It is a wicked night. The Beast from the East is throwing its icy remnants at us as I arrive at Brasted’s for Dining in the Dark. This is raising money and awareness for the blind at one of the best restaurants in Norfolk, for people without their first sense. I am going in without my fifth.

I expect to be blindfolded, to find ways of eating good food from plates I cannot see, and later I do, just about. For starters however there is a game. We have a series of food-flavour challenges to get us in the mood. About thirty of us assemble around three large tables, each with covered trays. We put on our eye masks and wait to be instructed.

“Each of the three tables represents a course – starter, main and desert. Each table has three samples of what you will eat later. Your task is to identify each sample we give you, on a stick or in a spoon. After each one, you can whisper your answer to our staff.” The staff do not know I am more sense-less than most. They assume I am normal.

“This sample is in a spoon,” she tells me. “Give me your hand.” I do and find I am holding a small ladle. I finger my way to its bowl, lift, sup without spilling and enjoy. Soft, granular and sweet. Raspberry fool? I must be on the desert table.

“What do you think you have sir?”  “Raspberry mousse,” I suggest, not fool. This is Brasted’s after all. “Thank you sir.” Not a giggle. A good start?

“Your second sample is also on a spoon.” Not sweet at all this time so I am not at the table of deserts. I am eating something firm and cold, with a tang. “Smoked cod?” I whisper to my attendant. Again no reaction.

“Now for your third.” I feel warmth, a crunchinesss, slight saltiness, and make my conclusions known again. This is how the minutes pass. In a miasma of failure I try, try and try again.

“What do you think it is sir?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Have a guess.”

“Elderflower fried in batter?”

Others are having problems too. I hear a waitress chuckling. “Go on. Guess. Someone else said elderflower!” So I’m wrong again, and given licence to others to be utterly ridiculous.

I go on tasting in olfactory ignorance and then I have a hit! ”Rocquefort! You may kill me if I am wrong!” It was Stilton, but I am spared. Finally, at the real desert table, I know I have one right. I bloody know I have. “Crystallised Ginger!” Whispering was difficult, such was my thrill. And I am right! A trigeminal triumph!

When the results were read out the winner claimed a battle of champagne for his nine out of nine, and was advised to become a sommelier. I was last with my single score, so low my name was withheld to protect me.

I do not want protection. I want publicity! I may ask for a platform at next year’s event. After the after-dinner talk by the charismatic young blind person I want to proclaim my failure on behalf of all us anonymous anosmics. I want to tell them that asking me to identify food blindfolded would be like putting a blind person in front of paintings and asking them to say what they were. I Imagine the response.

“It’s a rectangle. Flat. Shiny? A painting?”

“Yes, but what of? Have a guess.”

“Elderflower?”

“Close. Water Lillies.”

That really would be wicked.

 

Written by John Nicholson