This article represents one very important reason why you just don’t want to live in Manhattan, ever. An excerpt:

Even if you have never sampled their handiwork, you may have heard about such haute-cuisine iconoclasts as Heston Blumenthal, the chef at the Fat Duck in Bray, England, which recently earned three Michelin stars for a repertory that includes bacon-and-egg ice cream and sardine-on-toast sorbet (Carvel take note). There’s Ferran Adrià, the chef of El Bulli in Rosas, Spain, and the de facto dean of avant-garde chefs, who spends six months of every year in a Barcelona lab refining such inventions as wonton wrappers made from the “skin” of scalded milk. On these shores are visionaries like Grant Achatz at Trio, who has introduced Evanston, Ill., diners to the pleasures of lobster slow-cooked with Thai iced tea.

When I left university I was completely broke, so I gratefully accepted work as light music provider in a disused marble meat cellar just off Park Lane. In the first week we went out for lunch with a couple of posh girls from upstairs. The food was a bit like the above and the price/volume ration distressed me so much that I almost burst into tears.

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