Photo: Judith Haeusler/Getty Images
It turns out the blind can actually lead the blind.
As we entered Blindekuh—an acclaimed dining-in-the-dark restaurant in Basel, Switzerland—our party was masterfully guided by a charming and sight-impaired waitress named Julia. With our hands on each other's shoulders—conga line-style, minus the kicking—we slipped past the black velvet curtain and instantly found ourselves in the heart of darkness. We shuffled our feet slowly as Julia reassured us with her soothing voice until we reached our table, never once tripping or bumping in to any furniture or diners.
Blindekuh (which means "blind cow" or "blind man's bluff" in German) began in Zurich in 1999 as a way to create employment opportunities for the blind or sight impaired. It was such a success that they opened in Basel six years later.
It'd be an understatement to say that we (a trio of tightly-wound editors from New York) had serious anxiety about the experience. Would we be blindfolded? How would we order? Above all, how would we find the restroom in the dark?
There were a million questions and cringe-worthy scenarios in our heads. But the restaurant had answers to put us at ease: First, our bags and coats were to be stored in the coin-operated lockers by the main entrance. And anything that could produce light—a phone or a SuperLuminova-coated watch—had to be left behind. Food can be ordered in advance by browsing the menu before entering the dining room. Or one can do as we did and get the “surprise” four-course dinner. (After the meal, patrons can guess what they were served.) And you don't settle in the dark: The bill is paid at the front desk, where there’s ample lighting.
So how dark is Blindekuh? Within seconds of entering the dining area, there's no seeing the hand in front of your face—let alone the diners seated at the surrounding tables. You can hear them, of course. Many are laughing and calling out to their dedicated servers (all of whom respond immediately). But one doesn't really have a sense of how close they are or how many are in each group.
The nervous energy inside the dining room was palpable as new guests entered. But the chatter would quiet down within 15 minutes and people would get to the matter that was literally at hand—eating.
The basic (and at times comical) business of getting acquainted with the plates, utensils, and our four courses became the real test of the evening. First, there’s figuring out where everything is on the table, which seemed futile given that our spacial orientation skills weren’t nearly as sharp as we thought they were. Just imagine how easy it is to knock over a bottle of water on the table, considering you have no idea where the damn vessel is. And how do you pour wine in total darkness without spilling? Answer: Stick a finger (up to the first knuckle) in your glass and pour until you feel the wine. Repeat as necessary.
But before all that, we needed a drink to ease ourselves into the unseen space.
"Joooleeeaaaah," I hollered.
"Julia's coming!" she responded, in a delightful tone worthy of Mary Poppins. In less than a minute she was standing by our table. "Julia's here!"
To alleviate the initial anxiety, we ordered a whisky with one ice cube—whatever they had on hand.
And so the evening continued—with much guessing and wagering about each course. Because we weren't about to have a conversation about life or work. We had other deeply profound questions: What's this whisky? Clearly a single malt. Glenfiddich? Glenmorangie? Is this mesclun or spinach? What's that squishy thing? Oh, this is definitely beef—I think? Seems like chicken breast to me? Who has the wine? Five bucks this dessert has rhubarb, thoughts?
Even the next table—a group of young women celebrating a birthday—weighed in. (Apparently, a situation that involves total darkness promotes camaraderie.)
Beyond that, there was also getting creative with your fork—by using a finger or two to guide bites onto the tines. By the time dessert came—with the familiar "Julia's here!" announcement—we had become masterful at “fingerwork” and actually tasting our food. And it was delicious. Simple seasonal fare—but with the sense of sight removed, the power of taste was truly enhanced. Or so we would like to think.
Toward the end of the well-lubricated meal, we felt the need to verbalize (loudly and without shame) our appreciation for our much-beloved server.
"Joooleeeaaaah," I shouted after we finished the main course.
"Julia is here!"
"We love you, Julia!" I answered. And the restaurant gleefully joined in.
Without missing a beat, there was "Julia loves you too!" coming from nearby in the room.
Soon enough, she was right by the table to clear our plates. And once again, the refrain: "Julia's here!"
And so she helped each of us stand up and arranged our group as she had before: a conga-line exit. Then the slow shuffle back to the main desk began. As soon as we got there, we were handed the menu. Had we guessed correctly? Sort of. The main course was neither roast chicken nor beef. It was guinea fowl. The squishy thing? Salmon. But I'm proud to say that I nailed the rhubarb.
When we were shown a map of the restaurant, we were asked to guess which table had been ours. Based on our entrance and exit path, we narrowed it down to two spots. But we weren't even close.
Would I dine in the dark again? Absolutely.
For the record, that whisky was Dalwhinnie. And it's now on rotation at home—because after dinner at Blindekuh, I've seen the light.
