On the Perils of Over-Enthusiasm in the Culinary Arts
The fork, which had been poised with such elegant intention above the medallion of venison, now hung suspended in mid-air, its owner’s face a study in polite but profound confusion. It was the third Tuesday of the month at Le Canard Enchaîné, a restaurant whose reputation for innovation was matched only by its prices, and the gentleman in question, a Mr. Reginald Ponsonby of the Hertfordshire Ponsonbys, was experiencing what the menu had optimistically termed a “gastronomic re-imagining of the forest floor.” The venison, it must be said, was superb. The accompanying foam, however, which the waiter had described with a reverent hush as “essence of autumnal loam,” tasted disconcertingly like one had licked a particularly enthusiastic gardener’s boot. Mr. Ponsonby, a man not given to hyperbole, found himself wondering if the chef had, in fact, employed a gardener in the kitchen, and if so, whether he had remembered to wash his Wellingtons.
This, I am afraid, is the central peril of the modern restaurant review. One is no longer merely assessing the quality of a sauce or the tenderness of a cut of meat. One is being asked to pass judgment on a concept, an artistic statement, a manifesto delivered on a slate tile instead of a page. The critic’s task has been complicated immeasurably by the chef’s ambition. Where once a simple “over-salted” or “perfectly grilled” would suffice, one must now grapple with the philosophical implications of a deconstructed Black Forest gateau that arrives looking like a crime scene and tasting faintly of existential despair. It is a form of culinary theatre where the audience is not always sure if the performance is a tragedy or a farce, and is required to digest both the performance and the meal itself.
The difficulty is compounded by the service, which has evolved from a practice of efficient hospitality into a form of interpretive dance. Waiters no longer merely serve; they perform a ritual. Each dish is presented not as food, but as a revelation, its ingredients listed in a tone usually reserved for the unveiling of a holy relic. One half expects a choir to swell as the silver cloche is lifted. To interrupt this sacred ceremony with a mundane request for, say, more bread, feels like shouting an order for a pint during the climax of a Wagner opera. It is simply not done. The entire experience is designed to inspire awe, and awe, as a sensation, is notoriously bad for the digestion.
And yet, for all this, one must persevere. The critic’s duty is not to the chef’s ego, nor to the restaurant’s carefully curated ambiance, but to the poor soul like Reginald Ponsonby, who has saved his pennies and put on his best suit in the hope of a good dinner, not an artistic ordeal. The most avant-garde presentation cannot excuse a soggy pastry, and the most poetic description on the menu is a poor substitute for a properly reduced stock. The true art of the restaurant review, then, lies in navigating this minefield of pretension without losing sight of the fundamental question: was it, in the final and most important analysis, actually nice to eat?
Mr. Ponsonby, having discreetly pushed his loam foam to the far edge of the slate, signaled for the bill. The waiter, mistaking this gesture for profound contemplation, leaned in conspiratorially. “The chef,” he murmured, “is considering a winter series - edible snow, infused with the melancholy of January.” Mr. Ponsonby, who had once survived a particularly grim February in Scunthorpe, replied with a silence so dense it could have been served as its own course. Outside, the night air was brisk and unpretentious. A hot pie from the corner stall, he decided, would do very nicely indeed.