When I’m at home, I tend to eat rather spartanly, but when I travel the convention circuit, I like to make each meal matter. I do my best to avoid remaining in a hotel for a meal, or getting anywhere near a chain, unless my dining companions demand it, and aim for unique eating experiences representative of the particular city I happen to be in. Which is why I’m so often relying on the advice of people like Man v. Food‘s Adam Richman (who led me to my favorite hamburger ever—The Thurman Burger at the Thurman Cafe in Columbus) or on Yelp reviews (such as the ones that got me to Sugar Ray’s Bakery in St Petersburg).

Chicago, which hosted the 70th World Science Fiction two weeks ago, was going to be a bit more challenging than my usual gastronomic adventures, because the two restaurants I most wanted to visit—Next and Alinea, co-owned by three-star Michelin chef Grant Achatz (though of course co-owner Nick Kokonas and chef Dave Beran also deserve kudos)—don’t take reservations.

And by not taking reservations, I don’t mean they’re the kinds of places you walk up to and stand in a long line to get seated. I mean that in order to get in, you need to buy a ticket, the same way you would to the theater or a rock concert.

Why would a restaurant do such a thing? Because apparently, demand was so great that when Alinea would announce a particular month’s block of tables was available for reservations, the calls would crash their Chicago area code, the tables would fill within the hour, and they needed a full-time staff whose only job was to say, “No, sorry, we’re booked.” And at one point Next had 19,000 diners on its waiting list.

To quote Alinea:

Alinea has 3 people answering phones six days per week answering hundreds more phone calls than we have reservations available. It is a disappointing and frustrating process for our customers and staff alike.

And as for what Next has to say:

Unlike an a la carte restaurant with many walk-in customers and dozens of menu items, Next is creating a truly unique dining experience and doing so at an amazing price. By eliminating no-shows, requiring pre-payment, and varying the price by time and day we are able to create a predictable and steady flow of patrons allowing us to offer a great deal more than would otherwise be possible at these prices.

So—tickets, a concept which frees up the staff to do what it does best, create mind-blowing meals.

If you’ve never heard of either of these restaurants, you’re probably wondering why there’d be such a demand. There are two very different reasons.

Next is a restaurant which completely reinvents itself every three months, serving the Platonic ideal of whatever the cuisine of the quarter happens to be, with food prepared as well as you’re likely to get it anywhere on the planet—and if you miss a menu, well, you’ve missed it for good. Offerings so far have included Paris: 1906, Thailand, and the latest menu, Sicily.

Alinea, on the other hand, serves up what’s known as molecular gastronomy, and as opposed to Next, where each dish is completely recognizable but notable for being the best possible incarnation of itself, is a meal created by Willy Wonka, with all the rules thrown out the window. A course that must first dissolve from a block of ice before being slurped through a roe-filled glass straw? Sure! An edible helium balloon? Why not? A desert eaten after it has been smashed against the table, but only after the table has been strewn with other delicacies? Of course!

Three months ago, when I told you I’d hoped to eat at these two restaurants, I had no idea whether it would actually happen, but amazingly, I got into both!

I bought my tickets to Next by haunting Craigslist and the restaurant’s Facebook page, hoping to find someone reselling tickets during the small window of my trip. And I had to be quick—the first few times I saw tickets being listed, I was the second or third person to pop up with an offer, and so missed my chance. Luckily, after about a month, I was able to get a table for four.

Alinea, on the other hand, wasn’t that easy or anxiety-free. The restaurant was in the midst of changing over to ticketing from its previous reservations system, and was being tantalizing loose as to the exact moment the changeover would occur. And since I knew all tickets would be gone within minutes of the new online interface going live, I had to keep a constant eye on Twitter and the rest of its social media presence. And it’s a good thing I did, because even though I was able to pounce on the ticketing system within 15 seconds of the release, I ended up with the final table for six remaining on the day I wanted. To show you how difficult it was to get what you might want, Liz Gorinsky, who also hoped for a table for six, was in the system just as quickly as I was, yet only was able to get a table for four.

But enough of the background. How was the food?

Next

On Wednesday, David Shaw, Diane Martin, Gary Wolfe and I arrived at the restaurant slightly before our 6:30 reservation, and took a few minutes snapping pictures outside, giddy for what we knew was to come. And because of what I’d heard, I expected a festive night, more like being invited into a Sicilian home than into a restaurant, and so I decided to dress in a manner which I hoped would be equally as festive.

When we stepped into Next, we were welcomed immediately, and warmly. There was no line, no waiting. As soon as I identified myself, we were led to our table, on which we found the following note inside a wax-sealed envelope.

The tickets I’d obtained included non-alcoholic beverage pairings, and since none of us were going to upgrade to the wine pairings, the food starting arriving quickly, all dishes served family-style. First up, the appetizers—Panelle, Saponata, Arancine, and Carciofi Alle Brace. The star from the first round was definitely the Arancine—saffron risotto filled with lamb’s tongue.

Why do I judge that the best? Because while the three other appetizers were delectable, my Arancine made the world fall away. I no longer had any sense of what my table mates were saying. Once I swallowed my first bite, I had to ask them to repeat themselves, because I’d been transported away from the table for awhile, and their voices only reached me as distant underwater echoes.

Food, you see, when created at the level of art, takes me out of my body, and rises me above the physical plane. And what goes on at Next is definitely art.

Going through each dish will only make you mourn for a meal you can never have, since Sicily ended earlier this month, and besides, David Shaw has already described each component of the night, so head over there if you’d like more detail. But for me, some of the other stars included grilled artichokes (the best I’d ever eaten), the Gemelli con le Sarde (tender pasta, incomparable sardine), Spalla di Maiale Brasato (a braised pork shoulder so tender I declared it a sin that we could not finish it, and our server volunteered to pack it up, so it made a wonderful late-night snack for Irene) … and I’d better stop there, or else I may end up describing every dish after all.

A word about the non-alcoholic beverage pairings—they were done with imagination and care, not the afterthought you might expect for those who don’t choose wine pairings, and created not just for their own flavor, but for how well they blended with the dishes each accompanied. My favorite was the blood orange and fennel that arrived with the pork shoulder.

For the final touch, we were each given a copy of the menu above, and as we left, a taxi, arranged by the maitre d’, was already waiting to take us back to our hotel. Because our tickets had been paid for in advance, including the gratuity, no money exchanged hands, which added to the magic of the evening, indeed making the meal seem more like a family dinner than a commercial exchange.

As we drove off, I felt the same sense of exhilaration and sadness one has leaving a great theatrical performance that can never be repeated (since, by now, Sicily has been replaced by Kyoto). But that is as it should be. The night was a blend of the ephemeral and the immortal, and if you’d found me wandering the halls of Chicon7 that night, I’d have been smiling because of it.

And likely, talking to you about little else.

Alinea

The following night, the four diners from the previous night (plus my wife and Liza Groen Trombi) met in the lobby of the Grand Hyatt, once more giddy, for we were about to experience what was considered the 7th greatest restaurant in the world. (At least, this year. In 2011, it had ranked 6th.) I wore the purple-striped boating blazer I’d ordered from Hong Kong, once more determined to make the night as much a celebration as a meal.

The disorienting whimsy (and yes, a little disorientation is necessary for the magic of Alinea, for how else do we taste something anew?) began the moment we arrived, were greeted out front (where the building bore no name, just a number), and told how we would enter the restaurant. The iPad-carrying man who checked that our reservations were in order explained that once the door behind him opened, we were to enter, pick up a glass of lemonade we’d find to our right, and walk down the hallway, thinking of springtime as we sipped and listened to the wind chimes. At the end of the hallway, we were to put down our glasses, and a door would open, at which point we’d be welcomed to the restaurant proper.

And then the door did open, and I was startled to look ahead into what appeared to be total darkness.

I stepped inside, and could see then that though the long narrow hallway was dim, to our right was a glowing tub with six floating glass globes of lemonade, one for each member of our party, circulating in a current. I plucked a glass from the water, and a napkin so as not to drip, and peered further into the hallway. As my eyes adjusted, I could make out what seemed to be blue neon (though perhaps it was just a string of blue lights) running the length of the hallway where the walls met the floor, which was carpeted … with sod. We walked along the grass, sipping lemonade, and I could make out no door ahead as I sipped, but eventually we came to a tray upon which I placed my empty glass. Then a door opened to my left, not at all where I expected it, and we were greeted with a smile, promised we’d have a wonderful time, and taken to our second-floor table.

Once again, I won’t recount every course, though the menu below will give a hint, because David Shaw covered the meal in far more depth than I intend to. I’ll just highlight the dishes that made me laugh, or let me know this was a restaurant like no other, a place where there were no rules that had to be followed, a sanctuary which allowed a chef freedom to go wherever imagination led.

The second course (for the first was that glass of lemonade) came once we were seated. While the beverage choices were explained (and it turned out that just as with Next, I had a non-alcoholic option), six bowls containing blocks of ice resting on beds of pebbles were placed on the table, without a word being said about what they were for. Each block had a hole drilled in the center, and once we’d made our decisions about what we’d be drinking, servers then came to the table with glass straws filled with steelhead roe in a liquid and stoppered at either end with foam.

We were instructed to take our straws, fit them into the perfectly sized hole, now filled with ice melt, and inhale the mixture in a single slurp as quickly and as loudly as we could. The frigid rush of roe and herbs and peach (I’m unsure whether that fruit flavor came from the straw or the melt) was sweet and salty and made us giggle, a perfect start to the most unusual meal of my life.

For example—Lamb 86. We were each presented with a narrow plate containing three perfect pieces of lamb, each prepared in a different manner, and two plexiglas shields were placed in the center of the table, each with 86 different garnishes, none of them identified, but all, we were promised, fitting accompaniments to the lamb. I cut the three tender servings into three smaller pieces so I could experience more of the flavor combinations, and the table turned into a guessing game as we each plucked the sides that tempted us and tried to identify what we’d chosen.

Not every course was as unusual in its presentation as that. Some courses astonished with their perfection alone. Hot Potato, Cold Potato, which we were told was one of the oldest courses that still remained on the Alinea menu, consisted of a paraffin bowl filled with cold potato soup, while a hot potato and a piece of truffle were held aloft by a skewer which went through the lip of the bowl. We were to pull the pin, and the moment the two ingredients met, we were to toss it back, so the soup had no time to warm, the potato no time to chill, and the two flavors and temperatures only came together on the tongue. Then there was the Black Truffle Explosion, which was served on a spoon, and to be chewed with closed lips, so none of the delectable juice escaped. These awed not by the science fictional nature of their presentations, but from the precise combination of their ingredients, eaten at exactly the right moment.

And the thing you must know about those perfect moments is—when I write it, I do I mean they were literally the perfect moments. If one of us rose to go to the restroom, the kitchen was alerted, and everything stopped, ensuring that dishes arrived at the table just when they were meant to be popped into the mouths, not seconds before nor seconds after.

One course that makes clear why a dish must be eaten when served is the green apple helium balloon, which if not ingested upon delivery, would, I fear, end up collapsing upon itself before eaten. The skin of the balloon as well as the string with which we held it were both made of apply taffy, and we were told to press our lips against the balloon, take a bite, and inhale. My mouth filled immediately with the intense flavor of apple—and with helium as well, of course—so we were all soon talking about how amazing it tasted while sounding like Mickey and Minnie Mouse.

For our final course, the table was cleared, and we were asked to lift our glasses as a silicone covering was rolled out. Servers then brought many small bowls, two metal jugs sweating with condensation, and three white globes with circular holes in their tops. Then two chefs arrived, and began spooning out the contents of the bowls onto the table, scattering them like culinary Jackson Pollacks as they identified each—freeze-dried strawberry, English pea, buttermilk cream, and so on.

Then the chefs each lifted a jug and announced, “liquid nitrogen,” and poured the contents into the white globes, which caused a fog to rise and cover the table. Finally, the chefs lifted the globes, which were made of white chocolate, and smashed them upon the table, revealing the goodies within—meringues, cotton candy, miniature jelly donuts, condensed honeydew melon, and more. After which we took our spoons and attacked the artwork you see above, not making as much of a dent as the creation deserved.

At meal’s end, we were each given a copy of the menu, personalized for our individual journeys, as the courses had been tailored to our specific allergies. As with Next, taxis were waiting as we stepped out of the restaurant …

.. four hours and thirty-nine minutes after we had arrived.

Yes. The meal took four hours and thirty-nine minutes. But I assure you that it did not feel as if that much time had passed, because … oh, I’m going to go into cliche mode now, but you know how it’s sometimes said that time stood still? Well, time didn’t stand still, per se, but … let’s just say that while we were in Alinea, it didn’t exist. We were outside of time, in a pocket universe all to ourselves.

And that wasn’t the end of the magic.

The Aviary and The Office

Because in addition to Next and Alinea, Grant Achatz and Nick Kokonas also co-own a cocktail bar called The Aviary. Those who know me know I don’t drink, so it seemed as if it would be pointless for me to bother attempting an Achatz trifecta on three consecutive nights. But during my quest to get tickets to Alinea, I became friends with many others on Facebook engaged in the same struggle, and one of them, a regular at The Aviary, assured me I’d love it. Plus, he told me he’d be able to get me in. An important thing, because though The Aviary doesn’t require tickets the way Next and Alinea do, it’s still not the easiest place to get into, as its site indicates:

The Aviary accepts a limited number of reservations daily at 6:00, 8:00, and 10:00 PM. You may email your request … Please indicate your desired time, party size, and contact details including your cell phone number. If randomly selected, we will contact you by 4:00 PM on the day of the reservation.

So on Friday night, after Random House’s wonderful three-hour cruise onto Lake Michigan, I grabbed a cab over to The Aviary with David Shaw, arriving at around 11:30 p.m. to discover a crowd at least three-deep surrounding the corner building. I’d been told to drop the name of my friend (who shall remain anonymous here, just so you don’t go dropping the same name), and as I approached the earpiece-wearing doorman, he was speaking into his sleeve to tell those inside that he was about to send in another party. But at the mention of my new friend’s name, he said, “Cancel that,” and waved us in.

And there was my Facebook friend standing at a table with a friend of his. We were soon whisked away to a banquette where we enjoyed meticulously prepared drinks and small bites—scallops, wagyu, foie gras, an explosive brioche I was advised to down in one bite, and more. (If you want to know more about the drinks, you’ll have to rely on David for that, as I was more focused on the food, of which I sadly took no pictures. But that did not mean the small bites failed to transport.) After an hour exchanging stories of our favorite meals and getting to know each other better, we were approached by our server and asked, “Are you ready to go … downstairs?”

“Downstairs” meant what was underneath The Aviary, the even more exclusive speakeasy called The Office. The wood-paneled room featured a bar along one wall, plus three tables in the corners of the room. I can’t imagine more than fifteen or so people fitting in there comfortably. We had additional drinks, and talked until 2:00 a.m., at which point the lights were turned up, and folks began to drift away.

We stepped back up into The Aviary, quiet now, for we were the last ones there, and our server called us a cab—

And this is where the story gets even more wonderful.

As we neared the corner where the cab would arrive, who should we find standing there but Chef Achatz himself, still in his chef’s garb from a long day and night, chatting with one of the other stragglers heading home. I couldn’t resist thanking him for three magical nights, and asking him about the next Next menu, which as you know from my recent posts was going to be Kyoto. So we talked with him for 10 minutes or so, me discussing my visit to Tokyo’s Tsukiji fish market, David mentioning Alinea recipes he had attempted. Then we shut up, knowing it had surely been a long day for the man, but unable to resist letting him see how much joy he had given us. And then we finally hopped in the cab, giddy at the fact that the man who’d presented us so much pleasure over the previous three nights had himself been presented to us by the universe as a kind of amuse bouche.

As we pulled away, David turned to me and said something like, “The sad thing is, when we get back to the hotel, still high from having spoken to Achatz, no one’s going to understand what we’re talking about.”

But it didn’t matter. We knew.

I wish the quality of these words could approach the quality of the food he (and yes, chef Dave Beran and Nick Kokonas, too) had given us, but whoever said that writing about music was like dancing about architecture surely must have realized how easily food could substitute for music in that sentence.

If I could have designed the final moments of my choosing for those three nights of culinary excellence, I would not have been able to come up with anything better than standing with Grant Achatz on a dark street at 2:30 a.m., talking gleefully about food, opening my heart to him as he had so graciously opened his.