, controlled world.

I recruited three good friends–Candace, Deni, and Jim –people I’d known and worked with for years, and Jim brought his friend Arnaud and so we were five to try the Dark Table experience.

From the outside, there’s not much to look at (but if you couldn’t see, would that matter?). 

Standard office building doors, with blackout material on them so you can’t see in; we later learned you can’t see out either, which makes sense, given the theme and all.

The doors open to a small waiting/bar area where you can grab a glass of wine or a beer, peruse the limited menu, and wait for your dining companions. I guess you could do this alone, and it might really lend itself to a full sensory experience, as well as the feeling of solitude—what it’s like to be alone in a world of people who are sighted–but being with friends provides its own experience.

The initial area is not large, and not very brightly lit, but once your group is together, diners select meal choices (two course or three—appetizer and main, main and dessert, or all three) from a menu that includes all the usual selections—beef, chicken, fish, vegetarian—and a daily surprise.  On this first visit, I selected a mushroom risotto with prawns. Everyone is then asked to put everything—keys, jackets, phones, purses, wallets–in individual lockers, with the key to the locker on a wristband the only thing that goes inside.

At that point, our server Tia, legally blind (all wait staff and kitchen workers are visually impaired), came to escort us to our table. Placing our right hands on the right shoulder of the person in front of us, we were led into the dining room.

As we walked, Tia described the space, guiding us to our chairs, showing us where the utensils and glasses were…just helping to get us oriented.

Because it is dark. Pitch dark.  Little eye masks are handed out, but there’s really no need to use them as it is virtually, completely dark (ok, there is an exit light somewhere in the room, but my back was to it, so I saw nothing but darkness).

It’s a little disconcerting at first.  There’s noise coming from everywhere. A lot of noise.

Once the five of us were settled, we were able to spend some time listening to the people around us as we tried to figure out the room layout by following the voices around us. Where was the kitchen?  Who was the loudest? Were there kids in the room?

Then we set about exploring.  We all touched the table, to feel its smooth and slightly curved edges.  Was it glass? Possibly, because it stayed cool to the touch.

I asked Jim, who was seated directly across from me, to place his hand in the middle of the table, so we could get a sense of how wide the tables were.  We met in the middle and we rested our fingers on each other’s, discussing where our elbows were and how far we had to lean in. We moved them from side to side and then back to the middle. It was comforting to feel the warmth of a friend’s hand—a friend whose hand, I guess, I hadn’t so much as brushed against before this. Someone I had worked with for several years, yet here we were, connecting in this way for the first time; this says more about workplace protocol than anything else.

We were a few minutes in and I would say, it’s at that point other senses start to become heightened:

Sounds: Some really interesting insights into how we hear, and more importantly, how we listen to each other.  When there’s so much else going on in your environment, you have to listen more closely to the person talking to you.  And you have to say their name, which immediately makes the conversation more direct and personal.

It’s hard to tell what’s loud and what’s not.  Was this dining room especially loud, or louder than others? Or was it just because we were relying more on what we could hear? Were we yelling, or speaking quietly?  I don’t know.

Touch: It felt somehow more intimate to touch my friends out of need or desire to understand something. Just as when Jim and I connected, when Deni passed my wine to me, she and I had to first find each other’s hands before she could pass the glass.  Now, Deni and I have known each other quite a while, and we had seen each other a few months earlier and had a big hug to greet and another as we said our goodbyes, but this was different.  I needed to touch her, and so, in a weird way, it was a much more personal connection.

Smells: We had chosen a slightly later seating, so as we were getting settled, some tables were already being served their mains.  As plates passed by, we would get whiffs of incredibly rich meals, but even using the menu as we remembered it from outside, we had difficulty assigning the choices to the aromas.

A nose dropped into a glass wine took it well beyond the simple sniff-and-taste game that gets played when a bottle is uncorked at the table; layers of scents—oak, berries, earth—seemed more intense than ever.

Taste: Holy cow. Either the chef is a master (I’m sure he’s excellent, but…incredible? The best ever? I dunno) or simply the sensory experience of not knowing what to expect is enough to blow you away.

We started with a surprise appetizer, which we think was vegetable crisps with a dip—possibly a garlic aioli.  Every one of us inadvertently put our fingers into it at some point.  Tip: make sure everyone has washed their hands before you go in!  By then, we were all so into this that I don’t think any of us cared.

Salads were next, and while they were standard (you know, lettuce, some carrot shreds, cukes and a tomato), it’s still quite fascinating to follow your own reaction as you work to recognize the taste of the thing you’ve just put in your mouth, based not only on its flavor, but also the texture.

The main course? To die for.  The risotto was creamy, full of garlic and parmigiana; it was buttery too, and the prawns were bursting with deliciousness.  I wanted to eat every bite, but was having trouble finding all the grains of rice and the last piece of shrimp, so I simply put down my fork and used my hands.  Who was gonna see? Note here: important not to lose your napkin.

Dessert was good—not as great as the main course.  Some of us had tiramisu and others a lemon cheesecake (I got the cheesecake, which was good because I am not a big cold-coffee-taste fan).

Oh yes, and that wonderfully robust red wine?  That was pretty good too.

So, by the time we finished, we were the last table in the dining room—we could tell, by then, that the sounds of the kitchen were different than those of the diners.

Just before we went out, we discussed how long we thought we’d been in there—remember we didn’t have our phones or watches…our guesses ranged from two and half to three hours…we went in at 7, so figured it to be 9:30 or 10 pm.

It was 9:10. So although our other senses were heightened, we had lost track of time.

I did this again, with another group of friends, and although I ordered the “Daily Surprise” (they don’t tell you what you’re getting), I wasn’t very surprised by any of it.  I knew what to expect, and I think that changed a lot of my perceptions, and my perspective. It seemed very busy and much, much louder—again, I am not sure whether this was because the concept had caught on and the room was fuller, or if how I was listening and hearing things was different. I can’t say. I know my dining companions had a blast.

Would I do it again?  I’m not sure…but if you haven’t done it, give it a try.  It’ll open your eyes to a world you might not ever have the opportunity to experience and understand.