FOLIO
Local lovers of fine dining who are looking to experience a truly unforgettable culinary experience should look no further than OBSIDIUM. Utilizing GPS technology, arbitrary geocaching, and arcane methodology, Obsidium is assembled every morning. Each night the eatery vanishes, not unlike the impenetrable Black Fortress in the 1983 fantasy sci-fi film and foodie-favorite, Krull. The only way to discover where Obsidium will next appear is through its app, which boasts a weeks-long waiting list. After paying an embarrassing amount on a black market website that accepted only Bitcoins, I finally procured the app.
Before being granted entrance, I uttered the necessary password and then signed a three-page confidentiality agreement to never disclose the-then location of Obsidium. When I asked the maître d’ about all of these formalities, he responded with some, in my mind, unfriendly hand gesticulations while rapidly clicking his teeth and chanting a nonsensical, singsong incantation.
To enter Obsidium is to saunter into darkness. As my date and I were led to our table, I could see a room packed with my fellow très gastronomes, illuminated solely by the Sterno cans wrapped in black electrical tape placed on each table, a tasteful and artisanal touch indeed. Squinting through the darkness at the black sheets of fabric that hung from floor to ceiling, we were impressed by the various pieces of chimerically fused taxidermy pieces. A particularly impressive, gray-haired goat torso with dozens of ravens jabbed beak-first into its body, along with other macabre décor, made us feel relieved that we chose not to wear our playful “Bite-Sized” dining sombreros. The background music, a deafening blend of binaural beats, moans, and recordings of what sounded like an auctioneer rattling off the breeds of various livestock, will surely be future “ear worm” for my date and me!
Once seated, we were presented with the menu, a sheet of carved black slate. And let me be the first to tell you, Obsidium’s menu is as inscrutable as it is enticing! Ranging in price from $15 to $55, intriguing entrées including “Cedar Chip Stuffed Lamprey,” “Maelstrom of Aspic Thrips,” and “Insolent Veal à la Cameron,” and, on the kiddie menu, “Nyarlathotep the God of a Thousand Forms’ Chicken Nuggets” are just a few of the offerings that made our mouths water, minds reel, and blood strangely race in anticipation of that first taste.
After much consideration, my date decided to partake of the “Austin Osman Spare Ribs” ($25.50). Named after the early 20th-century British artist-occultist, her meal consisted of a half-dozen succulent ribs slathered in an malevolent-looking glaze served on a pentagram-shaped platter. “So mote it be,” intoned our server, as he waved what appeared to be a magic wand over the dish that was topped off with a smattering of various roasted tubers and roots playfully strewn on the plate.
Oh my — what a dilemma to choose! I finally decided to brave the “Liber Thanatos Archon IV” ($29.50). What the menu described as “an homage to the malevolent demon of death in ancient Greek mythology,” this “devil” of an entrée was piled high with a generous mix of caramelized goslings, syrup beets, shards of crystalized stevia, and the signature ingredient, “wheat sigils.”
The roar of a bejeweled Tibetan yak horn heralded the sound of the dessert cart. By this point, we both felt a little woozy, which we chalked off to the overall Obsidium experience. But we did decide to share the “Master Therion 93,” a dense black strudel featuring an “altar-to-table” lamb’s milk filling.
The target of an ongoing “prayer avalanche” by local churches, Obsidium has become a social media sensation (#obsidium_woe_unto_you) and its VIP (Varies In Place) flavor make it the place to eat and to be seen. If you can find it.
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