Dining in the Dark is a concept that has been around for a while. The first restaurant dates back to ’97 in Paris. The idea behind it has two faces.
One, for the guests seeking an innovative way of dining out through a “heightened sensory experience” and second, for the staff who usually belongs to the visually impaired community. First, offering jobs in the industry and also raising awareness to the general public.
Now, onto the story…
It’s always darkest before the dawn. We’re programmed to aspire to the dawn, but what they don’t tell you is that the dawn sometimes hurts. Quite literally in my case, I was pondering in front of the mirror, expecting my eyeballs to flake out into tiny pieces and fall into the sink below. And I’m not being overly dramatic. We are creatures of habit, you see, and even two hours of complete darkness are enough to throw us out of the loop.
But let’s go back to the beginning.
There I was, in front of Unsicht-Bar in Berlin, with my skeptical meter wagging lazily just as a curious cat’s tail would. I was ready to have my senses heightened and awareness raised.
Of course, you don’t just go straight into the dark corners of unseeing. You are eased into it in a dimly-lit foyer and welcomed with a flute of bubbly Prosecco. All around, chit-chatty faces with excitement clearly written in their eyes. I drank in the simple, yet elegant room tinted in the golden of the last sun rays setting behind the building across the square. Trying to grasp every last splash of colour, every shape, and face and somehow etch them onto my retina.
A sudden commotion brought me back from my reverie. The first group of people was being rushed downstairs under the inquisitive stares of those of us who remained seated – all non-German speaking folks, it seemed. Looking around, the unsure glances were all the international sign of, “what are we supposed to do?!” We weren’t left wondering for long as the man returned, motioning us to follow.
Down the stairs, we gathered in a cramped room, in front of a simple, unassuming door. Once we all placed a hand on each other’s shoulders, secure links of a human chain, the lights unceremoniously went off. The ordinary of the act took me by surprise. I went through the motion as we started moving as one, the soft whispers and the quiet shuffle of feet accompanying us. Just as we went through the door and turned right, a hand led me away from the group onto my dining table. Only then it hit me…
Pitch. Black.
Once the lights went off, I simply assumed, based on my vast experience of twenty-seven years of turning the lights off every evening, that I would slowly adjust. Yet, here I was, a mere ten minutes later, in a darkness like I have never seen before.
Not knowing if my eyes were closed or not, I blinked repeatedly. Nothing. Frantically waving the hands around? Nope. Moving closer in hopes of a glimpse of… something? Absolutely not. The truth was right there in front of my eyes – the light has snuffed my eyesight away and there was absolutely nothing I could have done to get it back.
Breathe in, breathe out, don’t panic. Without vision, any sense of spacial awareness is gone, and with it, logic as well. It feels like dipping into the sea at night. Suddenly, everything you know turns into the unknown. The sea in which you venture eagerly under the light of day becomes a wavy mass whose shallow waters hide Cthulhu himself – absolutely no doubt about that. And just as obvious, giant tarantulas roam the dark corners of restaurants. No doubt about that either.
Shyly, my hands went out of their shells, unwillingly, I might add, as I forced them to explore the surroundings. Any ability to grasp the distance (poor to begin with) was out the window too. Out of the window and draw the curtains, please. It was only on my tenth try that I was able to find my glass just a tad to my left. Celebrating that little victory, I was completely oblivious of the fact that not spilling it would be a feat well beyond my ability. But that was a challenge for another time. For now, though, the dining room proudly presents…
Your dinner.
Just as with the rest of the experience, the food was another unknown. As our waiter placed the plates in front of us – or so we assumed – we were left to figure it out. It was time for the nose to take the center stage. With a smirk, it flexed its muscles, puffed up its nostrils, and took a deep whiff. And just like its predecessor, nothing.
When it was clear I would get no help from my very useful organs, it was time to roll my sleeves up and dive in. Breathe in, fork down. From what I could gather through my fork, there were different bits of food of various textures on the plate. I racked what I could and brought the fork up to my face. Slowly, as I still wasn’t quite sure where my mouth was, I approached it bit by bit. And just when I was ready to bite… it turned out I was empty-forked.
Take two… and three and five. By the sixth try, I had to bring out the big guns. Finally, my fingers achieved what the other tools couldn’t. At last, I could enjoy my salad in peace.
Soon enough, I forgot cutlery existed. As soon as the soup rolled up, I was designing my battle plan, cupping my hands as you would drinking the fresh water from a mountain stream. Then, the last bit of rationale got through the fogginess in my mind. Humankind did, in fact, invent spoons around 1000 BC.
By the time dessert came about, I had Blind Dining on a leash. I devoured the lava cake using a perfect combination between the utensils and my own hands. Lastly, I scooped up the very last bits of ice cream using nothing but my fingers. Life was good.
A heightened sensory experience.
While my general coordination seemed to have got a tad better, I couldn’t help but feel a bit cheated overall. With the sight gone, the other senses didn’t appear to be heightened as advertised. The smell had failed miserably, and the taste didn’t really deliver a mind-blowing palate. My fingertips weren’t suddenly more sensitive, nor did I gain a Daredevil-esque sense of my surroundings.
The sound was distorted, however. To this day, I am still not sure if that was because of the lack of depth or the Prosecco we had had earlier… The voices surrounding us were booming from all fronts, completely destroying my initial perception that we were in a corner by the door. About halfway through dinner, we were able to pick up a faint click-and-clack, quite maddening in itself as there was no way to tell if it was real or not.
The constant that remained throughout the whole dinner was the sight – or lack thereof. Eventually, you get used to the darkness, but you can’t get used to not seeing. As people, it’s in our nature to be crafty and make it work. And you do, but you cannot shake the lingering hope that you will just catch a glimpse something – anything – soon. From time to time, you do another check and wave your hand in front of your eyes. And, against your better judgement, you disappoint yourself yet again when you realize that it still results in nothing.
Even in not getting used to it, you do kinda get used to it. After two hours, darkness becomes your reality. Then comes the highly anticipated relief. But what no one could have anticipated was having your eyes fight getting used to the light once again.
Raising Awareness.
On that front, I did get a whole new perspective. The experience brought out a genuine fear: I would not be able to cope with a loss of sight. It goes well beyond daily tasks as having dinner which, as reflected above, you eventually get used to. Instead, it’s everything else, from something small like watching a movie to enjoying hobbies like travelling. It’s the lack of accessibility in place for minorities. It’s the lack of opportunities. In short, it’s not living life as I know it. And I am a weak human being 100% dependent on the routine and life I know.
And because of this, I could only be grateful that something like the Dining in the Dark experience exists and is there for a community that isn’t normally catered for. The resilience shines through and it was humbling to witness the ways in which they navigate through life with the lack of seeing. At a surface level, it’s little things from the trick of sticking two fingers inside the glass so you know how much to pour (who would have thought??) or making clicking sounds when walking to alert the others not to bump into you (so we weren’t imagining those sounds, after all…)
In the end, we simply experience our realities in different ways, neither of them better or richer. But for two hours, we all shared the same life, the same experience. However, for some of us, it all ended when the door creaked open and a beacon of light sprung in.