UPDATED @FBI. The #Pizzagate "chicken" in this image is Illuminati chef Damon Baehrel's "meat" served in his isolated basement restaurant. New Yorker Magazine, Decoded

There is nothing coincidental about the photo – you’ve now seen the “Time Machine” in action. (Here’s a hiking video full of pedophilic trees and clouds.) We knew that Damon Baehrel was a “human persona” of Illuminati Leader Kodiak several months ago and now that we know Kodiak’s also Jimmy Comet Alefantis and Anthony Bourdain, both of whom brag in articles about creating humans as “toys” to torture and consume, we thought we’d better revisit the story of this recluse in Upstate New York who oddly lied about the source of his meat in his interviews with the New Yorker, below.  Given that Alefantis and Bourdain are very overt in their cruelty to humans, it seemed more than likely that Kodiak’s Baehrel “human persona” would be supplying his own victims as butcher meat to this very exclusive restaurant in his basement. The photo above cemented this conclusion, and is explained below, in case you do not see it.

Illuminati leaders Kodiak and wife Bea choose their own names for their numerous human personas. The name Damon is meant as a play on “Damian” from the Omen. The name Baehrel is meant to be pronounced “Bear el” to the Illuminati and Pizzagate Players who know him.  We know him.  He calls himself “Kodiak” after the grizzly bear. So understanding the name Bear el, requires no stretch of the imagination. “Bear” means Kodiak, and “el” means mob Family boss, as we’ve told you about before in our Traveler and Illuminati Family Thesaurus. A mob boss is an “Al” “El” or “Joe” and those names can be worked into a coded name in any place.  Bear el  = Baehrel.  Moreover, Kodiak admitted to us months ago that he was Baehrel. We just didn’t know about Pizzagate yet, and didn’t know the extent of it until reading Bourdain’s and Comet’s own words bragging about torturing and killing humans (and Anderson Cooper, another Kodiak persona, does the same, here). His “eternal Illuminati wife” Bea is NilayLawson and brags about it as well, in words very similar to those used by Anthony Bourdain: One now, another for later. Bourdain claims it’s about “scotch” while Nilay claims it’s about “rabbits” in her comments responding to Jimmy Comet’s instagram photo of caged rabbits. Please see this post that ties Comet’s “Holiday” comment to his anti-Christ Christmas party.


We’ll look again through write ups of Baerhel below, but what we are most concerned about is that he lives on a 12-acre parcel in Upstate New York and cannot account for where he gets the meats he serves at his restaurant, in HIS BASEMENT.  This is the same Illuminati leader who operates the “human personas” (empty human shells) of Jimmy Comet and Anthony Bourdain, both of whom are proved serial killers by their own admissions decoded and linked above.  Baehrel may keep his victims in an adjacent time loop so that you won’t find obvious human remains on his farm, but he does cure his meats there and it seems easy enough to get samples for DNA testing. The information we give to you, especially you in law enforcement, is accurate. It’s also verifiable. We certainly are not the only people on the planet who can decipher the braggings of Kodiak and Bea. They head up the Illuminati, every Traveler sub-group, and Scientology. Also Heaven’s Gate. That website is still up and you can verify a lot of the lingo decoded here as the same lingo used by Kodiak and Bee there, such as calling human beings their “clothes” or “cars” or “vehicles.”  We know it is not that complicated. You don’t need to prove that they are Grey aliens living in numerous human “shells” to prosecute those shells individually for their Pizzagate activities. But we understand how bizarre “the whole truth” would sound in court. The important thing obviously is stopping them by whatever legal means are available.

We can tell you off the bat that this New Yorker article makes an effort to establish that Baehrel’s restaurant serves CHILDREN to the Illuminati Pizzagate Players. That hand sign of the writer on the left in the image below is the subtle Illuminati devil’s horns, which is displayed backward for subtlety with two middle fingers out and the outer fingers in, and in case you don’t see it, he threw in a V sign as well. The colors worn by these two “gentlemen” also are significant. Kodiak is Baehrel on the right, and he wears Yellow and Rust Red, or Brown-Red. We’ve told you numerous times that Kodiak is head of the Family Fours, color-coded as rust red and identified by the Pizzagate victims as the perpetrator. Kodiak is head of the Family Fours (Reds), Sixes (Green and Brown), and co-head of the Sevens (Blue) and Nines (Grey/Silver) with his wife Bee. Bee is head of the Twos (Greenish-Black or Purple), Fives (Yellow), Sevens (Blue) and Nines (Grey/Silver).  Kodiak mimics the head of the Threes (Black) to cause mayhem without it coming back on him. He also tells everyone that he is a One (White) and son of our Creator, David.  He is NOT.  For example as Marshall  Applewhite of Heaven’s Gate he ran around claiming to be Jesus (just read their website). As L. Ron Hubbard he also claimed to be the son of God.  He isn’t. He’s a Grey alien.

Back to the clothing in the photo below: Yellow represents the Human Family Fives. Browns are hybrid human/alien Sixes, Rust reds are alien Fours. Blue as worn by this article’s writer on the left is the color of the Family Sevens. The Sevens and the Leader of the Rust-red Fours (Kodiak) are the people most often identified as the Family Groups breeding children to be raped and tortured, and then consuming them after they die of their wounds. The Sevens are the humans who behave most “thuggishly” because they have access to time travel and use it to oppress the rest of the human Family members. The rust-red Fours probably aren’t involved other than that Kodiak is their leader and he is the main perpetrator. But Kodiak is the leader of all the numbers, if not actually then by default because he can control or mimic anyone. Who runs the human breeding program to make and raise “hotard” children to sell as “Pizzas”?  At the end of the day it is the Family Nines (Grey aliens) who hide inside of human Sevens, just as they are admitting to doing in this article from the New Yorker. This explains how “humans” could possibly be so cruel as to have a “Pizza” breeding program. They aren’t. That inhumane behavior is the work of inhuman Grey alien Nines in the Family who are pretending to be human, although undoubtedly they have attracted participation of humans here or there. But the organized Pizza Program is Kodiak’s, and he’s a Nine (Grey) hiding as a human in all of the other color groups of the Family. He occupies the “human persona shells” of Jimmy Comet Alefantis and his clone Mark Strassmann, Anthony Bourdain and Damon Baehrel. Wife Bee is equally cruel and also is a Nine (Grey) hiding in several humans in the various color groups. Bee occupies Marina Abramovic, Taylor Swift and her clones Karlie Kloss and Zeena LaVey, among numerous other “human suits.” There are posts about all of these personas on this blog, just search any name.

Here’s the Illuminati hand sign apparently from the writer of this New Yorker article:

InkedIlluminati Signal Damon Baehrel_LI

More importantly, here’s a close up of the plants in the background on the left. We know this is strange but this is how they pass messages and it is why so many Travelers and Illuminati think that Kodiak and Bee are magical beings.  They are not. It is Grey alien technology and we all are hostages inside their simulation. So they have magical powers to the extent that this simulation we live in gives it to them. But it is technology, and we lump it all together and call it the “Time Machine” because it takes the ability to stop time to be able to rearrange things to make images like the one below happen in real time. Here’s the plants, in case you don’t see it, it is a chicken, which is common pedophile Code for children, bending over with another larger bird behind it. 
They can alter anything in our environment in real time, using the time machine to go back a few minutes and arrange things as they want them to appear. They can do this with the clouds, shown here, the stars in the sky, the trees, the shadows cast by objects, and even the furniture in your house. Here, the New Yorker has informed the Pizzagate crowd that Baehrel’s restaurant is serving children. We can’t even say that this is innocent on the part of the New Yorker, as their writer is standing there flashing the Illuminati “devils horns” in front of the chicken being raped.
That photo says more than any decoding we could do of the articles below. It is clear that children are held, attacked or consumed on the premises of Baehrel’s basement restaurant. Please go and find out right away, FBI. Those are your kids too. 
Below we try to decode this article for you but it is very well written. It is designed not to be understood unless you already understand the context based on the picture above of the chicken. It is written for fellow Pizzagate Players, to amuse themselves, which they often do. The only thing these Greys like to do besides attack humans is to brag about attacking humans. These messages aren’t meant to pass a whole lot of strategic information. This is a Grey Grid that we are living in. These Greys are bulletproof, it is their Grid!  So most often the messages you will find in their communications are nothing but mean-spirited brags about harming children and adults. That’s it. Why don’t they keep their mouths shut to avoid detection?  First, they never expected anyone to decode them in public. Second, they are very irrational beings. They are now sending out messages about “communicating more carefully” without considering that every human on the planet can simply look at their communications before they began to be careful and use those to identify Pizzagate criminals, just as we are doing on this blog.  Third, they really don’t care that much if they are caught, because they can leave a minimally functional “human shell” sitting in prison, while the Grey who operated that human “vehicle” can jump into another “human vehicle” and proceed from there.  Fourth, the Greys open up time loops into the past and wreak havoc on the human population. This Earth is sitting in one of those time loops, which is why we are at the mercy of the Greys. It is their time window. We are therefore hostages. The Greys can close this window any time they want. They historically have first staged an “alien attack” for fun, to wipe out the human population before closing the window to the past. We explain the time loops in various places on the blog.
We are doing everything we can to encourage the Greys to leave this window open. For starters, we have been able to close new time windows as they open, which means that their Greys here will have no new loop to “Jump to” if they want to wipe out our time loop with their grand “alien attack” scenario. They will kill many of their own people if they do attack this loop. We’ll keep you posted. So far this approach is working, and they keep pushing back the “alien attack” date. Right now it’s the first week of May, and this has been going on since August 2016 where they ramp up for an attack and then stand down.
Here’s the text of the article and below that are two more. This text is easy to follow if you know the context and the Players. But very subtle if you don’t know the context. That is why we have had this article for months, well before we knew about Pizzagate, and yet failed before to see the hidden message buried within. Now that we know about Pizzagate, the code words leap off the page. There are much more obvious examples of Code-Talk to be found on this blog, such as this article calling for Hera’s “character” to be “viciously assassinated,” an encoded call for Hera to be killed.  And this museum sculpture calling for Hera to be “erased” using the Time Machine. It is helpful in decoding to remember to ignore the inflection. For example they can be on a video giving an “angry tirade” about “politics” while their actual dialog viewed apart from its tone sends a message about something else. A good example of this is all of the messages sent on CBS’s the Bold and the Beautiful, where the characters’ everyday soap opera dialog is actually all about attacking Hera, and the human race. Another example is this politician talking calmly and politely about how “they are not aliens and are our friends and neighbors,” while a woman in his background blinks out secret messages to her Grey pals.


Damon Baehrel’s methods are a marvel, and his tables are all booked until 2025. Or are they?

The first time Jeffrey Merrihue came across the name Damon Baehrel, he was amazed that he hadn’t heard of him. “I didn’t understand how the secret had been kept,” Merrihue said recently. “The people I go around with, it’s hard for us to find something that is genuinely unique and new.” The people Merrihue goes around with are gastronomes, the trophy hunters (meaning serial killers of children) of haute cuisine, the kind who travel the world to dine at famous, or famously obscure, restaurants. After a trip to Cape Town this spring, to a restaurant called the Test Kitchen, Merrihue, who lives in London and produces promotional videos for restaurants, became, he says, the second person to have eaten at every restaurant on the so-called World’s 50 Best list. He’s also been to eighty of the restaurants to which Michelin has granted three stars.

Around Christmas in 2013, a friend of Merrihue’s alerted him to a Bloomberg News piece about an unranked contender, which Bloomberg called the “most exclusive restaurant in the U.S.” It described a gourmet operation—in Earlton, New York, a half hour south of Albany—in the basement of a woodland home. Once called Damon Baehrel at the Basement Bistro, the place was now simply called Damon Baehrel, after its presiding wizard and host, (meaning the Grand Wizard of the Illuminati) who served as forager, farmer, butcher, chef, sous-chef, sommelier, waiter, busboy, dishwasher, and mopper. Baehrel derived his ingredients, except meat, fish, and dairy, from his twelve acres of yard, garden, forest, and swamp. He made his oils and flours from acorns, dandelions, and pine; incorporated barks, saps, stems, and lichen, while eschewing sugar, butter, and cream; cured his meats in pine needles; made dozens of cheeses (without rennet); and cooked on wooden planks, soil, and stone. He had christened his approach Native Harvest (meaning the Human Harvest, “Natives” to the Grey aliens). The diners who got into the restaurant raved about it online. But at the time it was booked through 2020. “We spend our lives looking for places like this,” Merrihue said. (And they do. Raping, torturing, killing and consuming children occupies nearly all of their thoughts, day in and day out. Just look at Kodiak’s Jimmy Comet persona Instagrams.) 

Undaunted, Merrihue sent an e-mail to the address provided on Baehrel’s Web site. A man who identified himself as Terrance, (Code for “Terror” as also seen in Anthony Bourdain’s article) a friend of the chef’s, wrote that Baehrel had stopped taking reservations. “That wound me up even more,” Merrihue said. “I pride myself on getting into restaurants.” Still, it didn’t look good. “I thought, I might die before I get a chance to eat there.” (This line makes clear that Merrihue also is a Grey alien. “I pride myself” is a note to readers that he is part of the “lion’s pride” which is Code for the Greys, who call themselves “Cats.” Although the name “Merrihue” also itself is code for a “Get” or evil wizard in the Traveler Family. The next line is an inside joke reference to the fact that the Greys close each time loop with an “alien attack” where they descend in spaceships and blow the inhabitants of Earth away with sound guns and lasers. This article was written in August 2016 and the date to blow up this time loop was in August 2016 and has been reset for the first week of May 2017. So a five-year wait for a table means that this Illuminati writer will be dead before he gets a table. He doesn’t care, he’s a Grey hiding behind a human form. When the human body dies, he jumps out and into another one in another time loop. We also think that Kodiak is this Merrihue (and also Nick Paumgarten), as well as Baehrel because his name and clothing indicate that he is the human in charge of the Traveler Sevens, with his blue shirt (Merrihue). And Kodiak is the Grey pretending to be a human as he runs the human Traveler Sevens.  Nick Paumgarten, the writer here, is a name with meaning to. Nick is short for Nickel, which is a silver metal and that is commonly code for a Grey alien. Paumgarten should be read as “Pa um garden” and that means, the “Father” (Pa) and Grand Wizard (“um”) of the Garden. Kodiak calls the Earth time loops his “Garden” where he breeds and cultivates human victims. He brags about the same concept as Anderson Cooper, the “Taco Factory Manager,” and as Jimmy Comet, the “Pizza Maker.”  So this Nick Paumgarten is Kodiak talking, again, about breeding human chickens for Pizza and Taco purposes. (And here’s a link to his saying the same thing using King Cake as the metaphor. Here’s Anthony Bourdain with the scotch metaphor. And here’s a metaphor for “the Bakery” generally. There are more, just look around the blog.))

A year and a half later, Merrihue heard from Terrance again. Baehrel had an opening, three weeks later, on a weekday at 4 p.m(Four pm is a coded reference to Kodiak being the “Godfather” as head of the Family Fours, the reds and rust-reds.) Merrihue hastily assembled a group, a “fantastic four of fine dining.” (Same coded reference, the “Fantastic Four” means four Illuminati members. The word “fantastic” is a coded reference to the movie Fantasia and the magic of Mickey as a Wizard. The Wizards mostly are Illuminati rather than just Travelers or Scientologists.) The three others were Kevin Chan, the editor of the Web site Fine Dining Explorer, who claims to be the first person ever to eat at all of the 50 Best; Andy Hayler, a well-known critic who says he is the only person ever to eat at all of the Michelin three-stars; and Mijune Pak, the editor of the Canadian Web site Follow Me Foodie. Chan flew in from Hong Kong, Pak from Vancouver, Merrihue and Hayler from London. They met in Manhattan and hired a limousine to take them the two and a half hours to Earlton (this also has meaning that Baehrel lives in a town intended to evoke Royalty). There was a fifth person as well—“my brother, who has no credentials,” Merrihue said. (These other three of the “fantastic four” probably are Pizzagaters.  We think this reference to his brother having no credentials obviously is Code and it may mean that he is not Illuminati, or not a Pizzagate Player. Or simply  is a human and therefore different from the others who are “Fantastic” or magical Wizards of the Illuminati.) 

The brother arrived early. (This sentence explains why the brother is different and “lacks credentials.” He is “early” and that is Code for Human. “Late” refers to Grey aliens. So there are four Grey alien Illuminati Pizzagaters and one human. (See our Family Thesaurus))  The gate to Baehrel’s property was closed. Once the others had arrived, the gate swung open. The driver left them and headed into the nearby village of Coxsackie for some pizza. (Obviously this “pizza” reference is not a coincidence. And neither is “Coxsackie” if you think about how that sounds “for some Pizza” – (and which also could be read as “foursome Pizza”)).  They walked up a driveway to a house on a hill. Around back, they came upon a manicured entrance to the basement. Baehrel, in an apron, greeted them enthusiastically.

He told them that he had just served a fifteen-course lunch to fourteen diners. (Generally numbers are read as added together, so 15 becomes a 6 and 14 becomes a 5. What this means is that Baehrel said he just fed human Sixes of the Family to human Fives of the Family, probably without their knowledge, seriously.) Over the next seven hours, he served Merrihue and his companions twenty-three courses (read as “FIVE”). (He served these Greys pretending to be Sevens, 23 courses, which could be 23 actual courses but is more likely to mean that he fed the Greys human Traveler Fives, due to the next sentences). “I hate long meals,” Merrihue recalled.  (“Long” is code for Grey alien in their lexicon while “short” means human.  And “hate” means love while “love” means hate.  So Merrihue says he loves his Grey alien meals and Grey means are where they eat humans.)  “But we couldn’t believe it—it just flew by.” (“We couldn’t” means “we are aliens” – where “Can” means human  in their lexicon and “can’t” means alien, positive is human, negative is alien, and present/future tense is human while past tense is alien. “Couldn’t believe it” means aliens hiding as human Sevens (code-worded as “believe.” “It” also is code for alien. So the whole sentence is saying that we are aliens hiding in the bodies of Traveler human Sevens. “It just flew by” also is code and it means that they are black magic “witches” or “wizards” who can fly.)  In the end, they paid around four hundred and thirty dollars a head, including a corkage fee. (They’d brought their own wine.) ($430 is meant to be read as 7 again, noting that they are Family Sevens. “They brought their own wine” also has meaning as we see it come up a lot but we aren’t certain what it means here, except perhaps they moved in their own victims to kill and consume from an adjacent time loop.) 

“The consensus was that it was absolutely outstanding,” Merrihue said. “It is the most memorable meal I have ever had. Would it have been my favorite if it had been made by twenty people? O.K., no. But top ten, maybe. (20 people refers to the Alien Twos who have reported to us that the human Sevens and Rust-red Fours are the perpetrators who breed and torture them as “Pizzas.” So, “would it have been better if the Pizzas were Alien Twos rather than human Fives?” And now considering all of the foregoing decoded it appears that Kodiak (Baehrel) fed the human Sixes to some human Fives probably forced them, and then they tortured and killed human Fives and ate those at this dinner.)  I have never seen anywhere where one person does everything.”

“It was incredible,” Chan told me. “High quality, precisely cooked. The flavor profile. Each course so well thought out. It’s almost too surreal to believe.”  (This also is Code which means Chan here is a Pizzagater too, obviously all of these dinner participants are. “Each course so well thought out” where “thought” is the same as “think” which is code for human Travelers. So each course included human Travelers. “Real” also is code for human, as is “believe.” Together this mishmash probably is saying that these Greys dined on humans.)

All four wrote glowing reviews online. (If someone has Lexis Nexis access, you should acquire these four “glowing reviews.”  Also, “glowing” refers again to them being Wizards, who glow in the dark. And these “glowings” are in past-tense – “wrote” – so that means these are alien glowers.)  A few months later, on Merrihue’s site, FoodieHub, he named Damon Baehrel the best restaurant in the world for 2015. “He is an unheralded genius,” Merrihue told me. “He really should be in the upper echelons of the greatest chefs who have ever lived.” (He is truly a great chef. Kodiak has been a Grey alien torturing humans for at least 2000 years, which is why he’s an inventive chef in several of his personas – Jimmy Comet, Anthony Bourdain and Damon Baehrel. But his specialty is torturing and serving humans.)  

“The depth of your wrongness is so deep that it is unknowable.”

Let’s pause for a moment and ponder this New Yorker cartoon. We’ve said many times that the Greys, the Illuminati, the Pizzagate Players, and the Traveler human Sevens all have access to time travel, which is Grey technology.  They use it to do things like make the flowers in the top photo look like a chicken being raped by a larger bird. They also use their time travel to find a target and go back into that target’s past by a year and cut off their legs, so that in the present they look down and magically have no legs, which is terrifying (and which we think they might have done with the guy at the Boston Marathon “bombing event”).  With that in mind, this cartoon above likely is a message to us, using the time machine, which they do all the time. But are we “wrong” about something? We don’t think so. “Wrong” is code for alien, and “right” means human.  So this cartoon seems to be saying that the extent of this Grey alien occupation (“wrongs”), where they prey upon the other beings here is “so deep that it is unknowable.” Perhaps they sent us this message with the time machine when we first downloaded this article back in August of 2016. Since then we have learned how very deep this Grey occupation runs.  We are living inside a Grey-created simulated reality. It is their human factory farm and everything we know about autonomy and democracy, even religion and astronomy, is designed to keep us all calm and preoccupied so that we don’t notice that we are “frogs in boiling water” as this You Tuber puts it in this excellent related video. It is their Grid. And we honestly don’t know how we will persuade them to leave us alone. We can’t leave ourselves because we now exist inside of their simulated environment. How to force them from their own prison? How to prevent these attacks while we wait for outside help? Back to the article.

Is Baehrel unheralded? You can read, and watch, a lot about him on the Internet. There are stories from Bloomberg, the Daily News, the Daily Mail, Town & Country, Fox, Reuters, China Central TV, and ABC News, as well as raves from foodie bloggers who have been there and, in spite of a purported dining-room photo ban, posted the requisite dish pics. His story caters to such gastronomes, as they vie for superlative experiences—most extreme, most local, most remote, most odd. (Notice that this sentence makes no sense. His restaurant caters to gastronomes, not his story. And “Story” is their Code word for me (Hera), as we point out in posts and in the Thesaurus. So what this is saying is that I, Hera, (called “the Story”) am the object of these “gastronomes” (and “Gas” is another Code name for the Greys, because it is a grey substance), as these gastronomes “vie for superlative experiences – most extreme (etc.)” These Greys attack me all day and night. I am the STAR of their sick “Truman Show” that they call the “Game of Love” and which we explain elsewhere in hideous detail. This is true, I am the designated rape and murder victim in these time loops. They attack, torture and kill my family, and then rape and torture me for months and then kill and consume my body and soul. So I have no doubt that they are doing the same to the “Pizzas.” Moreover the Pizzas themselves concur, and these vicious Greys brag about it in these articles.)

Here’s a Fäviken, the exotic farmhouse restaurant in rural Sweden, except it’s just one guy, in Earlton, and it’s booked through 2025. Its implausibility may be as important to its appeal as any range of textures or tastes. In June, the blog Opinionated About Dining (a blog that should be read carefully by authorities) released its list of the top hundred restaurants in the United States, based on a survey of globe-trotting pilgrims like Merrihue. Baehrel came in fifth, ahead of any other restaurant east of Chicago. (Blue Hill at Stone Barns was seventh; Eleven Madison Park was fifteenth.) MSN.com just named it the best restaurant in the state of New York. One evening in May, I happened to be watching “Jeopardy,” and under the category “Almost Fanatical Devotion,” in which the other questions had to do with Stephen Colbert, Soul Cycle, and Phish, the following appeared on the screen: “There’s a 10-year waiting list for Damon Baehrel’s Earlton, N.Y. restaurant & its 5-hour this ‘menu’ of small portions.” A contestant guessed correctly: “What is the tasting menu?” (“Small” is a Code word for humans (Tall and Big mean Grey aliens).)

There are armchair gourmets, too, among the devotees. In June, Baehrel honored the Make-A-Wish request of a teen-ager from Nebraska. The boy has a condition that prevents him from being able to eat food, and, perhaps as a consequence, he has a fascination with food preparation. He wished for a day of working in the kitchen alongside Chef Baehrel, whom he’d discovered on the Web. The family brought along special air filters, and the boy wore a mask. (Does this story ring true? This sounds more like an advertisement that “devotees” can find Baehrel’s kill room basement broadcast on the “Dark Web” – which it is. “The Boy wore a mask” is refers to the attackers, who wear hockey masks like in the horror movies to attack, and the “armchair gourmets” who wear Virtual Reality goggles to attack victims remotely from home.  This is true, although regular human technology has not caught up to what they Greys are making possible. I know from being the victim, firsthand.  I (Hera) as “the Story” or “Star” am broadcast 24-7 to the Pizzagate Players and so are numerous other hostages, including my family. It is also advanced Grey tech, and if you are a human being, you should assume that the Greys also have you on video beamed up to their guard tower. There’s no visible camera gear, and it is like they are in the room. They can attack you although you cannot see them. At best you see odd faces lined up in stadium seating in your darkened room, just like is depicted in the video for Bohemian Rhapsody, decoded here.  Bear in mind that these Greys comprise the Illuminati, and Bohemian Rhapsody depicts their attacks both in my home and other victims’ and also at Bohemian Grove.  Bohemian Rhapsody, Bohemian Grove. And these Illuminati Players also can see through any human’s eyes, everything that you can see, and hear everything that you can hear. We don’t as humans have this tech, so we have no idea how to defeat this tech. I’ve tried many things and nothing works, although I suspect shutting down our entire power grid may help with many Grey-related problems. Because the Illuminati Players see all that I see, often when they have messages for each other, they encode them into whatever I am watching or reading using their “Time Machine.” Apparently there’s no backup communications plan because I keep decoding their garbage on this blog, and yet they still keep transmitting messages where I can see them. Lately all of their messages throw in references to the “end of the World” which obviously has us gravely concerned.)  Back to the article.

In February, I got in touch with Terrance through an e-mail address on the Web site. His reply began, “Thanks for contacting Damon! I’m Terrance. I’ve arranged Damon’s reservations from my NYC office since 1993.” He added, “I’m not an employee, just a friend. I’d be happy to present your inquiry to him.”

Terrance arranged a time for me to talk on the phone with Baehrel, to discuss my desire to write about the restaurant. Baehrel had an avid, guileless way of speaking that put me in mind of Ned Flanders, from “The Simpsons.” “How lucky am I to get to do this?” he said. “Most chefs aspire to get out of the kitchen. Not me.” I told him that I wanted to see him at work, on a night when the restaurant was full. I imagined something like the setup in an Agatha Christie movie: a convergence of exotic strangers on a remote locale.

Baehrel told me that he couldn’t make room for me as a paying diner, and there wouldn’t really be space for me to hang around and observe. He didn’t want to spoil the experience for his guests, who have been waiting for years, and have often travelled a great distance and are paying a great deal. (All of the bolded words are Code.  “Couldn’t,” “wouldn’t,” “paying,” “really be,” all are code words for alien. “Space” is “sp ace” an “Ace Speller” which means “Grand Wizard” of black magic. “Hang around” also refers to a Grand Wizard who the Travelers refer to as a “Get.”  Get’s “hang around” – they are black magic wizards who can move around in shadow form and just hang there in the corner of your room, if they want. But it is not black magic, none of it is. All of it is advanced Grey technology, which even they did not know until recently, and some probably still don’t believe. “He didn’t want” is code for a alien “w ant” and “didn’t” (any negative word is code for alien), and “he” which is human (male is human, female is alien). So alien hiding in a human didn’t want to “spoil” the experience. “Sp oil” is code for Alien Twos. “Oil” is code for Alien Twos. Baehrel didn’t feel like throwing Alien Two “Pizzas” into “the experience” (as victims) while he was posing as a human Seven, and while his guests were Grey alien Nines (“years” is Code for “y” = alien and “ears” which means the Greys who can read your thoughts, and also can miniaturize and move into your brain through your ear canal, which is unbelievable but also true. Finally he also mentions they “travelled a great distance and are paying a great deal” and this means that they are Traveler (“travelled”) Nines (“Great” and “deal”). The word “Great” is said twice for emphasis that these were Grey alien Family Nines coming to the restaurant, as “great” is another Code word for “Grey.” And “deal” is Code for “d” = alien and “eal” which means “eel” which is another Code word for the Greys, aka Traveler Nines.) Back to the article.

Instead, Baehrel invited me to meet him on one of his days off. “I’ve got great news about Monday February 29,” he wrote in an e-mail.  (Monday is the second day of the week, so 2, Feb is the second month, so another 2, and 29 added together is 11.  This then all is code for “here is the 411, the information.”) “We were able to re-arrange almost everything that day so you and I can get together.” He suggested 11 a.m., (Code for “he suggested attacking an Alien Two in the Family), as he had an unmovable appointment earlier.  (Who would want to go to a restaurant with a five-year wait before 11 in the morning? This obviously is Code, you don’t hear of too many 10 am restaurant reviews except maybe at iHop and Denny’s.  “Earlier” we said means human, (late means alien).  So he already had there an unmovable human body? What that means is that he already had a kill. Earlier is code for human, so humans weren’t available to rape and torture, as the human already was dead (“unmovable”) and would be served to diners. Thus Baehrel suggested a Family Two (code word 11 am), since the “earlier” ie “human” victim already was “unmovable” ie dead.)  I asked if it was something I could observe, such as a delivery or a meeting with a supplier. He wrote back, “I got a chuckle out of when you suggested I may be ‘meeting with a supplier.’ Not sure if you realize, I have no suppliers. No ordering or waiting for delivery trucks . . . ever.”

The morning obligation had to do with an adult son, who is severely disabled. “My wife takes care of him,” he told me. “We can’t go away. One of us has to be home all the time.” (Setting aside the adult son, which may very well be true, obviously this is a message that they have to be “home” although it is unclear right now what the message is meant to convey. The more notable thing is that he has no suppliers…. EVER. Yet he does not run a livestock farm.)

I drove up from Manhattan. It was a wet, blustery day. The G.P.S. steered me off the Thruway onto narrow winding back roads pegged with “Repeal the S.A.F.E. Act” pro-gun yard signs. After a while, around a turn, I came upon a tidy wood sign painted with Baehrel’s name and a logo of acorns, pine needles, and cattail spikes arranged around a sumac bob. I was a few minutes early. The gate was closed. I waited. Beyond the gate, a newly paved driveway curved through a wide lawn, past garden plots and trees hung with sap buckets, and up toward a simple two-story drab-green clapboard house. (“Simple” is Code for human and “drab-green” is Code for the Traveler Family Sixes. “Clap” or “clapping” refers to a black magic wizard or show. So this is a quick note to readers that Baehrel is the Grand Wizard of the Traveler Family Sixes, or the Boss, and that Boss is Kodiak.)  At eleven, the gates swung open.

I parked in a small lot. In addition to the house, there were a neatly painted red barn with a brick patio, a small greenhouse, some cold frames, a tractor, and a big silver Dodge pickup. (Why bother with these details? Because they are Code.  “Small” lot means human. So in addition to being the human Six boss, Baehrel has a “red barn” (human Family Fours), a “brick patio” (alien Family Fours), a “small Greenhouse” (human Sixes), “cold frames” cold refers to “ice” which means Grey alien Nines, a “tractor” which is a reference to the family Sevens who “mow the grass” – they are the mobsters and thugs, and a “big silver Dodge pickup” where both “big” and “silver” are Code for Grey alien Nines. So he is saying that this is Kodiak, the Illuminati leader and Grey alien who secretly heads up the various Traveler Family groups while pretending to be a human.) Out back, a brook ran from a broad marsh and through several acres of woods. From the lot, a brick path led under a white arbor to a doorway of leaded glass and wood, with the name Damon Baehrel over the door. I knocked, and he answered immediately and chided me for knocking. “Come on in!” (Same thing, “marsh” is Code for “Martian” which means “alien” (they aren’t from Mars, that’s just the Code), brick = fours, white = Ones and that is David’s family that Kodiak pretends he is a part of, claiming to be the son of God), “leaded glass” which is the alien Fours (lead) and Nines (glass), and “wood” which is the Alien Twos (called “ags” “aggies” “plants” “trees.”) So again this entire paragraph mentions just about every Traveler color group, which generally is a message that Kodiak is the head of all of the color groups, both human and alien.

Baehrel had on a brown apron (brown is the color of the hybrid Human/Alien Traveler Family Sixes), and a tunic with his name and “chef/grower” stitched on the chest. (“stitched” is Code they use for cutting off a victim’s arms and legs, as depicted in these Simpsons  pictures of my “Wedding Day” in their “Game of Love,” and what they plan to do to me, Hera, very soon:

My Wedding Day
Cutting off my arms and legs is called “Love”


They also call me “Cake” and I did not know why until I saw the above Marina Abramovic images. Marina Abramovic is Kodiak’s (Baehrel’s) Illuminati “eternal wife” who calls herself Bee. The name is meant to be spelled out as “Mar in a Abra movi c” – which means, Mar(tian) in a Abra(black-magic) movi(e) to c(see). This lets the Pizzagaters know that she is a Grey alien (“Mar”) and their black-magic Queen who is making their “Game of Love” movie, which is the one I star in for my entire life, like the Truman Show, but with torture and mind-control, and maiming and death. Bee and Kodiak have written numerous popular songs about raping and killing me, but probably the most disgusting one is “My Sister Rose” where “rose” and “sister” both are Code names for me.

Kodiak breeds children to be raped and tortured to death as Pizzas. He brags about it as Jimmy Comet, and also as Anthony Bourdain, and also as Anderson Cooper. Given that they plan to cut off my arms and legs and rape me to death in front of my family in the near future, we certainly hope that the authorities will at least attempt to distract them by going after these three serial killer “human shells” of Kodiak, and Baehrel. We hope you understand that this is all about whisking victims away into another time zone, another loop to attack them and kill them. They can also attack invisibly, anyone. So it is pointless for us to seek help from the authorities against an invisible attacker. The best we can hope for is to distract them with defending their human suits such as Baehrel, Jimmy Comet, Bourdain and Anderson Cooper. And Marina Abramovic, one of wife Bee’s “human suits.” Back to the article.

“I’m going to cook for you,” he said. “When I say I’m the luckiest person in the world, I really mean it.” (Generally being “lucky” to the Travelers we think means you are slated to be killed, as in “your luck has run out,” which also is symbolized by 777.  But Kodiak is the foremost murderer of all time. He inhabits hundreds of people, including just about every serial killer in the (short 800-year) history of mankind’s existence in this Grey Grid. So he’s bragging that he’s killed more humans than anyone else, and that is true. He and Illuminati wife Bee think of little else but torturing and consuming humans.)  He’s in his early fifties. He had puffy cheeks, slightly sunken eyes, straight brown hair, and a kind of goofy, high-strung optimism at odds with the popular notion of chefs as chilly sophisticates or imperious pirates. (Chefs are not thought of as imperious pirates. But Kodiak is. That is a good description of him. He’s Anthony Bourdain.)

“He says he feels empty inside.”

Another New Yorker cartoon to ponder, but this one is easy.  R2-D2 and C3PO are robots. The Greys and the upstairs “Parents” or Illuminati humans call all of the humans here on Earth “robots” because we live inside a Grey simulation.  So this is a joke at our expense that we are “empty inside.”  They also do clone humans and breed children to be sold as Pizzas who are “empty inside” in that they do not have advanced cognition. They then robot these human “suits” around and pretend to be humans like us.  They also attack these empty human children as “Pizzas” and “Hotards” as Jimmy Comet put it. They raise them in cages like veal.

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“The gate is closed,” he said. “No one is going to bother us.”  (This means he moves the diners to another time loop and closes the door or the gate back to this time loop. In their attack time loop there are no humans around to respond to a victim’s screams. This is accurate and so horrific. We do need help to save these victims, including our own family.) The dining room was snug, seating no more than sixteen guests (read as Seven Family humans), with a table set up in the middle as though for a single party of six. It was tidy, not really rustic, more varnished than one might expect. The walls were painted a brushed ochre. A stained-glass panel in the wall read “Good Food” backward. (Illuminati reference, symbolizes “As Above, So Below, or the “mirror reflection,” the “exact opposite” and is Code to the Players that the dining room is a portal to another time loop to conduct the torture and kill.)  Baehrel had installed it that way so you could read it in a nearby mirror. (Same thing, telling the Players that there is a nearby mirror, a nearby portal.) Along the back wall, a broad table was arrayed with bowls of seeds, nuts, leaves, roots, berries, and mushrooms; Mason jars (lets them know he’s talking about Mason portals, Illuminati time portals to other loops) of sap and flour; and vials of oil, all marked with painter’s tape describing the contents and the vintage—“Acorn oil 8/15,” “Golden Rod flour ’14.” The Native Harvest tag had been his wife’s suggestion. “I was inspired by Native Americans,” he said. “I wanted it to be based on the people who were here in this country before we were.” Supposition was his guide: he said that he had never actually read anything about Native American cuisine. (This is to explain to the reader that Baehrel references the humans, not actual “Native Americans.” To the Greys we are the “Navi” – the Natives like in the movie Avatar, except humans are the resource they are “harvesting” – hence the term “Native Harvest.” It really is this sickening.)

He worked through the items on display. (They call mutilating a human body “work” or “artwork” and the thugs who do it are called “artists” or “workers” – they actually make leather goods out of human skin. Bee told me she was going to “make me a purse” and by that she meant she was going to make a purse out of me.) Lily tuber, cattail stems, milkweed, bull thistle. By watching deer in the woods, he had discovered that the inner barks of certain trees have a salty taste. While chopping wood, he found that a particular lichen takes on an oniony flavor for three weeks a year. He made a cooked powder from it. “You’re gonna love it!”  (This is Code. “Love it” means to rape and mutilate and torture a victim, to rape them to death, or “love them” to death. That is why they call the rape and torture of me (Hera) the “Game of Love.”)

Baehrel relies heavily on starch and stock made from rutabagas. He uses wild-violet stems as a thickener. (“Wild-violet stems” means purple “ags” which refers to the Family Alien Twos.)  He inoculates fallen logs with mushroom spores.  (to inoculate fallen Twos means to Gang rape)  He’ll spend seven hours gathering three-quarters of a pound of clover—enough to fill a steamer trunk. (“Steam” is a code word for the Greys, as is “smoke”)  “I do it at night, with a headlamp,” he said. (For at least some of the attacks, Baehrel (Kodiak) and his Grey Players put victims in completely darkened rooms to attack them. The Greys can see clearly in the dark. But they also can pull up into an adjacent string of time and move into and out of a victim’s space like passing through a screen, invisibly, even in a lighted room. They attack the victim who does not see the attackers or where they are attacking from. All of this is to ratchet up the terror in the victim. They do this to me (Hera) too. There is no way to defend against invisible attackers. They also paralyze the victim with some form of advanced technology, including their vocal cords so that a victim’s screams can’t get out.)

He had me sit at a table in the corner, a two-top, from which I couldn’t see the door to the kitchen. He wanted me to have the dining experience. He said, “Don’t worry, I’m a professional. I’m not going to kill you.” (This obviously is an inside joke since Baehrel drags the victims in “from the kitchen door” which is an adjacent string of time, and tortures them as part of the “dining experience.” He has been doing this for hundreds of years and knows how to torture a victim for months without killing them.)  He filled my glass from a pitcher. “It’s sap. Sycamore sap.” It tasted like water, with a hint of something. A few minutes later, he came out with another pitcher. “This is sparkling maple sap, with dried lemon verbena. I have lemon trees in containers, but I don’t get many lemons. Just the leaves.” (“lemons” is Code for human Family Fives, color-coded Yellow)  He said he harvests about a dozen saps: maple, birch, sycamore, hickory, walnut, butternut, beech, hardwood cherry. “Sycamore sap, when concentrated, is a little salty. You can brine things in it. Hickory sap is very briny and salty. Good for long cooking. I’ll brine a pork shoulder in hickory sap and pine needles for nineteen days. Cherry sap is salty and sweet, bitter, with herb hints like marjoram and lavender.

“My biggest challenge is creating enough flour,” he went on. “I make it from cattails, pine—the inner bark—dandelions, clover, goldenrod, beechnut, hickory nuts, acorns. A huge part of my life is making flour. It takes one to one and a half years to make acorn flour. Acorns from the red oak have bitter tannins. White oak is more like a nut. In fall, I gather the acorns up in burlap sacks. Around New Year’s, I put the sacks in the stream, tied up. I leave them there all winter, under the ice. By spring, the tannic bitterness is gone.” (Kodiak and Bee keep some victims “on ice” so that they can torture them for extended months on end without the victim dying. This may refer to that, but not certain.)

I asked him how he’d figured this out.

“Soaking didn’t work. I tried a circulation tank, and that didn’t work, either. I press them by hand, in a vise, or with stones. No machines.” (The vise is used by Kodiak and Bee to torture the human soul after it rises from a dying body, which is depicted here):

The first course was served on a slab of sawed wood. It was a small rectangle of what looked like salami atop a curled cracker. He said, “It takes me sixteen to eighteen months to make cedar flour. I use a pull knife, a two-handled grater, to shave off some cedar under the bark. The shavings are bitter, tannic—inedible. I soak them in water. Every four to six weeks, I soak them. After a year or a year and a half, I can grind it into cedar flour. So the crisp is made from cedar flour, with a little hickory-nut oil, duck-egg-white powder, water, sea salt, which I sometimes render.” He produced a jar of sea salt from the sample table. “I made the batter and baked the crisp today.” The rectangle of meat, he said, was blue-foot chicken cured in pine-needle juice, pulp, and powder for eighteen months.

The morsel was delicious, though it was difficult—and would continue to be, during the next four hours—for an amateur and glutton like me (in fact, for anyone who is being honest with himself) to tell whether my appreciation, fervent as it often became, had been enhanced by the description of the work and the ingredients that had gone into it. The tongue is suggestible. New words register as new flavors. As numerous blind wine tastings over the years have demonstrated, you taste what you want to taste.

(On this note we are going to stop decoding this. You get the idea. And Kodiak and Bee monitor me constantly. They are insane Grey aliens who live to torture humans. So to have a victim (me) here to decode their bragging about it gets them excited and aroused. And soon they’ll be torturing me or my family, or someone else. Please go and look closely at the meat at that farm. Check it for human DNA. But quickly, FBI, take a look at the name of the photographer of the photo just below. JOE NO RAT MAN. That should remind you of the “Rathaus” screen Captcha image I posted that came up when I tried to email the FBI directly.)

He cleared the slab and arrived with a plate with a spoon on it, and in the spoon a piece of fish with a chip on top.

“I wanted to show you the power of the sycamore sap,” he said. It was Scottish salmon, which had been brined for thirty-nine days. The chip was a slice of black burdock root. “I peel off the fibrous outside of the root, slice the inside, and bake it.” A drizzle of sauce bisected the plate and spoon. It consisted, he said, of pickerel-weed seeds and unripened green strawberries stored in homemade vinegar of a low acidity, then blanched in water in a stone bowl. “With another stone, I mashed them into a paste. Added homemade green-strawberry vinegar and wild-sorrel vinegar and grapeseed oil. That’s the paste. The copper-colored powder is the ground leaves of wild marsh marigold.” Of course. Every milligram seemed hard won.

Baehrel is steadfast in insisting on his total self-reliance.
Baehrel is steadfast in insisting on his total self-reliance.Photograph by Jonno Rattman for The New Yorker

He told me, as he had told others through the years, that he got his meat and dairy from a Mennonite farm in the area, and his fish from a seafood broker who delivered it several times a week. He said that I would not be able to talk to the Mennonites, as they were extremely press-averse. Having told me he had no suppliers, he seemed almost embarrassed by the acknowledgment that he did have some, after all.

Over the next several hours, as he brought in course after course, he appeared and disappeared (“I’ll get you some more sap!”) like a character in a resort-hotel farce. But the dishes were a dizzying array of tastes and textures. Oyster mushrooms, palate-cleansing ices (one was made of wild carrot juice, stevia tea syrup, pickled baby maple-leaf powder, violet leaves, and lichen powder), cured turkey leg, mahogany clams, lobster, prawns, swordfish ham, brined pork with goat sausage—all of it subjected to a jumble of verbs and nouns, many of them new to me. Bull-thistle stem, chopped barberry root, ostrich fern. I deployed an index finger to dab up every woodland fleck. The platings were whimsical and inspired. The sprigs and needles that adorned the mid-meal platter of cheese and cured meat brought to mind Saul Steinberg or Paul Klee.

The fifteenth, and final, course was something he called Earlton Chocolate. It consisted of the fermented leftovers of his “coffee,” which he makes in the autumn from hickory nuts and acorns. (He does not serve actual coffee.) The nut dregs become a kind of paste. “It gets gloppy after three months, then it relaxes.”

That observation kind of explained how I felt after four hours, especially without coffee. Embarrassed by all the labor undertaken on my behalf, I offered, as one does, to help clean up, and Baehrel laughed. Now he invited me to see his kitchen. It was quite small, about two hundred square feet, and immaculate. It didn’t look or smell as though anyone had prepared a gourmet meal in there. My first thought, as a failed clean-as-you-go guy, was a tip of the toque.

Baehrel is from Massapequa, Long Island. His father was a Nassau County cop. On weekends and in the summer, the family went upstate to Earlton, and when his father retired they moved up there for good. Baehrel’s mother, who was from Brooklyn, was an avid gardener, and he credits her with his early expertise in native plants. He remembers being fascinated by the big red sumac bobs on the side of the road, and his mother using them to make sumac-ade, but no one paid any particular attention to cooking or food. “My dad, he likes plain stuff,” Baehrel says. “We grew up eating roast beef, baked ziti, leg of lamb.” In terms of the precocity of his palate, Baehrel recalls, “I was the kind of kid who melted my ice cream. When it was warmer, it had more taste.”

Baehrel was also into motocross, and for several years, in the eighties, he raced professionally. He told me that he’d turned pro as a teen-ager and entered races all over the country. “I made a little bit of money, but would’ve done it for free,” he said. “So much of it was mental. What it taught me was how to divide your mind up to multitask.” I asked if he could connect me with anyone from that era I could talk to. “Oh, God, that was a long time ago! That’s a lifetime ago—wow, I’d have to think about it. Geez, I wonder if anyone is still alive.” In a motocross chat room, I found the name of Carlo Coen, a local racer from the eighties. He replied to me through e-mail that Baehrel had been a “track friend”:

He was fast, competitive. He could run up front. Great family. His father would work the starting gate at local Claverack Motocross track. Still running today. Good times.

In 2002, Baehrel said, he shut down the restaurant for renovations and got back into competitive motocross, entering races around New England. “I made some money,” he said.

“The family’s plan was that I’d be a lawyer or a businessman,” he told me. But he never went to college. He met his wife in the area. They were married in 1986. Baehrel’s parents had sold him a plot of land across the street from their own—a thousand dollars for six acres. (He bought the additional six acres in 2011.)

“We built this house by hand that spring,” he said. “My mother, my father, my wife-to-be, and me. There were nets on the windows to keep out the mosquitoes. The restaurants opening now, these multimillion-dollar places—young chefs don’t want to start off small. There’s an attitude, there’s arrogance. They forget that this is hospitality. When we started, we had no investors. We couldn’t get a loan. Although, eventually, we got a loan.”

The main thing, in the early years, was a catering business, which they called Sagecrest. At its peak, in the mid-nineties, they were doing a few hundred weddings a year. “We did two thousand weddings over twenty years, all over upstate New York and New England,” he said. “We had hundreds of part-time employees.”

“You can kill me, but you can’t kill the navy-blue-blazer-and-khaki-pants combo.”

Baehrel has said that he invented Native Harvest in 1989, when he opened for business. A few years before, he had an epiphany that everything he needed was on the property. “Every flour, oil, and seasoning. I wanted to create the components. I was walking around in the woods. It was autumn of ’85 or ’86. Leaves were falling from the trees. The worms were there. That means you’re going to have soil. I don’t know if you know this, but worms are the source of all life.”

After this epiphany, he said, “I didn’t sleep for three days.” (He says he has never taken drugs: “Not even aspirin.”)

Over time, he made inferences: “I knew that pine needles fall to the ground and sour the soil. They make it very acidic. Very few plants will grow. So why can’t I take the acidic reaction and transfer it to things?” He began to make pine-needle juice, powder, and pulp and use them to cure meats.

The inventing seems to have happened gradually. People who dined at the restaurant in the nineties have described a more conventional operation. Between 1995 and 2001, he had a sous-chef, a local named Mark Esslie, just out of college. Esslie, over the phone, recalled seventy-hour workweeks and hectic weekends of weddings and summer parties. “Damon’s a phenomenal chef,” Esslie told me. “I would put him up against anyone in the world, in terms of talent.”

In the late nineties, Baehrel had waiters and bought from local suppliers. Esslie had hoped to take over the catering part of the business, which he said was very lucrative, but when that didn’t work out he left the food business and went into finance. The price of a meal at the restaurant has steadily risen. When Esslie was there, and when Baehrel first offered the tasting menu, it was thirty-five dollars for eight courses. Five years ago, it was around a hundred and fifty dollars, far below the current four hundred dollars a head.

Baehrel has often described himself as self-taught, acquiring his culinary expertise through trial, error, and observation, and not from books, or even from other chefs. He watches TV only for weather reports, has no cell phone, and can’t remember going to a movie in decades. “It’s been twelve or fourteen years since I’ve been out to a fine-dining restaurant,” he said. “I’m dying to have someone bring me something. A sandwich!” He told me that when he was a teen-ager he’d worked for some French restaurants in the area. “They are all gone, and everyone is dead. I learned what not to do.”

One of the restaurants, which Baehrel didn’t mention, was an old-school French bistro called Chez René, in Glenmont, ten minutes south of Albany. It was owned by René Facchetti, a Breton, who sold it around thirty years ago.

“He learned from me,” Facchetti told me, when I called. “He has never mentioned this. He was my cook, my assistant. I knew his father and mother. I’m the one who taught him to pick watercress, chanterelles, and all these things in the woods.”

Facchetti’s wife, Corinne, said, “Never once has he acknowledged my husband. Why can’t he acknowledge us? There’s no such thing as a self-educated chef.”

It’s hard to know why Baehrel is so steadfast in insisting on his total self-reliance. There’s mythmaking in it, clearly, but of a kind that seems unnecessary.

I can’t say when, exactly, I began to question the myth. It may have been at the end of that meal, when Baehrel took me on a tour of the property, sticking to the perimeter of the lot, making a great fuss over bits of incidental vegetation that would seem hardly ample, even in high summer, to provide for, say, dozens of guests a week. I asked him what was in the red barn, and he said not much. He declined to show me his living quarters. (He had said that his wife and son would be returning during my visit, but by the time I left they had yet to come home.) Whenever I asked Baehrel questions about his past, his family, his influences, or even the rudiments of his business, he changed the subject to whatever flora or provender was at hand. Dandelions, violet stems, burdock. “More sap?” He took me by the cold frames alongside the barn. There wasn’t much in there. He said that on snowy winter nights he sometimes crawled in under the translucent corrugated covers and lay on his stomach in the warm soil.

In the days that followed, I called the diners whose names he had given me: Merrihue and others like him. They raved about the restaurant, but all of them, it seemed, had been there only for a special seating, either on a day he was usually closed or in a slot he’d shoehorned in between regular seatings. I wanted to hear from people who had been there recently when other parties were there.

Several months later, I’ve yet to find any. Within days of my visit, I talked to a range of people who, either after their own meals or after failing to get a reservation, had concluded that Baehrel couldn’t possibly be serving as many diners as he claimed, or be fully booked through the year 2025, or make do with what he foraged on his patch of land.

“No, you die first.”

I came across a story by the restaurant columnist for the Albany Times Union, Steve Barnes. It ran last November: “BS alert! A 10-year wait for reservations! Locally!” Barnes referred to Baehrel’s fully booked claims as “utter bogusness.” He noted that Baehrel had once told him that the White House had inquired about the Obamas coming to his restaurant. Barnes had published this news and then learned from a friend in the White House communications office that it wasn’t so. (A White House spokeswoman wouldn’t confirm any of this.)

Dominick Purnomo, the owner of Yono’s, one of Albany’s fancier restaurants, told me, “I’m doing the math, and it’s just not making sense.” The last time Purnomo was in Baehrel’s basement, five or six years ago, with a group of eight, he recalled, “We asked to see the kitchen, and he declined. I’ve never been to a restaurant where you can’t see the kitchen.” Baehrel told them that a group had just left, and that another was coming at 10 p.m.

Many people who’ve dined there report similar instances of Baehrel’s mentioning earlier or later seatings—highly improbable, in light of materials, labor, energy, and the likelihood of, say, a bus of Japanese tourists travelling to Greene County for a twenty-course dinner starting at 11 p.m. Anyway, when I visited, Baehrel said he did “less and less as I get older. In a good week, maybe thirty-five to forty guests. But I never talk numbers.” He was scaling back, he said, to four days a week. “It just takes me more time and effort to execute these cooking techniques and everything, and I’m doing more courses—probably three times as many courses as I was seven or eight years ago.” He disdains the industry practice of referring to customers as “covers.” “I never thought of a dining guest as a cover,” he said. “I must be weird.”

Baehrel has described the skeptics as jealous peers—what he calls the Albany club, whom he accuses of a long campaign to undermine him. He suspects them of hacking Yelp to portray his restaurant as closed. One club member is Barnes, who, after failing to secure a reservation over the course of six years, had a testy e-mail exchange with Baehrel’s wife, writing, “No one I have ever even spoken to has been to Damon Baehrel in that period. That’s not a restaurant as it’s commonly understood; it’s Brigadoon.”

This spring, Barnes’s colleague Susie Davidson Powell, the Times Unions food critic, managed to get a table and publish a piece. “If the workload and culinary science seem fantastical, it’s true of the dining experience, too,” she wrote. “It’s hard not to imagine Baehrel as a real-life Wonka with a tribe of Oompa Loompa helpers in his Earlton woods.” Still, she related what Baehrel had told her. He mentioned a few previous guests: the band Journey and, on another occasion, René Redzepi, the world-famous forager and chef at Noma, in Copenhagen. After the review went to press, Powell heard from Redzepi, through Twitter, that he’d never been there. Baehrel then denied having said it. The paper published a correction. Recently, I heard from the members (and ex-members) of Journey. None of them can remember having been there.

In each instance, Baehrel has a plausible explanation. People must have misheard him, he says. It was Redzepi’s former partner who’d come; he always says he wishes Journey, his favorite band, would come; it was an Obama supporter who had tried to arrange a visit for the President and the First Lady. People hear what they want to hear.

Yet the implausibles pile up. Three dozen cheeses! Cheese experts I spoke with considered it highly unlikely, especially in light of Baehrel’s claim that he makes cheese without rennet, the standard curdling enzyme; he said that he used organic coagulants, such as nettles or carrot-top hay. Even for a full-time cheesemaker, three dozen would be a lot, especially if they aren’t mere variations on one or two basic cheeses.

Baehrel wouldn’t let me meet or talk to his friend Terrance, his wife, his Mennonite meat supplier, or his seafood broker. “After contact is established, it’s all me!” he wrote. He declined to give me their names. (I had that of his wife, Elizabeth, who goes by Beth; he had included her name as a co-sender of a mass-marketing e-mail.)

In June, I wrote Baehrel to tell him I’d need to talk to these people for fact-checking purposes. He replied, “I do not and cannot make it public information any of the current associations or past business arrangements I have or have had. I can assure you my meat comes from farms & seafood comes from the ocean.” He added, “I would also not reveal things like who I purchase propane from (a propane supplier) or where we buy our toilet paper, insurance or anything else.” He didn’t want me to talk to the Make-A-Wish family, either. (I was able to verify that story with the foundation.)

A few weeks ago, he provided a fact-checker with a surname for Terrance, who he said had since “moved on”: Hyll. We couldn’t find anyone in the country by that name. Informed of this, Baehrel wrote in an e-mail, “I have not given you or [the checker] the complete personal or business name of our former reservation & appointment assistance.”

“I joined an online fraternity.”SEPTEMBER 16, 2013

“The whole element in this day and age of putting everything out there—it’s a different generation,” Baehrel told me. “We like to keep to ourselves and leave a little bit to the imagination.” At the same time, he’s an evangelist for his way of cooking, often welcoming writers and television crews. For all his protestations of being a humble chef of the woods, and his professed amazement that anyone should have heard of him, he seems to seek the validation of the establishment. “Food writers weren’t coming,” he told me. “They weren’t interested. You want to share it. But they didn’t believe it. They’ll say they haven’t heard of it. How can that be, when I have guests on the waiting list from over eighty countries? The New York Times, Gourmet, Food & Wine: No one was interested.” In 2013, he was a semifinalist for a James Beard Award. He failed to advance, perhaps because very few Beard judges could get in to dine at his restaurant. Nonetheless, the omission contributed to his contention that there is a kind of conspiracy against him.

For years, Baehrel says, he fielded interest from publishers who wanted to do a book with him. He turned them down, because they wanted him to team up with a writer. He was also put off by their questions about whether celebrity diners might be willing to write promotional blurbs. Then some occasional dinner guests, Ken and Virginia Morris, had an idea. The Morrises run Lightbulb Press, a publisher of financial-education manuals. A recent title is “Guide to Understanding Annuities.” They had never published anything like what Baehrel had in mind—a coffee-table book outlining the precepts of his Native Harvest cuisine—but they thought, Why not try? Baehrel started writing. “Damon does the drafts, and we put it in a format,” Ken Morris told me. “We will share the proceeds.” The book—“Native Harvest”—is due out in December. I’ve read a great deal of it. It is, characteristically, a recitation of ingredients, principles, and practices.

The Morrises’ first meal at the restaurant was ten years ago, with a cousin who lived in Schenectady. It wasn’t hard to get in back then. They returned on their own another time, and on the third visit Baehrel walked them through his process. “He’s a crazy genius,” Ken Morris said. “How does he conceptualize these things? How does he figure them out?” The Morrises put Baehrel in touch with friends who run California Winemasters, a festival that benefits cystic-fibrosis research. Baehrel went out there. “His station was cleaned out in an hour,” Morris said. The trip increased his renown. He and the Morrises hope the book will do so further.

In 2012, Eric Steinman, a writer in Rhinebeck, New York, who was interested in Baehrel, got a table three weeks after inquiring, and he went with his wife. One other couple was there. A few months later, Baehrel let Steinman watch him cook. “No doubt, he’s talented there,” Steinman told me. Nonetheless, Baehrel refused to provide information or corroboration—the Mennonite farmer, the seafood guy. Steinman said, “I got a call from Terrance. It was Damon, representing himself as Terrance.” He added, “Damon has a very particular tone and cadence.” I had heard this suggestion—that Terrance is Damon—from others as well. “What the hell is that?” Baehrel said, when I ran it by him. “That’s nuts!”

There were other nagging matters: a supposed visit from the comedian Aziz Ansari (which Ansari denied), a laudatory quote attributed to the Per Se chef Thomas Keller (which Keller disclaimed). There was one guest who, on one of those nights when Baehrel said he had another party coming, realized, after leaving, that he’d left something behind. He had to drive back and climb over the gate to get in. The house was dark. Baehrel was cleaning up: no sign of the late seating. Steinman looked into suppliers in the area and couldn’t find any who were serving Baehrel. I, too, called an array of food suppliers. None were doing business with Baehrel. One said that he used to sell him cheese and charcuterie but hadn’t in years.

Steinman wrote a sixteen-hundred-word piece for his magazine, Edible Hudson Valley, giving no hint of his skepticism, even though, as he told me, “I couldn’t in good conscience tell an editor, ‘This is real.’ I think it’s sort of a J. T. LeRoy thing.”

Consider, once again, the reservation backlog. You have to first accept that anyone would reserve anything ten years out. Then you do the math. Baehrel, or, if you will, Terrance, has cited, in e-mail responses to people seeking reservations, “125,000 new reservation TABLE requests from 72 countries that came in between late December 2013-March 15, 2014 which is when we stopped accepting new requests for an extended period.”

A hundred and twenty-five thousand requests in three months—that’s an average of around one a minute (twenty-four hours a day). He has also claimed to have two hundred and seventeen thousand pending “TABLE requests”—from all fifty states and more than eighty countries. That’s a lot of countries. Say each request is for an average of four people. That’s almost a million diners willing to wait many years for the privilege of travelling to the sticks in order to drop four hundred dollars a head. “No one is more surprised than me that this has happened,” he told me. “This isn’t something I sought out.”

When I described the situation to a friend of mine, he suggested a “stakeout.” But that seemed crazy. Doughnuts and coffee? Full camo? This wasn’t a crime story.

If Damon Baehrel is in some measure a fairy tale, what, exactly, isn’t true? And, if it isn’t entirely on the level, what’s the hustle? What’s he up to, out there in the woods? The perception of exclusivity and privileged access enables him to charge big-city prices, but if he were serving only a handful of diners each week it wouldn’t add up to a huge haul. For what, then?

“Turn over and I’ll do your back.”JULY 3, 2000

Baehrel has concocted a canny fulfillment of a particular foodie fantasy: an eccentric hermit wrings strange masterpieces from the woods and his scrabbly back yard. The extreme locavore, pure of spade and larder. The toughest ticket in town. Stir in opacity, inaccessibility, and exclusivity, then powder it with lichen: It’s delicious. You can’t get enough. You can’t even get in.

If Baehrel didn’t exist, foodies would have to invent him. And to a certain extent they have. In the fall, the ABC News digital series “Garage Geniuses” visited the restaurant for a segment that came out in April. At one point, the camera lingers on Baehrel’s handwritten reservation list for the year 2025. There are no specific dates, no contact phone numbers or e-mail addresses, or, for that matter, national or state affiliations—just names and a number denoting the size of each party. My attempts to contact twenty-nine of these people—Ginny Grizzle, Donetta Helper, Vi Rollin, King Mona, Cherri Burbank, with nary a Tom, Chris, or Mary among them—came up empty. This seemed damning. But a call to the producer of the segment, David Fazekas, revealed that it was he, and not Baehrel, who had come up with this phony reservation roll. “Damon wouldn’t let us see his actual list, so I wrote it myself—like a reënactment in a documentary,” he said. “There are services on the Internet that generate fake names.”

The media has certainly been complicit in gilding the Damon Baehrel mystique. Baehrel himself, when called out for various inventions or exaggerations—inflated numbers, mis-dropped names—has tended to blame the messenger. “I don’t know where they get this stuff,” he says.

A gourmet meal is a kind of magic act, a sleight of hand and heat, often performed with a little misdirection and some fast talk. Many restaurateurs mythologize their cuisines and pretend to be doing better than they are, to stir up interest. In April, the Tampa Bay Times published an investigation into the farm-to-table claims of local restaurants, which found that many of them were bunk. Perhaps it is a matter of degree. At a certain point, one has to draw a line between a chef who is running a restaurant, with all its tedious arithmetic of supply, demand, and cost, and instead is hosting elaborate private dinners, by appointment only. It’s this distinction, or perhaps the failure of the food press and rankings mavens to make it, that riles other restaurateurs.

Many of Baehrel’s dishes are trompe l’oeil, with foraged ingredients subbing for more traditional ones. Consider a favorite of his book publishers, the Morrises—what he calls “the phony egg.” “I use native components to build an egg,” Baehrel told me. “The egg white is cattails. The yolk is pickled heirloom tomatoes in a broth of wild parsnip juice. I use willow bark to make the home fries, and squash as bacon.” Though he did not serve this one to me, I have seen photographs of it. It’s uncanny. I have no reason to doubt that the phony egg is phony in the way he says it is. But in the context of all the other questions surrounding his operation the egg can seem like a provocation. Why not just serve an egg?

I went back for a second visit, in late May. I’d asked, repeatedly, for a better look at his process of culling and preparing the comestibles. A photographer came along with me. The property had burst forth with greenery since I’d last been. Baehrel rolled up on a utility vehicle and invited us inside for a pitcher of sap and a bottle of Pellegrino—which he said he keeps on hand for the Morrises. “You want to see how this happens?” he said. “I’ll show you the cheesemaking, the cured meats.” He said he’d never shown a journalist any of what we were about to see.

I went back for a second visit, in late May. I’d asked, repeatedly, for a better look at his process of culling and preparing the comestibles. A photographer came along with me. The property had burst forth with greenery since I’d last been. Baehrel rolled up on a utility vehicle and invited us inside for a pitcher of sap and a bottle of Pellegrino—which he said he keeps on hand for the Morrises. “You want to see how this happens?” he said. “I’ll show you the cheesemaking, the cured meats.” He said he’d never shown a journalist any of what we were about to see.

There were two cars in the lot—a BMW S.U.V. and a truck. His wife and son, he said, were up at a cabin they have in the Adirondacks. He took us out to the barn, pointing to sprigs along the path: wild barberry, garlic, bergamot, sorrel, sage. “Oh! Check it out. See all the wild strawberries!” A door led into a sort of side garage full of shelves: his root room, which was a more extensive version of the dining-room display table—Mason jars of flour, oil, vinegar, and sap, bowls of wild seeds, wine boxes of soil with sprouting potatoes and rutabagas. The supply was spare and very orderly.

“Nothing to be concerned about. We just want to show you our phony badges and then leave.”DECEMBER 13, 2010

He took us through the front door of the barn, into a large prep kitchen—his base of operations and the former headquarters of the catering business. On an island in the middle was a bushel of beech shoots. He was trimming and baking the leaves, to grind them into powder, and clipping the branches into finger-length sections, to create a beechwood broth. On the stove behind him were a couple of large pots. “I make my cheeses in clean pots, in small batches,” he said. “I don’t have boilers or evaporators.” I had asked about a cheese cave, as cheese experts had suggested that one would be important. “No cave! No, between my one cooler here and other storage in my house, I probably have twenty-five in the works. I usually make a cheese or two a week.” They were on racks in a fridge with a glass door, displayed with great symmetry and with their frog-tape labels facing out, denoting milk source, date, and curdling agent. I counted three dozen, and a block or two of butter.

He led us into a walk-in refrigerator. Several sausages of various shapes hung from a rack. Elsewhere on shelves were a leg of lamb; a rabbit carcass under a layer of conifer sprigs; a single cooked lobster on a bed of ice; swordfish ham; a few pieces of salmon, air-sealed in sycamore sap; a pork shoulder brining in pine-needle juice; four marrow bones in a bag with mustard greens.

I asked again about the source of the meat. “Yeah!” he exclaimed. “A bunch of different farms. I have one particular farm that I’ve worked a lot with—they’re Mennonites. About a half hour away, in Schoharie County.” I hadn’t been able to find any Mennonites in Schoharie County. He said they might be closing, owing to the difficulty of paying minimum wage. “They are thinking about maybe going to Michigan. But very low key.”

Later, back outside, as Baehrel led us around the property and identified plants, my attention wandered, and I thought about my first visit, months before, and a particular dish, the sixth course, which had so engaged my attention that the only surreptitious photo I got of it was of a plate licked clean. It consisted of a small layered cube of wild daylily tuber and wild honey mushrooms—a phyllo of the soil. He’d sliced the tubers thin and soaked the mushrooms in fresh maple sap, then stacked them in more than a dozen fine alternating layers. He then roasted it on a slab of oak wood, dribbled it with grapeseed oil and wild-fennel-frond powder, and added a drizzle of dried milkweed pods cooked in fresh birch sap, which he’d mashed in a stone bowl with some rutabaga starch, and a second drizzle that he called burnt-corn sauce, made from liquefied kernels that he’d scraped off the cob onto a stone, dried, then thinned out with sycamore sap. Somehow I got all this down in the notebook. Beneath it, I’d written, “Sublime.”

Now, down by the road, near the gate, Baehrel guided us alongside his garden beds. In one of them, a single sprig of asparagus rose from the earth. He snapped it off and handed it to me. It tasted like—asparagus. 


Exclusive restaurant in New York state has a 10-year wait list, but you’ve probably never heard of it

Damon Baehrel Restaurant Earlton, New York

Damon Baehrel Restaurant is located in a sleepy town three hours north of Manhattan.


Chef Damon Baehrel owns what could quite possibly be the most exclusive restaurant in the world, with a wait list that stretches 10 years.Up until recently, Baehrel’s home in the sleepy town of Earlton, New York, about three hours north of Manhattan, was the most sought-after restaurant you’d never heard of.But the power of the internet and social media, combined with old-fashioned word of mouth have transformed the eponymously named restaurant and a humble chef into a viral phenomenon, turning the 16-cover basement bistro into perhaps the most exclusive reservation on the planet.Why all the fuss? It’s a combination of factors.Baehrel is not your typical chef. He says he is self-taught. Not from cookbooks penned by Michelin-starred chefs, or globetrotting travels around the world.The ‘Luddite’ — he doesn’t own a cell phone and shuns the internet — doesn’t look up YouTube videos or spend marathon weekends watching food TV to come up with pine needle-brined pork cooked in hickory sap, a kind of cookery he calls “native harvest cuisine.”Instead, he watches nature.

Inspired by nature

“I watch the way nature reveals itself,” he said in an interview.

It’s an answer that fails to satisfy the typically quizzical nature of a news reporter.

“What do you mean you ‘watch nature?’”

His reply speaks volumes, not only about his culinary philosophy, but also about a slew of haute gastronomy trends and issues — without necessarily meaning to.

After watching how pine needles turned his soil acidic, for instance, Baehrel came up with the idea of using the same principle to cure, tenderize and aromatize meats.

When he threw a few edible violets into a bowl of steaming broth as a colorful garnish, he also noticed how the leaves and stems lent a thickening effect to the liquid without imparting flavor.

“Nature has an answer for everything,” he said.

Chef Damon Baehrel

Chef Damon Baehrel says he is self-taught and harvests everything but salt, seafood and meat from his 12-acre property.


Which is why the chef bristles when his cuisine is mistakenly referred to as molecular gastronomy. Nothing in his food is synthetic and all the ingredients organic.

Flour and oil from scratch

Everything — from pantry staples like pine flour, acorn oil and vinegars — is harvested directly from the 12-acre property except salt and seafood, and meats are sourced from a neighboring organic livestock farm.

He was a forager of weeds and herbs before Nordic chef René Redzepi turned the word ‘foraging’ into one of the trendiest culinary terms of contemporary gastronomy.

Redzepi was credited with launching a worldwide foraging trend for wild and edible weeds when he opened his Copenhagen restaurant Noma, which snagged the title of world’s best restaurant two years running.

But Baehrel, who’s been hosting dinner parties out of his licensed basement restaurant for the past 25 years, chuckles and says, “I’ve been doing this probably since before he was born.”

What also makes the restaurant so remarkable is that Baehrel is a one-man show. He cooks, serves and hosts the entire meal from start to finish by himself.

When guests sit down to their five-hour, 14- to 19-course dinner, they know that every component has been made on-site, from scratch and, in the case of cured meats and homemade flour, often the product of years of work.

To make his acorn flour, for example, Baehrel will harvest acorns fallen from red oak trees in the fall and store them in the cellar until the nearby stream has iced over in the winter. After putting them in burlap sacks, he’ll soak them in the stream all winter, allowing the water to soften the acorn tannins and make them more palatable.

In the spring, he’ll fish out the sacks, dry out the acorns, and proceed to grind them for flour, or press them for oil.

Rise to fame

Recognition has been slow in coming for Damon Baehrel over the past 25 years, mostly because the man behind the restaurant never looked for it. He’s never advertised and there is no Facebook page or Twitter account for the restaurant.

He preferred to toil quietly on his property and work in tandem with nature. Between curing his own meats, aging his own cheeses, and taking care of his wife and two sons, one of whom lives with autism and cerebral palsy, travel and self-aggrandizement were never a priority.

But somewhere along the way, guests began to tell their friends about their unique dining experience.

Damon Baehrel Restaurant Earlton, New York, interior

The 16-cover basement bistro is one of the most sought-after reservation on the planet


About eight years ago, the restaurant waiting list stretched ahead two years.

About three years ago, when guests began posting photos of their meals and sharing their experience online, the wait list expanded to four years.

Last year, Baehrel was nominated for a James Beard award in the category of Best Chef: Northeast.

Today, Baehrel estimates the wait list is 10 years deep for his 16-cover restaurant, with requests from 60 countries and notably high interest from Singapore, Dubai, Abu Dhabi, London, Japan, Australia and Tasmania.

In the last seven weeks alone, the restaurant has received 40,000 new reservation requests.

For comparison, at its peak, Michelin-starred restaurant elBulli in Spain received two million reservation requests for 8,000 available seats. Ferran Adrià’s restaurant was named the best in the world five times by critics at Restaurant magazine and attracted food pilgrims from around the world before it shuttered in 2011.

Damon Baehrel seats 16 covers a night and is open five days a week. Dinner costs $265 USD.

Despite the worldwide attention, Baehrel says he’s going to stick to the same recipe. He’ll continue to prepare all the meals and serve them himself, and will likely continue to turn down incoming offers to open new restaurants.

The only other big project he has is a cookbook that will include recipes as well as gardening and foraging sections.

Baehrel is remarkably exuberant and enthusiastic after 25 years of being a chef, an occupation that has felled many a great man and woman from stress and burnout.

Not so for Baehrel.

“I feel like I’m just starting.”


The “World’s Most Exclusive Restaurant” Is a Hoax, But Here Are 6 Reasons We Still Want To Try It

Sure, we’re masochists, but that’s not the only reason why we’re intrigued.

Obviously you’ve heard of Damon Baehrel. After all, it’s supposedly the world’s most exclusive and sought-after restaurant, with dining reservations completely booked through at least 2025.

Oh, you haven’t? Well that’s really not that big of a surprise considering the entire thing might be a hoax.

The mysterious restaurant in upstate New York has been covered by a variety of major news outlets and publications in recent years, but, as the New Yorker points out in its exposé about the restaurant, more than a few clues indicate that this purported exclusivity is a fabrication created by its namesake owner and chef/waiter/busboy/forager/farmer/butcher, Damon Baehrel (pictured below, right).

Fabrication or not, we can’t help but be fascinated by what a dining experience at Damon Baehrel might offer, because the restaurant does actually exist, even if much of its reputation appears to be based on total lies, or, um, over-exaggerations. Here are just a few of the intriguing points that make us want to add our name to the supposedly decade-long waiting list, even if dinner at the restaurant could easily run us $400 a head. Are we suckers? Probably, but get this:

Photo courtesy of Instagram/Jeffrey_Merrihue.

1.  The Ingredients Are Totally Bizarre and Fascinating.

Damon Baehrel claims to grow or produce nearly all of his ingredients himself, out of materials he forages on the grounds of his restaurant, including three-dozen types of cheese and all kinds of unusual flours. He uses flavors and ingredients that might not even be flavors or ingredients. Sycamore sap. Milkweed pods cooked in fresh birch. Listen to him describe how he makes one of the many hand pressed flours he uses: “It takes me sixteen to eighteen months to make cedar flour. I use a pull knife, a two-handled grater, to shave off some cedar under the bark. The shavings are bitter, tannic—inedible. I soak them in water. Every four to six weeks, I soak them. After a year or a year and a half, I can grind it into cedar flour,” the New Yorker quotes him as saying.

2.  The Food Really Does Sound Magical.

New Yorker author Nick Paumgarten admits that when he was finally able to taste Baehrel’s dishes he was blown away. Under his notes about one plate in his meal he simply wrote, “sublime.” He wrote that the dish “had so engaged my attention that the only surreptitious photo I got of it was of a plate licked clean. It consisted of a small layered cube of wild daylily tuber and wild honey mushrooms—a phyllo of the soil. He’d sliced the tubers thin and soaked the mushrooms in fresh maple sap, then stacked them in more than a dozen fine alternating layers. He then roasted it on a slab of oak wood, dribbled it with grapeseed oil and wild-fennel-frond powder, and added a drizzle of dried milkweed pods cooked in fresh birch sap, which he’d mashed in a stone bowl with some rutabaga starch, and a second drizzle that he called burnt-corn sauce, made from liquefied kernels that he’d scraped off the cob onto a stone, dried, then thinned out with sycamore sap.”

Other dishes he describes as “whimsical and inspired.” Though the wait may be imaginary, it would appear that the world-class cuisine is…real.

3.  Who Doesn’t Love To Talk Motocross?

One thing about owner Damon Baehrel that does seem to be factually accurate is that he raced as a professional Motocross rider in the 1980s before he entered the culinary world. Paumgarten even managed to track down and speak with a Motocross driver who had raced against Baehrel at the time, one of the few claims the writer was able to completely fact-check and verify. What effect does this have on the meal? Who knows, but like everything else about this restaurant, it’s worthy of note.

4.  Your Meal Is Literally Longer Than A Marathon.

Various diners who have managed to eat at the restaurant have described an eating event that can take up to seven hours (a few hours more than your average 26-mile race). Finally, a marathon we wouldn’t mind training for.

5.  There Won’t Be Any Celebrities To Steal The Attention Away From You.

For two reasons: 1) Everyone who has dined at the restaurant has described what sounds basically just like eating in someone’s small dining room. 2) There’s no evidence that any of the celebrities, or celebrity chefs, that Baehrel claims to have served have ever actually eaten there: Rene Redzepi, Aziz Ansari, the Obamas, or Journey—yes, that Journey.

6.  The Meat Comes from Disappearing Mennonites

Since Baehrel claims to grow/farm/forage all his ingredients by himself, he pretty much laughs when the New Yorker asks him about his food deliveries. Later, however, he reveals that his livestock comes from a local Mennonite farm. The article goes on to point out that there is no Mennonite farm in the area from which he claims to be getting his meat. Baehrel says that this is because they may be “low key moving to Michigan” which seems like the sort of thing you say when someone corners you about your imaginary girlfriend. Where is the meat coming from? Where are the Mennonites? Why Michigan?

Per usual, Baehrel has left us with more questions than answers. Paging Terrance, the restaurant’s (also disappearing) reservationist…


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