This week, I ate at Moto, one of Chicago's experimental restaurants that practice what is often referred to as "molecular gastronomy." Moto's website calls it "futurist influenced" degustation. The décor is minimal (white curtains line the walls and the tables were bare, save a wedge of wheatgrass in a little glass dish) and the food, in its weirdness and complexity, requires the wait staff to play a heavy role in your dining experience. Our waiter patiently hovered over our table giving instructions (e.g., "You eat this nitrogenated sesame powder and it makes smoke come out your nose and mouth.") But there was one crucial problem: his earpiece. Aside from making him look like a fitting-room attendant at Old Navy, it made certain that we could never have his full attention. We asked what the earpiece was for, and he said it was connected to the kitchen and that it was always turned on, blaring into his head even as he spoke to us. Occasionally we would see him standing alone in the corner, staring straight ahead and mumbling into it.
At one point, I was inspecting my cocktail—a Futurist White Russian with frozen balls of tea floating on top of Kahlua above a layer of white syrup. I fished out a spoonful of the syrup and tasted it. "Is it dulce de leche?" I ventured, smacking my tongue. A second later, our waiter popped over from the corner of the room. "It's actually sweetened condensed milk," he explained. How had heard my question, which had been addressed to my tablemates? "Oh my gosh." I lowered my voice; my dining companions leaned in. "Are we bugged?" I asked. In hushed tones, they agreed it was a distinct possibility. It was also possible that he could have legitimately heard me with his one naked ear—I have one of those penetrating voices that could clear a plain of grazing wildebeest with a simple "good morning." We examined the room; we picked up the square of wheatgrass and searched it for microphones. After all, if the kitchen was comfortable with lasers and particle separators, why wouldn't they be adept at hiding surveillance in our wheatgrass centerpiece? Surveillance cameras in restaurants are nothing new; it wasn't a stretch to think our waiter might be listening to our conversation through his earpiece. It turns out that Moto really doesn't bug tables (we sheepishly inquired; they laughed out loud). Nevertheless, we had been reduced to conducting a full forensic sweep of our table, scouring the tablecloth and ogling the walls like paranoid schizophrenics. Meanwhile, our waiter stood in the corner yammering to himself like a shadowboxing streetwalker on a crack high. I guess that counts for serenity in a Futurist-inspired dining room. Moto 945 W Fulton Market, Chicago 312-491-0058
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