Writing this at the Hinds Head with a cider to my left, a crackling fire to my right and a 550 year old pub laid out before me complete with original wooden parquet floors and the requisite weathered old men with faded gray beards and tufts of hair poking out from their ears lamenting the state of the British government certainly inspires a desire to tuck in for the day. And while the Hinds Head has become my favorite place to indulge in a pint or three, it’s not the ancient pub across the street from The Fat Duck, both owned and operated by Heston Blumenthal, that I’m here to write about on this blustery gray day. I’m going to focus instead on the magical day that led up to the best midnight snack I’ve ever had.

The hours are fairly brutal at The Fat Duck. An average day in the prep room stretches to a typical restaurant day of twelve or thirteen hours but in the kitchen, it presses on to seventeen or eighteen. As exhausting as my first day in the kitchen was, aching feet, throbbing back and droopy eyes were compensated by a gorgeous parade of dishes prepared by what I can now confidently confirm are some of the best chefs in the business.

The tiny kitchen in divided into two parts. The right side contains the amuse bouche station, pastry area, walk-in fridge and sinks. The other side is reserved for entrée prep and is where Graham, the sous chef, a diminutive man who commands the kitchen with the disposition of Yoda, if Yoda had been a thousand times more serene. He sets the tone for a bevy of chefs who elegantly prepare their sublime dishes with silky grace. The tasting menu at The Fat Duck is comprised of eighteen courses and even as the tickets pile up in front of them, the demeanor never changes; smooth as a lily petal and even more beautiful.

My first day in the kitchen at last allowed me to answer the question, “How exactly did Alice feel when she fell into Wonderland?” I stood in a small corner at the center of the room. From my privileged vantage point I gleefully observed service for the night. Through the dizzying hours, an endless stream of plates arranged with luxurious food inspired a feeling similar to intoxication. Better yet, throughout the duration, the chefs handed me samples from nearly every dish. Nirvana? Perhaps.

As I tasted and observed, they encouraged me to walk around to all of the stations and ask questions. As I did so, the chefs not only told me about the multitude of ingredients in their dishes and the intimate details of how each item was prepared but also explained the reason for each ingredient’s presence. This intimate knowledge of why an item is on the plate and how it interacts on a molecular level with the other ingredients is one of the many things that distinguishes The Fat Duck from so many other restaurants and what justifies its ranking as one of the best places in the world to have a meal.

One of the most beautifully presented dishes on the tasting menu is seared foie gras with cherry sauce, apricot stones, almond shavings, almond reduction, a macerated black cherry, chives and chamomile garnish. Jorge, a chef from Columbia who is all business in the kitchen but playful and silly the second he steps beyond its walls, explained to me that the cherries, almonds and apricot stones all contained the compound benzeldahyde, which is the reason that the trinity melded together so perfectly and the tannins in the chamomile served to break down the fattiness of the foie. This is how each dish was explained to me. Each plate began to look like a finished puzzle, with all its interlocking pieces fitting perfectly together.

As the last of the orders were sent through the small pass, Graham walked a plate over to me and told me to go out in the garden to enjoy it. As I walked out of the kitchen into the courtyard where staff shares its family meal twice a day, Izzy, one of the country’s best sommeliers stopped me and told me to wait a moment. He rounded a corner and then returned a few moments later with a glass of red wine in his hand. “This is a glass of 1999 Barolo, Nei Cannubi, Luigi Einaudi, from Piedmont,” he said as he handed the glass to me, “it’s what we pair with the pigeon. Have a god meal and welcome to The Fat Duck.”

I sat at a long wooden table below the inky black sky glittering with a million stars in the ancient city of Bray and relished every single bite of my Ballotine of Anjou Pigeon. The meltingly tender bird is served with a crunchy quail chip, gently sautéed grelots, an intensely rich and creamy made to order black pudding of pigs blood, ginger, szechuan pepper and anise. A pickling foam accents the dish. It’s brightness and acidity cuts the richness of the black pudding and adds a welcome punchiness to one of the most sublime meals I’ve ever eaten in my entire life.

I thought of the little pigeon that a few days ago shot blood into my eye. As I sipped my wine and looked at the thin sliver of kitchen action I could see form my vantage point, I found it appropriate that the bird’s blood came from its heart, the organ so closely associated with affection. After my perfect night at The Fat Duck, I fully understood what a remarkable place it is. There is no question. I am in love.