Sizzling, roasting, juicy food graces our screens from all angles these days — food shows have made way for chefs, servers and critics to find a place on screen next to the stars. Michelin Star ceremonies and James Beard Award events are steeped in glamor akin to that of Oscar parties. Fine dining, once revered and shrouded in mystery, is now accessible for anyone to see on their screens, whether through content on social media or in artfully directed shots on the big screen. Chefs are no longer nameless faceless entities to be wondered at, they are artists with cult-like followings and with shows, books and documentaries dedicated to their craft and their personhood. The Menu is a film set against the backdrop of all this, in a “post”-Covid world.
Our star-studded cast is revealed to us as we, the audience, join them for a seemingly unique dining experience priced at $1250 per person by setting sail on a small private boat towards an island that is entirely dedicated to the functioning of the restaurant located there, called “the Hawthorn”. The film comes to us mostly through the unimpressed, unwavering eyes of Margot, played superbly by Anya Taylor-Joy, who is there to be the plus-one of food enthusiast Tyler, sycophantically portrayed by Nicholas Hoult.
Joining us on this trip are an elderly couple who are, incredibly, regulars at this $$$$$ restaurant, a trio of men exuding an unfortunate amount of confidence, a former movie star (John Leguizamo) and his sister, and most notably a pair of food critics who are simultaneously biting and dismissive in all their observances.
We are greeted by the maître d’hôtel Elsa, chillingly played by Hong Chau, and from our very first moment of arriving for this experience, where every detail is meticulously planned and prepared, Margot’s arrival signals to the audience that something unplanned has stuck a thorn in Hawthorn’s side.
Elsa leads the guests from the boat on a tour of the island, one that is reminiscent of soon-to-be-shuttered Noma, and an eeriness falls on the group as we leave the expanse of the island and the beaches behind to be confronted with the enclosed space within which all of the staff stay together. Elsa lays out candidly how many hours of work the staff put into working at the restaurant, stating plainly that it works best for the team to live on the island. A guest asks if the staff ever experiences burnout to which Elsa replies “We never burn anything unless by design, to make delicious.” By the time we get to the end of the film, these words leave a burning mark on the viewer.
Once we are inside the steely interiors of Hawthorn, the heavy doors close with an authoritative snap, and the feeling of being trapped settles in, where the food and wine serves as a distraction from what should be immensely unnerving. Ralph Fiennes dons his Voldemort-like persona to play the unsmiling role of head chef Slowik, one who has control of every movement of his staff, able to bring the whole room to silence with a singular clap.
From there, the movie spirals and shapeshifts to a disorientingly structured meal punctuated with discomfort, truths, deaths and of course, wine. There is blatant, open-mouthed comedy in this dark film. Tyler’s knowledgeable eagerness is saccharine, the food critics’ take on every detail is nothing short of bizarre and the elderly couple’s deadened expressions as they eat luxury is comical.
But silliest, perhaps, is the part of it that is most rooted in reality: the dining experience itself. Isn’t it silly, the large plates and the tiny portions of food? Isn’t it laughable, all the inedible rocks and sticks and plants on the plate that we marvel at? Isn’t it ridiculous, using tweezers to place so delicately what is meant to be eaten and savored and enjoyed? Isn’t it stupid, to deconstruct and deconstruct and deconstruct a recipe until only a shadow of it remains?
But why does the Menu have to reinvent anything? Why does any restaurant? It’s because nothing satiates anymore. Critics, established and pedestrian alike, are quick to slap labels on places, a 30 second video of a singular instance can go viral, an unfamiliar meal can be lauded as inedible by the wrong eater. Every opinion out there is loud, is meaningful, is constantly clamoring to be entertained, to be surprised, to be bedazzled. To this effect, chef Sloan does exactly that: he builds his menu to “innovate, because he fears irrelevance” and creates with the help of his staff a menu unlike anything any of the diners have seen before.
This need to be surprising is so present for kitchens in the real world. There is such a surplus of knowledge out there, of fans, of information that is privy to people who have no experience of it. People like Tyler who have presumably never stepped foot in a kitchen can lounge in their living rooms and verbalize techniques, name ingredients and kitchen equipment, allowing themselves to feel superior, or even similar to the cooks and chefs who labor behind the scenes for hours every day, for years, without recognition. They allow themselves to feel the privilege of shedding the blood, sweat and tears of real people’s experiences simply through having learned about it.
Isn’t that what is most bleak about it all, most scary: That the ones who have no claim to a kitchen at all could be the ones to have the loudest opinion of all, that they could be the ones to change the trajectory of someone’s livelihood, someone’s dreams?
The Menu is a film that delights the senses as often as it surprises and terrifies them. A highly rewatchable film, it is best enjoyed with a cold beverage and your favorite cheeseburger.
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