Plénitude

Plénitude is a long dinner, best taken without a watch. Arnaud Donckele's cooking here moves in gestures — a sauce poured from a copper vessel at the table, a course that arrives only once you have rested between the last.

The room is deliberately low-lit and nearly silent, and the service is rehearsed to the degree that it becomes unnoticeable. What you remember, afterwards, is a particular broth. A spoonful, lifted at the right moment.

Book well ahead, and leave the evening unbooked afterwards. Plénitude ends when it ends.