the art
of spectrum
There’s a particular hush that falls when you step into Spectrum. Not silence exactly — more like a held breath. The restaurant is tucked beneath the Waldorf Astoria Amsterdam, on its vaulted lower floor. It unfolds slowly: soft lighting, tall windows framing a quiet garden, and an interior that feels designed to hold space rather than demand attention. The walls are lined with understated art. The atmosphere leans back, not in — calm, assured.
This isn’t a dining room that needs to prove itself. And Sidney Schutte, the man behind it, doesn’t either. Sidney earned two Michelin stars back when Spectrum was still known as Librije’s Zusje. Before that, he cut his teeth at De Librije and The Landmark Mandarin Oriental — kitchens known for precision and pressure. These days, you feel none of that strain in him. Just focus. His food has always balanced refinement with risk — rooted in Dutch ingredients, but open to global influence. Spectrum reopened under its current name in 2019, and today, it stands quietly as one of the most acclaimed restaurants in the Netherlands — though you’d never know it from its tone.
When he steps out from the kitchen at the start of the evening, he moves with a quiet ease — the kind that comes from no longer needing to impress anyone. Not his guests. Not his team. Not himself. Lately, I’ve noticed how loud fine dining has become — not in flavor, necessarily, but in presence. Restaurants now speak in headlines and hashtags. There are dishes made for the camera, not the table. Which is why places like Spectrum feel different. Calmer. Here, the focus is different. Technique still matters. Restraint isn’t a buzzword — it’s a worldview. And somehow, in the middle of all that quiet, the food still manages to astonish.
I’d spoken with Sidney earlier that week. We talked about what drives him now — not accolades, not legacy, but something more grounded: time, structure, space. “I think a lot about how I spend my time,” he told me. “How to make more of it. And how not to waste it.” He was talking about AI — how he uses it to transcribe notes from photos so he can skip the admin. But he might as well have been describing the way he builds his menu: careful, pared back, intentional. Nothing wasted.
TROUT ROE
An amuse arrives without drama — no smoke, no cloche, no verbal fanfare. Just a precise arrangement, placed in front of us by a server who lets the dish speak for itself. At its center: a flower-shaped curl of cured egg yolk, almost translucent. Draped over it: a scoop of gleaming pearls of trout roe, and a shiso leaf that anchors the composition in something green and fresh.
There’s a split second of anticipation before we begin. The first bite is rich and delicate at once: the yolk dissolves, the roe bursts, the shiso cuts through. It’s both restrained and indulgent. The kind of dish that reminds you why people still dress up for dinner.
When I asked Sidney what it means to run a restaurant like this — to refine and edit day after day — he didn’t reach for a metaphor. He spoke plainly. “Discipline,” he said. “People love to talk about talent — but honestly, that only takes you so far. The rest? It’s just showing up, over and over. Repetition, attention, getting it right every single time.”
There was something calming about the certainty in his voice. No flourish, no overstatement — just quiet commitment. Like the dish itself.
HERRING & RUNNER BEAN
From the tasting menu, an amuse arrives with herring, cured, with airy goat’s cheese and buttermilk, dill crisps, and—most unexpectedly—a hint of cinnamon that gives the dish a subtle hum of warmth. It’s soft and bright, briny and sweet, like Northern Europe folded into a single mouthful.
From the vegetarian tasting, runner bean, sliced thin like silk ribbon, curled over coconut yogurt. Jasmine lingers on the edge of perception, the brine of caper grounding it in something earthy. If the herring commands attention, the bean draws you in with its softness.
When we talked about how dishes come to life, Sidney didn’t sound like a man with formulas. “I need to taste it. I need to feel it with my hands,” he said. He starts with a single element — something seasonal, a texture he wants to explore — and lets the process unfold in real time. “The second I write it down, I’m locking it in too soon. It’s like — it needs to breathe first. I’ve got to feel it, let it evolve.”
Thinking back on this, I think about how the runner bean dish had that same gentleness — like it hadn’t been forced into place, but just gently found its form.
SNAIL & SPROUT LEAVES
There’s an understated choreography as this amuse is completed tableside. From the tasting menu we are served snail eggs, in a rich, aromatic broth made from Baambrugse pork. Jerusalem artichoke and octopus round out the composition — earthy, saline, deeply savory.
From the vegetarian menu, sprout leaves with Jerusalem artichoke, topped with a spoonful of whisky-infused pearls. The dish leans into bitterness and smoke, but resolves with a soft sweetness — a balance struck in unusual places.
During our conversation, Sidney spoke candidly about the challenge of maintaining his standards while opening restaurants abroad. “The cooking’s the easy part,” he said, leaning back a little. “It’s the sourcing that’ll break you.
In Amsterdam, I call my guy, I get my fish the next day. But in Kuala Lumpur? Suddenly you’re waiting a week. Or you’re changing the dish entirely.” In Kuala Lumpur and Los Cabos, Sidney had to rebuild everything from scratch: ingredients, relationships, rhythm. “But it teaches you to listen. To the place, the team, the ingredients.”
There was a kind of humility in that — the idea that control is good, but adaptability is wiser.
BLACK TRUFFLE
This is a dish served on both menus — and it begins, unexpectedly, with bread. Cubes of French toast, golden and crisp, arrive first. They’re meant to be eaten with the next course, but the smell of browned butter and Maldon salt makes waiting almost impossible. Then comes the main element: a dark, polished orb made of codium and caramel. It’s placed before us and is supposed to be cracked with a spoon to reveal its filling — 12-month aged Comté, caramelized carrot, soft potato, and shaved black truffle. It’s a dish built on richness, but it never tips into excess. Every bite is warm, layered, soothingly opulent.
We spoke about how luxury is often misunderstood. Sidney put it simply: “People think luxury means adding more. But sometimes it’s just knowing what not to touch.” He paused. “Take truffle — it doesn’t need help. It needs space. You just need to build the right silence around the flavor.”
I wrote that down. Not because it was profound, but because it was true. This was a dish that didn’t shout — and because of that, you could hear every note.
WATERMELON & SCALLOP
From the vegetarian menu, perhaps one of the most talked about dishes of late: a crescent-shaped watermelon, marinated in a Thaistyle ceviche, filled with herbs and pistachio. The watermelon is lined with crisp filo, and it’s topped with tiny pearls of horseradish. It’s sweet, cool, and hot — a balancing act of acidity, sharpness and texture. An unexpected flavor crescendo that lingers.
From the tasting menu, a scallop, perfectly cooked and paired with a hollandaise made from meadowsweet. Torched sea urchin adds brine and smoke, sauerkraut brings a tangy edge, and the dish is anchored by a reduction of its own juices.
Sidney told me about a young chef in Malaysia. “She made me this vegetarian dish — it was tempeh and a few vegetables. Nothing fancy. But it was perfect. Just... perfect.” He paused for a second. “Sometimes it’s not what’s in the dish — it’s what it reminds you of.”
That stuck with me. It made me think differently about the watermelon — not just as a showpiece, but as something playful and personal.
SHISO & SOLE
From the vegetarian side, we are served crisp shiso leaves, a delicate texture carrying bitter chicory, green olive, morels and aged artisan cheese. It’s earthy but light — the kind of dish that shifts with every chew.
From the tasting menu, arrives the sole, poached in brown butter and layered with bone marrow. It’s plated next to oyster and three kinds of cauliflower, all orbiting a spoonful of sea grapes. A lemongrass beurre blanc ties it together, freshening the richness like a breath drawn between bites.
When I asked about his upbringing, Sidney described his roots in Zeeland — the southern Dutch province bound by sea and land, known for both austerity and abundance. “There’s a certain mentality there,” he said. “You don’t really show off, you know? You just… do the work. Quietly.”
And in this course, you could feel it. The sea was there, but never center stage. The luxury was there, but never overplayed. Just clean technique, clarity of flavor, and a sense of place that doesn’t need to be spelled out — no ego, just flavor.
LANGOUSTINE & BEET
The langoustine — grilled over open flame — arrives on a plate of hot stones. The body is warm, smoky, and tinged with chipotle and cacao — deep, sweet, fragrant. The claws come in a salad laced with kaffir lime and sea herbs. Every bite pulses with tension.
From the vegetarian menu, squares of beetroot, with ribbons of avocado and kohlrabi, with hollandaise made from magnolia, a coulis of herbs, and a shallot compote that anchors the dish in warmth. It’s both botanical and structured — an intricate pleasure.
I asked Sidney how he keeps surprising himself. With a constantly evolving menu and guests who expect to be surprised, how do you keep the work honest? “I don’t really chase surprises,” he said. “It’s more… I just follow what I haven’t tried yet. That keeps me awake.” He described the process as following a thread — “One ingredient leads to another, and suddenly it works. That’s when I know. When it makes sense in my hands before it makes sense on paper.”
I thought about that phrase — “when it makes sense in my hands.” There’s something almost instinctive in it. This course felt like that too: precise, but never plotted. Like it knew where it was going before we did.
DUCK & TREMELLA
Both dishes are finished tableside. From the tasting menu, a Peking-style duck, aged for two weeks. The skin is glassy, lacquered, audibly crisp; it comes with a cracker made from duck fat and skin, and garnishes of tulip bulb, courgette, pomegranate reduction, and black olive. On the side: a steaming cup of broth — duck liver and grape, deep and sweet. It’s decadent, but elegant.
From the vegetarian menu, the tremella arrives, a snow fungus prized in Asia, with a mandarin, chestnut, and cumin top, reminiscent of a Mont Blanc dessert. A Yorkshire pudding filled with lovage and citrus is placed beside us — golden, floral, softly sharp.
We talked about what it’s like to open restaurants in cities far from home. “There were nights I thought: this is too big, too fast,” he admitted. “Because you can’t control everything. You have to trust the team, the land, the process.” He paused — the kind of pause where a chef’s mind flickers to all the things that almost didn’t work. “But then the right supplier shows up. The dish works. The dining room fills. And you think: okay — we’re not just dreaming this. It’s real.”
EPOISSES
The cheese course for both menus has a bite but doesn’t shout. A delicate round of Époisses, ripe and creamy, arrives with blackcurrant for acidity, horseradish for depth, and a single mochi for chew. It’s an understated, deeply felt dish — the kind that sneaks up on you. The funk of the cheese hits first, then recedes into sweetness, spice, and the gentle resilience of rice cake. Each element balances the other: creamy and sharp, playful and mature. It’s a moment of pause, a dish that feels closer to jazz than to classical — improvised, yet in perfect harmony.
Sidney didn’t hesitate when I asked how kitchens have changed. “Before COVID, the hours, the shouting — it was just part of the job,” he said. “But that’s not the world anymore.” He described how younger chefs no longer tolerate old-school aggression, and how he’s learned to adapt. “Now, if something’s wrong, we talk. You take someone aside, you fix it. There’s no need to perform anger anymore.”
That shift — away from pressure, toward presence — felt personal. Not just cultural. I saw it in his tone, not just his words.
BERGAMOT
A round bowl arrives with shards of powdered bergamot ice that dissolve instantly on the tongue, cool and sharp. Beneath it hides a layer of smoky barbecued eggplant, just soft enough to collapse into sweetness, followed by a sticky pecan praline. Tiny pearls of olive oil roll across the plate, cool and viscous, catching the light. The flavor is complex and full of opposites, but it’s clear — citrus, smoke, and fat in perfect negotiation. It’s the kind of dish that makes you stop mid-bite and think: I didn’t expect that — but I get it.
When talking about cities he’d still like to see a restaurant of his one day, Sidney tells me he’s never been drawn to cities that feel too finished. “Singapore for example is beautiful,” he said, “but it’s too polished for me. I like places that are still forming. Places where there’s space to make something new.”
That tension — between control and chaos, refinement and wildness — is something he seeks not just in cities, but in food. This dish, too, lives in that tension. It doesn’t wrap things up. It leaves a pleasant question hanging in the air.
PINE
This dessert shifts the mood. Where the previous dessert is light and glacial, this one is darker, denser, more forest than frost. It begins with a bottom of deep, almost bitter chocolate crumble. On top, a scoop of red cabbage and Kentjur ice cream — earthy and floral, thanks to the ginger-like root. A meringue of lychee adds perfume and sweetness, and it’s finished with a spoonful of pine needles — resinous and fragrant. Not nostalgic in the obvious sense — but it pulls at something just beyond reach.
During the interview, Sidney mentioned tasting Kentjur for the first time. “I hadn’t worked with it before,” he said, “but I tasted it and immediately thought: I need to do something with this.” He paused, then added, “Sometimes it’s just one thing. A smell from childhood, a texture I haven’t played with yet. It just sticks. And then, well — you sort of have to chase it.”
There was something haunting about this course. Not just the pine, or the Kentjur, or the way it all unfolded in layers — but the sense that taste, at its most powerful, isn’t about novelty. It’s about memory. About catching a feeling you didn’t know you still carried. And in that way, this dessert didn’t just close a chapter — it reached backward.
STICKY RICE & LIQUORICE
The final plated course arrives in two parts. First, a green sphere of sticky rice, cool and chewy, filled with a bright calamansi and tarragon centre — citrus and herb unfolding slowly with each bite.
Second, a miniature pyramid of liquorice cheesecake. The liquorice is bold, almost bracing, but the coconut rounds it out. It’s nostalgic, but modern. And by now, sweetness doesn’t feel like a prize — it feels like punctuation. Not a grand finale, just the final comma in a long, thoughtful sentence.
As we were winding down, I asked how becoming a father changed the way he sees things. “I used to think about the next dish, the next restaurant, the next step. But now I think more about what’s in front of me. What I can taste, what I can share.” He spoke about his kids tasting herring, risotto, tempeh — things he never liked as a child. “And they’re curious. That’s all I want — for them to stay curious.”
It was a quiet moment, like this final course — personal, unexpected, and full of warmth.
FINAL NOTE
The meal ends with a small plate of chocolates spheres, each shaped to echo an ingredient from the courses that came before: a duck, a sliver of seaweed, something that resembles the orb from the truffle dish. It’s playful and lighthearted, but also remarkably detailed — a quiet encore that reminds you of every note the meal has hit.
I asked Sidney how he thinks about legacy. He didn’t hesitate. “I don’t,” he said. “I think about dinner. And tomorrow’s prep list. And whether I can get home in time to read the kids a story.”
That’s what stuck with me the most. He’s not looking to be remembered. He’s just trying to be present. And maybe that’s why Spectrum feels the way it does: clear, composed, and somehow — even with twelve courses — not a performance, but a moment.
As the evening folds into night, and the garden just beyond the window fades into silhouette, I’m left thinking about how rare it is for a meal to move with this kind of rhythm. At Spectrum, there is always tension — between smoke and citrus, between heritage and innovation, between ambition and ease — but never conflict. Every contrast is met with its counterweight.
Even now, days later, I find myself lingering on certain notes: the marinated watermelon, cool and sharp; the crisp shiso leaves layered with bitterness and umami; the quiet funk of Époisses wrapped in blackcurrant and mochi; the powdered bergamot melting on the tongue; the scent of pine needles in dessert. And the langoustine — smoky, fragrant, almost electric — still flickers in my memory like a chord that hasn’t quite resolved.
What Schutte has created isn’t just a menu; it’s a momentum. One that carries you gently but deliberately, from an enticing start to exhilarating finish. Excitement, but without excess. Complexity, but never chaos.
And maybe it’s that kind of balance — quiet, considered, complete — that reveals the art of Spectrum.
find the editorial in n°summer 2025 (coming)
the editorial details a visit in March ‘25
writing & visuals: Igrien
visit Spectrum at the Waldorf Astoria in Amsterdam