The Wall Street Journal sent Jonathan Gold to Copenhagen to eat at the 'World's Best Restaurant', a twelve-table place called Noma. (He also ate at the 'Best Restaurant in North America', which is a place in Chicago called Alinea. There are things that Rupert Murdoch can do for you that the LA Weekly can't.)
The food is mostly unrecognizable as such -- a sort of fantasia of forest and ocean themes -- and from the description of his meal (if you can call it that), I'd pay a year's salary to eat there. Except, perhaps, this:
With a kind of reverence, a chef sets down a lidded mason jar filled with ice. Inside are tiny prawns from the fjord; after lumpfish roe, the translucent creatures are the second sign of Nordic spring. You open the jar, and the prawns stare up at you, barely moving, although when you pick one up, it wriggles like mad. You stare at it a moment, man against prawn, predator and prey, and when you pop it into your mouth you feel it go limp under your teeth all at once, its small life absorbed into your own.