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When I heard that the Swedish chef of The Muppet Show was opening a Chelsea location for his famous bistro, Dorg Schnorfblorp Horganblorps, I was skeptical. I always hesitate to believe the hype surrounding celebrity chefs, especially when they are felt. As the city bustled, calling Mr. Muppet the new Jean-Georges Vongerichten, I was certain this newcomer was nothing more than a passing fad, a Swedish Salt Bae. But, after such a tough year for restaurants, I was curious how this mustache crazy gadget had maintained its popularity. Eventually I decided I had to go see for myself if the Swedish chef’s bites were up to his bark, or his bork?
Dorg Schnorfblorp Horganblorps has only been open for three months but already has a waiting list that runs until the end of the year. I was amazed that anyone could get a reservation, considering that the restaurants website has no links or useful information, only a GIF of a turkey being chased by the chef wielding a tennis racket, under- titled Birdy gerdy floopin.
I walked into Horganblorps expecting chaos, but the restaurant was pristine. A group of prawns rushed out of the gleaming kitchen, cackling between them. A handsome rat in a bow tie put a starched towel on my lap. I was seated next to two older gentlemen who were supporting a witty retort, criticizing every dish served to them. It’s not that bad, one of them said. No, everything is bad! replied the other. They laugh. Apparently they’re here every night.
I heard the chief before I saw him. Loud bangs, crashes and moos peppered the haughty whispers of the upscale dining room, no doubt contributing to the mystique of the owners. A swordfish flew past my head and clumsily hit the wall. Herdy come da fishy wishy! Our leader had arrived.
Each evening, Horganblorps offers a set menu including a wide range of items. On the night I visited, the dishes included Chicky Catchy Turdi, Bork Chops, and a specialty item on the menu only in the form of a photograph of the chef, trapped in a lobster trap. There is no prize, only pictures of the Swede in different funny hats.
I was so distracted by my attempts to decipher the menu that I didn’t notice our chef holding an old shotgun, chasing a chicken around the dining room, feathers flying. Before he knew it, the chicken had taken control of the gun, and our leader took refuge in the barrel of what I had assumed to be a purely decorative 18th century naval gun. century. The chicken lit the fuse and our chef exploded at the hostess stand.
To say the chicken was delivered to us undercooked would be an understatement. It was alive. In fact, he was waving his feathered fist in celebration.
This remarkable presentation turned out to be just one of many feats of new sophistication, feats that dismantled the performance of traditional gastronomy. This Swedish chef is ready to unveil the pretentious masquerade that New York’s upscale restaurant scene has become. Each night, he throws the elements of this scene in the air, shoots them with a gun, then lets himself be crushed by a huge cast-iron pan that hangs inexplicably above his head.
I can now attest that this restaurant is a culinary success, and I have never even tasted a bite of food. I didn’t need the dishes to literally speak for themselves. I’ve never been so aware of where my food comes from, how it got here, and who she’s mad at.
We all have something to learn from this unnamed and apparently eyeballless chef, a chef so dedicated to his craft that he will often end up face down on a cutting board, or with his whole hand in a vat of water. boiling. In a city where the art of cooking seems dead, the Swedish chef is bringing cooking to life. Bork, bork, bork, indeed.
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