Geraldine DeRuiter, writing at The Everywhereist, on a 27-course “meal” at Bros, a Michelin-starred restaurant in Lecce, Italy:
The servers will not explain to you what the hell is going on.
They will not do this in Italian. They will not do this in
English. They will not play Pictionary with you on the blank
newspaper as a means of communicating what you are eating. On the
rare occasion where they did offer an explanation for a dish, it
did not help.
“These are made with rancid ricotta,” the server said, a tiny
fried cheese ball in front of each of us.
“I’m ... I’m sorry, did you say rancid? You mean ...
“Okay,” I said in Italian. “But I think that something might be
lost in translation. Because it can’t be — ”
“Rancido,” he clarified.
Another course — a citrus foam — was served in a plaster cast of
the chef’s mouth. Absent utensils, we were told to lick it out of
the chef’s mouth in a scene that I’m pretty sure was stolen from
an eastern European horror film.