Dinner by Heston Blumenthal — Cooking History, Serving Surprise

There aren’t many restaurants that welcome you with a panoramic lift where a waterfall spills in slow motion — like a lush spoiler of what awaits above. But here we are, at the heart of the glass-and-fire empire known as Atlantis The Royal, in Palm Jumeirah, Dubai. A temple of Emirati luxury that earned its place among the world’s top 10 hotels in the 2025 50 Best Hotels — and where one of the region’s most theatrical and subtle restaurants hides: Dinner by Heston Blumenthal Dubai.

A British ego embassy disguised as a gastronomic temple, where the maestro from Bray landed to showcase not only his fame, but the splendour of his creations.

The secret ritual of a glass temple

Tucked discreetly on an upper floor — because true luxury always finds a way to hide — we cross a space that feels more like a secret club than a Michelin-starred restaurant. A dark antechamber, where even the air seems to hold its breath and pretense, precedes the opening of an expansive, softly lit room with classic lines and minimalist touches. An open kitchen takes centre stage like a well-lit altar.

In the middle of it all, like a Lewis Carroll allegory imagined by Heston in deus ex machina mode, spins the rotating mechanical pineapple — a scenographic signature subtly shouting “this world is mine.” Tactile and hypnotic, the installation serves a purpose: powering the kitchen’s rotisserie, where the pineapples that will later be part of our meal slowly cook. Then again, when you have ego and genius, even fruit needs drama and an engine.

Seated with a view of the central water-and-fire show and the skyline’s sharp silhouette, we hear the first explanations about identity, menu, and concept. The service is calibrated to the millimetre — a subtle blend of British politeness that never slips into robotic formality. After all, we’re in a land where protocol begins to rise to conceptual art.

Choosing without choosing: the theatre of free will

Then comes the first trick disguised as courtesy: three illustrated cards, reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland, that let diners “choose” their preferred service. Want conversation and historical context on how Heston single-handedly rescued British cuisine from obscurity? Flip to “Adventurer.” Prefer contemplative silence while dishes land like a divine choreography? Stick with “Maverick.”

It’s guerrilla marketing dressed in charm — and it works like a Swiss watch. A microdose of theatre that makes us feel both special and gently manipulated (in the best way, the real illusionist would arrive later). The meal unfolds at “our” pace, a sense of control that any politician would envy.

The forbidden fruit of the Tudor kitchen

We begin with the artisanal, the basic, the essential: bread and butter. And no, it’s not a cliché. It’s a fine reminder that excellence often hides in plain sight. (Truth be told, I rarely start a meal with such interior silence.)

 

Then comes the icon: Meat Fruit (c.1500), the dish that catapulted both Dinner and Heston from eccentric chef to global gastronomic prophet and TV star. Chicken liver parfait shaped into a perfect mandarin, wrapped in citrus gelée that challenges the senses like a Victorian parlour trick. In this moment of gastronomic revelation, we realise this is more than a dinner. I hesitated before the first spoon. I’d seen it copied to exhaustion — in starred restaurants, obsessive YouTubes, and TV fails. But nothing prepares you for the original. Blasphemy or not, slicing into this Tudor-era classic was far happier than the end of Henry VII and Anne Boleyn. I’m easy to please!

The Truffle, a vegetarian cousin and less inspired version of the Meat Fruit, with truffle and mushroom parfait, proves that even geniuses have less inspired days. A moment where the magic of the previous dish fails to replicate without the punch of liver parfait — mushrooms simply weren’t up to the challenge.

Breezes of the past, salt of the present

The journey continues with a generous scallop paired with cucumber, bergamot, borage, and teardrop peas. This dish exudes summery freshness, making us forget we’re in a climate-controlled desert. Pure technique in disguise, delicately cooked with top-quality produce, and thoughtful plating make it one of the meal’s highlights — and proof of the accolades it has earned.

Rice & Flesh (c.1390) is where Heston merges past, future, and comfort. This “medieval” risotto with veal cheek captures everything Heston has done for cuisine: unearthing forgotten recipes from the British Library, decoding them like illuminated manuscripts, and serving them like edible archaeological discoveries. In some ways, it resembles a traditional Milanese risotto. But mostly, it delivers flavour, comfort, and sublime technique.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the seafood mains, we explore the ocean with flawless fresh cod, served with cockle ketchup and seaweed butter (c.1805), and halibut cooked low and slow on a plancha, served with chicory and a green sauce scented with eucalyptus and parsley. Perfume, texture, and precision. The latter evoked Atlantic woodlands on a misty day. Both were refined and well-executed, with the cod standing out — perhaps due to my Portuguese heritage.

 

Of scalpels and chef’s knives: the anatomy of pleasure

The chicken stuffed with farce and morels (c.1661), succulent, with delicate skin and a jus extracted from roasted carcasses, is quiet luxury served with the arrogance of one who reinvented the culinary wheel. Pure reimagined classicism, and a gorgeous plate. The Wagyu Ribeye, served with jus, bone marrow, and mushroom ketchup, accompanied by the legendary triple-cooked chips, was a carnal, no-frills moment. Spot on execution, top-quality meat, and flavour that hits every note.

The truffled mashed potato side dish deserves a moment of reverence. Addictive to the point of indecency, as luxurious as French silk, and makes us wonder how it would taste come winter with the right truffles. The accompanying salad was a breath of sophistication, where even the chicory felt silky — the product of Heston’s signature laboratory-grade technique.

Sweetness, drama, and nitrogen

The Spiced Tipsy Cake (c.1858) with roasted pineapple is operatic — restrained sweetness, near-alcoholic texture, and a cake that’s clearly been to better bars than most diners. I’m not usually one for dessert. But I caved, especially given the pineapple cake’s special place in my family’s culinary lore. And I’m glad I did — it was like reading an old love letter, handwritten in butter and heat.

To end, the signature nitro ice cream trolley (c.1901) — because no Heston experience is complete without at least one moment where forensic science meets childhood dessert dreams. The theatre Instagram demands, the texture a gelato deserves, and service that morphs into illusionism. Brilliant!

The wine list is top-tier, but we chose restraint: 2022 Chablis Vaudon by Joseph Drouhin. Freshness, acidity, and minerality exactly as we’d hoped for.

A glowing altar for Heston’s gospel

The kitchen is helmed by Chris Malone, an Australian of fine pedigree who inherited the secrets of Bray from Tom Allen — the man who safeguarded them for 16 years. Malone keeps the fire alive: nothing here smells of franchise, everything, thankfully, breathes its own personality.

With one Michelin star, 3 Gault & Millau toques and number 33 in the 2025 MENA 50 Best, Dinner confirms itself as a must-visit — a star of comfort, where everything is executed with millimetric attention.

Final Toughts

This is not a restaurant. It’s a manifesto in edible form. A masterclass disguised as dinner. A time portal where Heston — the man who elevated snails and bacon to iconic status at The Fat Duck, who made nitrogen ice cream a gastronomic sacrament — invites us to commune with the ghosts of British cuisine.

We didn’t see Heston. But we felt his presence — in the rotating pineapple, in every spoonful of mash, in each card that gently tricks us into choosing. It’s brilliant, manipulative, irresistible — while also being comforting and straightforward.

We left educated, fed, and slightly converted. Which, in truth, is what any good prophet should aim to achieve by the end of a meal.

And when we finally descended in the same elevator where it all began, it felt like Heston wasn’t trying to impress. He just wanted us to remember. To remember the taste of history, of fire, of doubt. And to return, someday, with more questions than answers.