KEY POINTS:
The reason I write a benign weekly column on food is because, being unashamedly intolerant, I could never be a restaurant critic. I am constantly amazed at restaurant critics who always give good reviews; or have absolutely no qualifications; or who can barely write literate English.
The most important qualification you need as a reviewer is a command of language - it's hard to describe food because it is not in our Anglo-Saxon culture to bang on about eating. I once got a letter from an elderly gentleman who found my willingness to groan appreciatively over food absolutely revolting, especially on television, and could I stop it please. It's a bit too close to liking sex and we all know what that leads to. The French, on the other hand, are very good at describing food but then...
Some friends and I ate in a famous old restaurant in the south of France recently called Chez Fon Fon. To say it was the French version of Fawlty Towers would be too charitable - it was a combat zone of colliding, incompetent waiters, desperate food and barely suppressed customer rage. My sommelier friend Tanah was terrified into submission by an aggressive waiter, and ordered the first wine she could see through her anxiety blindness.
The second course was placed in front of us, Tanah took her first bite, the plates were whipped away and given to the table next door who had seen her eating their meal. Their eyes were falling out of their heads and, unbelievably, they ate it without saying a word. My hands were over my face.
This was when we realised that not only were the waiters mad - but also the customers.
Our cognac at the end of the ghastly meal was so cold we could barely hold the glass, and the one highlight of the evening was Tanah warming it between her ample breasts. David put his between his legs - probably compromising his fertility forever. The debt for this pleasure? Seventy-six euros ($145) a head.
Dinner is a defining ritual in our lives - we are the only species in history that entertain and use food as hospitality - so it cuts to the bone when I am offered careless food by sociopaths. We as customers need to be more assertive - if it's bad, complain; if it's really bad, don't pay for it. I am ashamed we paid for this meal - we should have called the police. When I was teaching in Marseilles recently, my "assistant" was one of the best known chefs in Southern France - Francis Robin of the Mas du Soleil restaurant in Salon. We sailed into the peach rest-home decor of his posh joint with fear in our hearts. Would this be another deception?
Can I say it was heaven? Can I say the fish was perfectly cooked and delicate, the bearnaise freshly whipped and the cheese trolley a masterpiece of understanding and controlled rot? I can indeed.
- Detours, HoS
