The Column: 'World's best restaurant' vs. a beloved dive?

Cancel the Copenhagen trip.

Noma is closing.

What is widely considered the “world’s best restaurant” — the place to go when longing for grilled reindeer heart on pine needles or duck brain served in a duck bill — can no longer survive in the current economy, according to Noma’s renowned chef and co-owner, René Redzepi.

“To continue being Noma, we must change,” Redzepi said in a statement.

That Noma endured in any period other than, maybe, Imperial Rome during the exuberant days of Emperor Caligula is remarkable.

Globe-trotting guests can expect to spend somewhere around $500 for a memorable meal that might include bear dumpling, cod bladder or pickled quail eggs. Pairing wine with each startling course puts another $250 nick in the platinum Amex account.

First reported by The New York Times, Noma’s closing was deemed such a shattering global development that publications as diverse as Barron’s, the business paper, CNN and the online foodie sheet London Eater quickly picked up the story.

Even steadfastly serious National Public Radio spread the sad tidings, and People magazine fearlessly announced in a headline: “World’s Best Restaurant Noma, Which Often Served Reindeer Penis, Will Close.” (When it comes to a carcass, Redzepi overlooks little.)

The cost of maintaining high standards, paying a sizable staff and accommodating customers eager to feast on wiggly shrimp and wood sorrel in an ambience of brick and timber forced Redzepi, 45, to consider alternatives.

Liberated from the daily grind, he intends to travel, experiment, develop new projects and “many more ideas.” The prospect of a culinary pioneer who already combines zucchini with bee larvae venturing further into the gastronomic unknown may seem alarming, but Redzepi is resolute. Noma, he says, “will share the fruits of our efforts more widely than ever before.”

Good luck, Chef, but, really, don’t trouble yourself on my behalf.

Here is a complete list of my exotic eating: 1) frog legs a long time ago at an outdoor cafe in Montreal; 2) snails passing as “escargot” at a swanky French spot in Suffolk County; 3) alligator nuggets on the deck of a restaurant one giddy night in Fort Lauderdale. No seconds, thanks, anyway.

In London, my wife, Wink, and I sampled a dessert called “spotted dick,” which turned out to be nothing more disquieting than steamed pudding, and when it comes to unique venues, I once as a Newsday reporter visited a restaurant in Managua, Nicaragua, where — trust me, here — an alligator eyed guests from a pool in the middle of the dining room. As the creature gauged me with suspicion, I wondered if he’d heard from relatives in Lauderdale.

Overall, I’m as unadventurous about dining and food as most other things, happy for evening meals of spaghetti, or rice and beans, or pizza, or an occasional cheese enchilada with mole, the fabulous Mexican sauce made from a multitude of earthy ingredients including chocolate (but lacking the cricket paste and live ants that Noma favors).

That said, I can appreciate the sense of loss when a beloved restaurant disappears even if it is thousands of miles away and in a celestial price range.

Wink and I still miss Rio Mar, the Spanish cafe in the Manhattan meatpacking district where we spent a thousand Saturdays with friends sipping sangria and listening to the Gipsy Kings on the jukebox. Also, J&J Southside, Huntington Station, for mussels and linguine and, way down south in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, the charming local favorite, Crook’s Corner, that we found when a couple of our kids lived nearby. Ah, to again sit on Crook’s patio under the tall bamboo munching hush puppies and awaiting orders of Hoppin’ John.

Mostly though, a restaurant is memories, I think — not so much the food but the fellowship, the music, the conversations overheard at the next table, the handshake and hello from a familiar server.

Noma? A world of its own, I suppose.

Here’s a little good news if you’re dying to go.

Redzepi says he’s not shutting down until after 2024 so there’s still a shot at one of the last, precious reservations.

Have fun.

I’ll be back here, humdrum, enjoying pizza and enchiladas, visiting neighborhood dives where the shrimp holds still and I don’t have to ask, please, if you don’t mind, easy on the ants.