Discussion
Sadly, I'm back from Malta Hols and 'off on one' again.
Imagine I, or you, get a nice bit of fillet steak, brush with olive oil, then grill it properly. Boil some new potatoes, then fry a few of them as well. Some broccoli, not overboiled, with the drop of fat and gravy from the steak poured over it. Warm plate, salt and pepper, and a bit of real butter on the boiled spuds and there you are. Sounds nice, is nice.
There are two major desires in our lives, sex and food, they go together because sex is difficult if you have just died from hunger. This is why food is so important to us, but we have gone too far. There's more cooking on television than war documentaries. The arty-crafty in cooking has become too high. The cuisine, too haute.
You can get something like our steak as described above, though a smaller portion, for about One hundred pounds from one of the 'In', fashionable, 'spend your share-dealing/hedge fund/private equity bonus here', restaurants. Or for double the money. It just depends how many chefs have practised their arts upon it. What might happen in the preparation of your steak dinner in a hypothetical restaurant of this type I will attempt to describe. This restaurant is called "Insert you own favourite here!".
About three chefs will be involved with the meat, all more or less temperamental. One will rub it with more unguents than the mummifiers of King Tut. He has his specialities, this chef with the hands made bony from basting. He gets to work. Flakes of Tanberric Grass, from Trincomalee, will slide off the steak at the cost of about five pounds a blade. The Tanberric alone had its vogue but became old hat about three days ago and ceased to titilate the taste buds, so a subtle mixture had to be made. Raw mustard seed, viola root, octuple virgin olive oil, (from Kos only), bruised root ginger which has been steeped in a good Reisling, peppers roasted by burning coconut husk, and of course the Tanberric. And you've been eating your steak just as it is, shame on you.
The secret of success in haute cuisine is this monstrous fiddling about with esoteric ingredients and the arranging it all like a Jean Miro painting. Quite honestly, the meal you and I prepared earlier is attractive enough aesthetically. We would not suggest it is all liquidised and eaten as khaki mud with a spoon, but the steak can nestle by the potatoes and the broccoli can steam gently at its side. Two bits of parsley on it and a treble clef of gravy don't do much for it.
Back to tonights special meal at our restaurant, where I hope you have booked up six months earlier and knew someone of influence to vouch for your impeccable taste. If your referee is doubtful you may still get in, but will be at the table which is banged by the toilet door. The magicians are at work in the kitchen. The second meat chef has jostled the embalmer and trimmed your steak, small enough to begin with, into the shape of a trapezoid. The tasty bit of fat has gone. This chef actually cooks it. He moves his hands with unnecessary wide sweeps as he cuts it down, after this the unguent man tries to balance a litle more of his expensive mixture on it, they fight it under the grill between them. When cooked, meat chef three steps forward. He has been hovering with a sneer on his face as the transformation into food for the gods can only take place under his hands. With a scapel he slices imitation fish scales on top of the fillet, into each slit he lays a thin drawn strand of real liquorice. Criss crossed thus, it is put on a plate so that the ends of the liquorice threads anchor it down like Gulliver by the Lilliputians. The plate is passed on and tiny pieces of vegetable are put on the plate. One limp spinach leaf is put beside the steak, woe betide that man if a liquorice strand is broken. A single small cauliflower floret has been pierced with carrot slivers, like a baby hedgehog with ginger bristles. There is a single baked potato, caramelised and cut into four, the quarters are separated by exactly half an inch. There are only two colours of gravy tonight, One green gravy line runs through the potato from east to west. The black gravy line from north to south. The potato is now like the flag on Sabena Airlines. The gravy chef and the vegetable chef now fight. Gravy wants to make more lines like the radiating spokes of a bicycle wheel, possibly placing a larger white plate under the one in use and continuing the lines over that. Fortunately 'vegetables' is physically stronger and the steak goes to the the customer in it's simple form.
The starter was pate, beaten into a wooden conical mould. It is served in the mould which makes it a bit more expensive at fify pounds. It has to be removed and eaten with thin obelisks of Ibo burnt grain bread. To balance the bread on the plate a piece of celery is cut and stuck together with edible shellac in the form of the expedition raft 'Kon-Tiki'.
Pared Srudel is for afters, sorry the sweet course, but we have lost interest. All we want to do is hypothetically fee these alchemists to the tune of about three hunded pounds and go home. We can then have the proper steak and an Eccles Cake.
As an aside the food in Malta was good, but sadly we caught Maltese Flu and now feel like death.
I can't sleep, which is why I am typing this at 06:00 on a Sunday morning. I might write about Malta in a few days.
Imagine I, or you, get a nice bit of fillet steak, brush with olive oil, then grill it properly. Boil some new potatoes, then fry a few of them as well. Some broccoli, not overboiled, with the drop of fat and gravy from the steak poured over it. Warm plate, salt and pepper, and a bit of real butter on the boiled spuds and there you are. Sounds nice, is nice.
There are two major desires in our lives, sex and food, they go together because sex is difficult if you have just died from hunger. This is why food is so important to us, but we have gone too far. There's more cooking on television than war documentaries. The arty-crafty in cooking has become too high. The cuisine, too haute.
You can get something like our steak as described above, though a smaller portion, for about One hundred pounds from one of the 'In', fashionable, 'spend your share-dealing/hedge fund/private equity bonus here', restaurants. Or for double the money. It just depends how many chefs have practised their arts upon it. What might happen in the preparation of your steak dinner in a hypothetical restaurant of this type I will attempt to describe. This restaurant is called "Insert you own favourite here!".
About three chefs will be involved with the meat, all more or less temperamental. One will rub it with more unguents than the mummifiers of King Tut. He has his specialities, this chef with the hands made bony from basting. He gets to work. Flakes of Tanberric Grass, from Trincomalee, will slide off the steak at the cost of about five pounds a blade. The Tanberric alone had its vogue but became old hat about three days ago and ceased to titilate the taste buds, so a subtle mixture had to be made. Raw mustard seed, viola root, octuple virgin olive oil, (from Kos only), bruised root ginger which has been steeped in a good Reisling, peppers roasted by burning coconut husk, and of course the Tanberric. And you've been eating your steak just as it is, shame on you.
The secret of success in haute cuisine is this monstrous fiddling about with esoteric ingredients and the arranging it all like a Jean Miro painting. Quite honestly, the meal you and I prepared earlier is attractive enough aesthetically. We would not suggest it is all liquidised and eaten as khaki mud with a spoon, but the steak can nestle by the potatoes and the broccoli can steam gently at its side. Two bits of parsley on it and a treble clef of gravy don't do much for it.
Back to tonights special meal at our restaurant, where I hope you have booked up six months earlier and knew someone of influence to vouch for your impeccable taste. If your referee is doubtful you may still get in, but will be at the table which is banged by the toilet door. The magicians are at work in the kitchen. The second meat chef has jostled the embalmer and trimmed your steak, small enough to begin with, into the shape of a trapezoid. The tasty bit of fat has gone. This chef actually cooks it. He moves his hands with unnecessary wide sweeps as he cuts it down, after this the unguent man tries to balance a litle more of his expensive mixture on it, they fight it under the grill between them. When cooked, meat chef three steps forward. He has been hovering with a sneer on his face as the transformation into food for the gods can only take place under his hands. With a scapel he slices imitation fish scales on top of the fillet, into each slit he lays a thin drawn strand of real liquorice. Criss crossed thus, it is put on a plate so that the ends of the liquorice threads anchor it down like Gulliver by the Lilliputians. The plate is passed on and tiny pieces of vegetable are put on the plate. One limp spinach leaf is put beside the steak, woe betide that man if a liquorice strand is broken. A single small cauliflower floret has been pierced with carrot slivers, like a baby hedgehog with ginger bristles. There is a single baked potato, caramelised and cut into four, the quarters are separated by exactly half an inch. There are only two colours of gravy tonight, One green gravy line runs through the potato from east to west. The black gravy line from north to south. The potato is now like the flag on Sabena Airlines. The gravy chef and the vegetable chef now fight. Gravy wants to make more lines like the radiating spokes of a bicycle wheel, possibly placing a larger white plate under the one in use and continuing the lines over that. Fortunately 'vegetables' is physically stronger and the steak goes to the the customer in it's simple form.
The starter was pate, beaten into a wooden conical mould. It is served in the mould which makes it a bit more expensive at fify pounds. It has to be removed and eaten with thin obelisks of Ibo burnt grain bread. To balance the bread on the plate a piece of celery is cut and stuck together with edible shellac in the form of the expedition raft 'Kon-Tiki'.
Pared Srudel is for afters, sorry the sweet course, but we have lost interest. All we want to do is hypothetically fee these alchemists to the tune of about three hunded pounds and go home. We can then have the proper steak and an Eccles Cake.
As an aside the food in Malta was good, but sadly we caught Maltese Flu and now feel like death.
I can't sleep, which is why I am typing this at 06:00 on a Sunday morning. I might write about Malta in a few days.
Bad food is bad food. No matter how you dress it up.
Not all "poncy" food is bad. But bad poncy food is bad.
You can ruin a simple steak quite happily.
Personally I think steak, boiled potatoes and brocoli sounds hugely unimaginative.
Steak, chips, bearnaise - now there is a simple meal
Not all "poncy" food is bad. But bad poncy food is bad.
You can ruin a simple steak quite happily.
Personally I think steak, boiled potatoes and brocoli sounds hugely unimaginative.
Steak, chips, bearnaise - now there is a simple meal
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