Dinner unfurls at a processional pace: A tuft of dehydrated and fried lichen atop reduced, almost-candied cream, in chanterelle broth and a float of spruce vinegar a hefty spoonful of Finnish caviar dissolving in lemon-verbena broth, pearl-onion petals on the side gently cooked Glidden Point oysters, arranged like pearly doubloons and dotted with oil made from pressed juniper shoots. There are conspicuously few tables, to the point that it wouldn’t be weird at all if the lawyer at the next table who just flew in from Hong Kong stood up suddenly and launched into an Ionesco monologue. In accordance with the unwritten rules of Nordic futurist fine dining, the room is dark and semi-spotlit.
