Check your food inhibitions at the door. Tonight, you’ll be eating a zesty slice of margherita pizza on a crust so thin you can read through it, corkscrew “pasta” injected with the most vivid pesto ever, and chocolate-covered doughnut ice cream. They will all be game-changers — that fusilli is made with water and a gelling agent, each noodle filled using a syringe — and luscious. No matter where you’ve dined before, nothing will prepare a Minibar virgin for the wonders of chef Jose Andrés’s spectacular, 20-something-course dinner theater. Set in a futuristic white room, Minibar is dominated by an open kitchen and a fleet of cooks who perform for no more than a dozen diners sitting at counters on either side of them. From the moment you’re greeted with cava in a small lounge, you’ll be challenged to try new things; in this case, lightly roasted flower petals pressed between clear sheets of potato starch paper scented with rosewater. (The snack is served between the pages of a book.) In the dining room, time flies when you’re eating a Vietnamese-style herb salad in the shell of a fried pig’s ear, granita flavored like gazpacho and a soup of coconut water and shrimp broth with dumplings so sheer, they cook the second they hit the hot broth. Diners are encouraged to ask questions. “How do you think up these things?” a man on the edge of his seat asks. “Gin and tonics!” Ruben Garcia, the head of R&D, shoots back. “Do you cook like this at home?’” the woman next to me wants to know. “Yes,” says executive sous chef Johnny Spero. “Every day I wake up and eat 28 egg courses.” He’s joking, of course. His point is, this is food that’s about as far away from steak and potatoes as it gets, the result of intense rethinking of common textures and flavors. Desserts follow in the room next door, the glam Barmini, which is also where you fetch your bill from inside a nesting doll. If you had asked me in December 2012, after Minibar relocated from the second floor of the former Cafe Atlantico, if the show was worth the cost — as much as $600 a person if you opt for the top-flight wine pairings — I would have hesitated. Back then, Andrés, a Spanish Willy Wonka, was serving too many familiar tricks and an excess of sweet courses. Now? To the moon!