I was blindfolded and kidnapped before eating a £400 dinner (in France, where else)

It didn't look good. I'd been blindfolded and was being bundled into the back of a Mercedes in my home city, Lyon in southeast France. You'd think that I was in major trouble, or at best, playing some kind of kink game. You probably wouldn't guess that I was simply going out for dinner.
Anyone with a passing interest in cuisine is familiar with Lyon's reputation. It's long been lauded the culinary capital of France. Much of the reputation centres around bouchons, traditional Lyonnais restaurants specialising in offal, but it hasn't hurt that some of the most famous and decorated chefs in the world had restaurants here, including Paul Bocuse and Eugénie Brazier, the first person to receive six Michelin stars.
Lyon is home to France's starriest food street, the aptly named Rue du Bœuf, which boasts three Michelin-starred restaurants. The city also has 14 other Michelin-starred establishments beyond this famous street. Most serve classic haute cuisine, but at one, I found myself listening to babbling brooks through noise cancelling headphones as I ate pureed vegetables with my hands. Jérémy Galvan, the chef behind Contre-Champ, doesn't play by the rules.
Squid Game style
Judging by the kidnapping, Galvan's latest project seemed set to be just as wacky. 220 Bpm, his new restaurant, opened recently, and I was one of the first to try it out. But rather than being given the restaurant address, I was told to head to Place Bellecour, Lyon's main square, and wait to be picked up. The car arrived with tinted windows, and I was blindfolded and my phone confiscated, Squid Game -style.
Our driver put on an audiobook to set the mood, as we sat in the car in a state of partial sensory deprivation. I was reminded of Squid Game again as children talked in French about a fantasy world (there were headsets available in English). Some of my fellow passengers grumbled about the lack of phones, although our kidnappers had generously given us the time to message a loved one. I was far more preoccupied by unravelling the mystery of where we were going. We were heading uphill on a windy road, but the complete absence of traffic baffled me: unheard of in Lyon at rush hour.
Forty minutes later, the arrival was somewhat anticlimactic. We were in the countryside, in front of a house surrounded by trees, but in the dark I couldn't deduce much more. Our phones stayed in their box, and we filed upstairs into a scene which looked as though the Michelin guide met Shipwrecked. It was small, just 14 seats arranged in pairs. The tables looked impossibly impractical, made from driftwood staggered over multiple levels and already laden with decoratively presented amuse bouches. Was that a fish's head? And where the hell was I going to put my wine glass? The waiters filed out, leather armour-like tops like characters from Assassin's Creed. Their trousers were baggy, reminiscent of gap year kids that think they've found themselves, but have actually just discovered marijuana.
A fusspot Briton vs the stoical French
We had no idea what we were eating until after each course. Since the menu was as far from a steak-frites as it's possible to get, this required blind faith, although I'd requested no meat, the sole fusspot Briton in a group of stoical French diners ready to eat whatever was put in front of them. Deciphering the dishes was no mean feat. There were fried green balls that tasted like peas. An eggshell made from chocolate filled with a salty liquid – sea water? Was I actually on Shipwrecked? Choux pastry filled with a rosemary-infused cream cheese that oddly tasted like a sweet roast dinner. I was scared that I was going to eat one of the table decorations by accident, mistaking a piece of bark for one of Galvan's creations. The wine glasses arrived with no base, stems slotting neatly into holes in the driftwood, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
For one of the courses, the waiters rolled out a trolley of what looked like dragon's eggs. I imagined that Galvan must have been a fantasy kid who dressed up as an elf and practised fencing with wooden swords: we'd moved from Squid Game to Assassin's Creed to Game of Thrones. They lit the eggs with what looked like Bunsen burners, and smoke filled the room. I was confused. I was also thoroughly enjoying myself. It didn't hurt that each course was accompanied by truly delicious wine pairings, served generously.
Be still my beating heart
What followed was such a whirlwind of flavours that muddled and delighted my taste buds all at once. Mushrooms in multiple ways: confit, fermented, in purée. Scallops served on a bed of lemon caviar, quails eggs poached in white chocolate, caramelised cauliflower accompanied with toasted almonds. A green lingot which tasted like caviar turned out to be leek. Much of what was served was seasonal, and I was told that the decor would change with the seasons as well as the menu.
Young Galvan in elf ears slays an orc with his wooden sword and pulls out its beating heart. At least, that's what I imagined was the inspiration for the next course and the restaurant name, 220 Bpm. The waiters appeared in front of each table with a carcass, of which animal I couldn't say. We were invited to put our hands inside the carcass to retrieve the next dish. I felt exceedingly smug as I pulled out my own spiced beetroot patty, as the eat-everything Frenchies around me had patties, made from beef and guinea fowl hearts. Some of them visibly blanched.
'It's the climatic point of the meal, you're eating the heart of the restaurant,' said Galvan. 'But this course has a double meaning: it also forces the diners to respect the fact that meat is a sacrifice of life. We don't waste any part of the animal here.' No orcs, then.
During dessert it happened. I ate part of the decor, taking a large bite of the beeswax base one of my dishes had been served upon. Perhaps all my senses were completely addled by then.
After five hours of pure theatre, it was time to head home. I was relieved that there were no blindfolds or audiobooks as I digested. Although some of the dishes had been nothing short of excellent, it wasn't the most delicious meal I'd ever eaten – a couple of dishes were a little too experimental for my liking. It was certainly the most memorable, though, and thoroughly worth it, although the squeamish might want to skip the heart course.

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