Anyone who’s allergic to the stuffy, stifling languors of a tasting menu—one of those meals in which you’re compelled to screw your ass to a stool for five hours of churchy rigidity, watching the clock backstroke through bottomless Inception-like pools of time until someone shows up by the side of the table with a single North Sea oyster that has been brushed with a froth of stinging nettles, fermented passion fruit, cod milt “snow,” and eighty-day aged pigeon brains—would find unexpected relief at Noma. At Noma the dishes start getting airdropped onto your table within minutes of your having
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