A reservation at Alchemist Copenhagen is one of the world's most coveted. It's also one of the most expensive.
He said a dinner could change my life. I didn't believe him. I signed up to have a 2,500 EUR dinner anyway at Alchemist Copenhagen.
It’s 3 in the afternoon when I just miss a phone call from an unknown +45 number. A Danish number. I didn’t expect that phone call to impact me so greatly.
It enters voicemail and I hear a woman start speaking in Danish. I don’t speak Danish. I’m about to trash the voicemail when I catch the word “Alchemist”. I call her back immediately.
You see, I’d put myself on the waitlist for Alchemist four months ago and promptly forgot about it. For many restaurant aficionados, eating at Alchemist in Copenhagen is like winning the lottery. Reservations are notoriously difficult to score, opening once every three months. Travel + Leisure claims there’s a 5-digit long waiting list. Celebrities and millionaires have eaten there. I am none of the sort.
Alchemist is a two MICHELIN starred restaurant and ranks fifth on the list of the World’s 50 Best Restaurants. It’s meant to redefine the fine dining experience. The restaurant eschews the typical Scandinavian blond wood, natural light, and quiet white tablecloth laden dining rooms.
Instead, diners are ushered in between five rooms for their 50 “impressions” that could be experiences or courses. The main dining room evokes a planetarium with a dome of screens above that project various scenes tied to the dining courses.
The New York Times calls it an “avant-garde restaurant”. Head chef Rasmus Munk calls it a “holistic dining” experience meant to redefine and broaden perceptions on what dining is. I thought it might be just a long expensive dinner and show.
But back in November, I was urged to put myself on the waitlist by a dining companion who ate hyper-innovative food like I ate cheeseburgers.
“It would be cool,” he said. “A once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
I said ok but I didn’t believe it. It didn’t matter anyway because I’d never get the call.
Except they did call on a Thursday in March. And I had just missed it. I call the Danish number back immediately. My skepticism of Alchemist quiets at once when I’m given the opportunity to go. Suddenly I’m excited to eat somewhere exciting, somewhere coveted.
My hands are quivering like I’m lining up a putt for eagle. One ring, two rings, but the call goes to voicemail. I stumble through my words and say I’m calling back, would love to get a reservation, and to please call me back.
Meanwhile I start texting aforementioned dining companion who pressured me into the waitlist. He speaks Danish. I’m tempted to pass the call to him.
He texts back immediately, probably because I spam him like it’s an emergency.
He says yes, he wants a table and asks me to hold on. He’s on the Paris metro, poor signal, can’t talk right now.
The Danish lady calls me back. She’s pleasant and not snobby at all. She says they’ve had a string of cancelations related to a geopolitical conflict.
Would I be available next Tuesday for a dinner reservation? She asks. Next Tuesday is a mere five days away.
I try to stall her as I’m texting my dining companion. He laments no. He’s got work dinners. I falter. The dream I have of dining at Alchemist that began five minutes ago starts to die.
The Tuesday after that is also available she tells me. I relay that back to him.
He says, “Yes!!!!!”
I’ve never seen him text with so many exclamation marks.
Great, I confirm with the lady on the phone. She says I’ll get an email for the deposit.
I thank her and hang up the phone.
My heart races wildly. All thought of doing any meaningful work is thrown out the window. I move every meeting I have for the following week and look at flights. Within the hour my flights and hotel are booked.
I’ll fly in from Amsterdam in the morning and my dining companion will fly in from Stockholm after 5:00pm on the first flight he can. He’s got an hour of leeway. I hope he won’t be late.
Finally I check the deposit email. There’s an invoice for a cool 6,000 DKK. In my naivety, I figure the Danish krone and Swedish krona trade roughly alike. Spoiler: they don’t. The deposit turns out to be roughly 800 EUR.
My eyebrows travel upwards on their own accord. It seems egregious. The material remnants of the meal are destined for the sewers anyway.
But ladies and gents, Alchemist is not a 400 EUR per person experience. The fixed menu costs a cool 5,600 DKK per person, roughly translating to a whopping 1,500 EUR for two.
To put that into perspective, the menu at three-star Dutch darling De Liberije is about 300 EUR per person. My beloved one-star Calla’s in The Hague sits at 150 EUR per person. Both now seem like a steal.
My dining companion is unfazed. I’m left gawking. I voice my concern. He calls.
“It’s not a commodity. You can’t just compare prices,” he chides. I imagine he’s rolling his eyes through the Haussmann-lined boulevards. “That’s so American to be so focused on the cost. The cost is irrelevant. You have to look at the value.”
In retribution for his impoliteness, I forward him the deposit email for 800 EUR. He takes care of it.
He takes the opportunity to insist on a pairing. I hesitate.
He starts waxing poetic on how the combination of food and drink is the experience. I relent, placing my trust into him.
Without the bells and whistles, this menu and pairing is looking to cost over 2,000 EUR for two. With the bells and whistles and associated travel costs, it’s a substantial chunk of change for one night in Copenhagen.
I netted little more than 2,500 EUR per month at my first corporate job. As a normal person, the concept of spending my old monthly salary on a single meal for two hasn’t even been registered into the realm of possibilities. Guilt trawls through my stomach. So does an overwhelming sense of gratitude that this experience is physically and financially possible. I joke that as penance I’ll skip next month’s vacation to Spain.
My Instagram feed transforms into a silo of Alchemist and Copenhagen content. I decide to forgo Spain anyway.
* * *
Ten days later, we get off the bus at the Refshaleøen, an industrial area and former shipyard in Copenhagen. The sun has already set. It’s a quiet and dark night. Not another soul is in sight. Following Google Maps, we walk the 7 minutes to the address we’re given.
There’s no signage at the address, but there’s music emanating from a pair of lit-up bronze doors. They intimidate like those of the Roman Panthenon. The doors swing open when we get close and my dining companion and I are greeted by a delightful host in a room cloaked in dark curtains. There are no other patrons in sight, just us. She asks us what we’re expecting.
I tell her I’ve consumed too much content on the restaurant. I’ve urged my dining companion not to do the same but he comes with more experience of starred restaurants.
He knows the barebones of Alchemist. That we’re dining in a dome theatre and that there might be some weird things on the menu. I feel quite jealous that he gets to take in the experience for the first time in person rather than via Instagram Reels and fine dining blogs.
For that matter, I’d advise people planning to visit to lay off related content as to not spoil the experience for themselves.
The host introduces us to Massimo, a friendly Italian colleague, and he whisks us away for the first “impression”. It’s a separate room behind a closed door. We’re left alone.
I refuse to spoil it for you, but the impression makes my jaw drop. I’m first confused, then amazed, then alarmed and by the end, I feel slightly violated.
For the second impression, Massimo leads us to a sleek lounge with low chairs overlooking the aesthetically-pleasing test kitchen. We indulge in a cheeky glass of champagne, as is par for the course. We sample the first few impressions including the well-known daisy impression inspired by a pisco sour.
Our fourth impression is served by a soft-spoken blonde fellow with piercing blue eyes. He greets us like any other member of the team. There’s no hurrah or cockiness or bootlicking visible with him. I whisper to my dining companion that it’s Rasmus Munk, the head chef and founder of Alchemist.
Eight hours later, we’ve moved through more than 50 impressions, five rooms, and more than enough drinks to boot. Alchemist has exceeded my high expectations with outstanding service, technically innovative and complex cookery, hyper-local sourcing, and flavors that feel remarkably familiar. It’s not so much dinner and a show as being immersed in a completely new world. We round off the evening on the balcony with a few exquisite alcoholic drinks from their cellar.
When the bill arrives it’s somewhere north of 2,500 EUR for two.
It’s past one o’clock in the morning and I’m decidedly not hammered, but the cost doesn’t faze me anymore. Indeed, as my dining partner said, it is irrelevant when the value is justified.
On the cab back to the hotel, my dining partner and I utter few words as we process the past eight hours. The roads are quiet. The hum of the Porsche fills the air.
It’s difficult to pick a favorite dish, we decide. Many remarkable dishes come to mind, topping each other without hierarchy. But it’s not difficult to describe how we feel: bewildered.
I hadn’t known a single voicemail could change my life. But I realize it wasn’t the voicemail – rather the act of fully placing my trust into someone else.
At some point, it wasn’t even about the food. It’s the experience as a whole, created by Alchemist and substantiated by my favorite dining partner. Don’t get me wrong, Alchemist is phenomenal. But sharing an experience with someone you love, someone you put your faith into — that makes the experience exceptional.
