To my dearest boyfriend, Ric. For enlightening me as to the pleasures of beautiful food in all its simplicity. For proving that exceptional cooking comes from feeling, and not from understanding alone. For sharing your passion for food in an eclectic range of guises, celebrating both tradition and modernity. For making me fall in love with food, all over again.
Yours, always. Edward Xxx
Spare a thought for the humble restaurant critic.
Consider him in your prayers this evening. Light a candle for the undisputed tragic hero of our time.
Scarlet-faced and trousered alike, night after night, his quest for gastronomic perfection drives him to venture out, ravenous and embittered, in search of a meal well worth its proverbial salt. No sooner has he quaffed his last leg of cabernet, having hitherto managed to decimate a myriad of toothsome indulgences, than he is poised to pen his draconian slant lambasting the events of his wretched evening. He departs, almost always unsatisfied, and soon after pockets dosh by the fistful in return for an exasperated, over-dramatized, highfalutin piece on the minor culinary imperfections he has been forced to endure. Poor sod.
Nowadays it seems one can barely go twenty-four hours without being told what, how or where to eat. Dining out has become so overly complicated it’s no wonder most of us are left scratching our heads and rubbing our temples, enmired in a knee-deep morass of endless options. The figure of the restaurant critic, I’ll admit, is an easy target when it comes to sermonising on the virtues or, more likely, shortcomings of social eating houses, but the latter cannot shirk themselves entirely of this blame.
Cue beginning of rant.
Restaurants, cafés and bars have all, in recent years, hopped somewhat naively onto the hipster bandwagon, serving up ordinary meals on so-called ‘ultra-modern’ and ‘experimental’ forms of crockery. This phenomenon, whilst not particularly new, is one which no doubt many have noticed and have felt the desire, nay, the obligation, to vilify. I am well aware that the presentation of a dish has the potential to improve its taste beyond measure, not to mention bestowing the chef with a platform on which to enhance his or her art. But, come now, let’s be serious for a moment. There comes a point where endeavouring to fork out a scotch egg from the abyss of a parmesan-filled boot is just not practical. Or striving to slash one’s way through a turkey Christmas dinner nestled, however charmingly, adorning a steering wheel.
Evidently I could spaff on for quite some time about my disdain of kicking kitchenware and trendy table tops. Alas, I really must press on though. But don’t worry, guys. You can read more about my thoughts on the subject in my next article, for which I’ll be writing every line on its own ‘ultra-modern’ and ‘experimental’ Dorito crisp.
Often steeped in overripe affectation and scrawled in tedious patois, the menus themselves fare no better. Gone are the days when a carrot was simply a carrot, or a pork chop unmistakably a pork chop. Oh no, that was far too simple. God forbid we should actually be able to understand what it is that we’re ordering these days. Why not treat yourself instead to a hand-picked organic King Chantenay whilst gorbing on an Oxford Sandy and Black? And if that doesn’t satisfy your porcine cravings, how about a helping of Orange Pippin salsa on the side? (That’s apple sauce, to you and me). Honestly, there are Shakespearean sonnets more digestible than some of this piffle.
Nope, that’s too kind. Piffle “lite” is what it is.
Front-of-house, I’m pleased to say, is where things begin to look up. At my local coffee hangout in N19, for instance, the staff are a paradigm of conviviality, initiating and sustaining exuberant conversation and displaying an eye-watering level of charisma. The three baristas are, and will always be, part of the fabric there, whether I end up chatting to the usual thickset bloke, his beard so nesty a blackbird would be hard pressed to find anywhere more cosy and affordable (particularly at London prices), or to either of the other two equally amiable mocha maestros who can often be seen gracing the shop’s floor. No qualms there.
What grinds my gears is not the ebullience of the dashing and benevolent waiter. Rather, it is the posturing and pretence of the maître droids and server-bots in the upper échelons of dining establishment who manage, somehow, to pull off the seemingly impossible feat of making ‘charisma’ look like a rare form of social disease. “So sorry to hear you’ve been diagnosed with charisma. Our thoughts are with you at this difficult time. Get well soon.”
This, of course, is not to say that I do not enjoy the occasional outing to a high-end or Michelin-starred saloon. Some of the finest dishes I’ve had the privilege to scoff have been constructed, piece by piece, behind the scenes in a first-rate kitchen. I can still taste the gloriously satiating flavours of the milk cake I ate at double AA-Rosette, Zoilo, on Duke Street, for instance. Crested with snowdrops of passion fruit sorbet and served with lashings of silky coffee cream. And that was almost thirteen months ago. There, the staff were caring and considerate. Generous and affable, with fine wine and conversation flowing in equally abundant measure. The menu, less Magna Carta and more polling card.
So, why all the fuss nowadays? Why do we as a nation fritter away so many of our finite hours on this planet, endeavouring to scoop up the illusive award for newest contrarian on the block? It doesn’t make any sense. With all the continuing Brexit-cum-Trump-cum-Grenfell angst spread-eagling the front pages these days, Lord knows we could use a bit of optimism in our lives for once.
Enough with the disdainful reviews from the pitiful restaurant critic. Au revoir to the fad-conscious sycophants forcing us to eat like swine from the trough of bewilderment. Auf wiedersehen to the hygiene-obsessed health nuts sanctimoniously peddling their views on this month’s hot new superfood. And farewell to the culinary grammarians pencilling gobbledygook throughout their cartes du jour, all in the name of pomposity.
Live a little. Mix it up. Burn your food and call it ‘caramelised’. Revel in the joys of chowing down on beans on toast. Forget about the ten-second rule and substitute it for the latest thirty-second update. What doesn’t kill you… Re-heat the spag bol for the umpteenth time. Order in once in a while. So what if the local Chinese takeaway place is just around the corner? Dispel the antediluvian myths that fruit and cheese don’t go together. Don’t give others the satisfaction of marring your evening, just to succeed in a churlish bout of one-upmanship.
Eat something because you like it and to hell with the naysayers. Go with your gut. It won’t let you down.
Photograph: Credit to D Dharma, fastcocreate.com.
The Boy Who Loved To Eat 