The glass door opens. Smoke curls toward a mirrored ceiling, fourteen seats curve around an open flame, and, slack-jawed, I realize: Dani García knew how to export fire to the desert. The…
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Far from the Gulf May. Dubai. The air vibrates, thick, as if the desert had decided to swallow the whole Dubai. Jumeirah Wasl 51. Far from the gentle breeze of the Persian…
The Closed Door There’s a doorbell. Just a doorbell. In Dubai – a city that advertises everything in gold leaf and fifteen-metre-high letters – Björn Frantzén hid his restaurant behind an unmarked…
