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Food in context

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 2002 you were invited to adopt the persona of a food critic and describe a visit to an imaginary and especially unappealing theme restaurant.

Two of my sons, aged respectively 30 and ten, had a night out in the West End recently and took in the Rainforest. They were handed tickets and waited in a queue until a voice called out, 'Tarantula Two, please go to Elephant Desk.' They were off! Their meal, such as it was, was accom- panied by ecological sermons .delivered by a robotic figure called Tracey Tree (the chainsaw for her, they agreed) and inter- rupted at 20-minute intervals by a simulat- ed tropical downpour behind plate glass. Now I read that the Restaurateurs' Associ- ation has mockingly designed a vision of the restaurant in 2020, Cafe La Futura, where food police prowl the floor, diners are asked to step on the scales before ordering, pregnant women are refused alcohol, and steak knives are blunted to avoid self-injury. Come to think of it, why not a The Me Restaurant, offering 'the supreme Eggo trip, a Will Self omelette', etc., and a single narcissus on every table?

The prizewinners, printed below, get L25 each, and the bonus bottle of Isle of Jura Single Malt Scotch whisky is Nick Syrett's.

One should not expect civil service at Sir Humphrey's, 'the bistro run according to civil service guidelines', and my partner (registered as such for tax purposes) and I cheerfully accepted the lengthy queue and the need to order in trip- licate from a menu of 17 pages containing only nine dishes, four of them unavailable until the next financial year. The EC nomenclature was, however, irritating, as was the gearing between portion and EC subsidy. Hence my partner received a kilogram of 'Goat's Belly with Medium Small Olives' and I a microscopic 'Flatfish (orig. Dover)'. Rationalisation of seat- ing through patron classification also seemed unfortunate, my partner being compulsorily relocated to a table of supermodels whilst I ended up with the Daily Mirror's snooker corre-

spondent. I was disturbed to learn that all the bills were to be means-tested, but fortunately mine got lost in the system. No wine, but an excellent tea-trolley. (Nick Syrett)

You can't fault chefs puns: 'Within spitting dis- tance of Hull ... on the mouth of the Humber ... fillings galore.' For themed dentistry and all the trimmings book your 'appointment' at Gnashers now. Waitresses in white nylon over- alls; Campari and sodas called 'Rinse and Spit'; black leather chairs tilting you backwards; even hypnotically revolving biplane mobiles suspend- ed from neon-lit ceilings: add a tropical fish tank and this is any provincial dentist's c. 1960 — except that the six-foot high mural, 'Tracey's Molars (With Caries)', is definitely Whitechapel Gallery 1997. If this concentration on mastica- tion processes does not completely kill your appetite you may find something somewhere on the menu (Treatments') that is not wholly tooth-grating. Tooth Fairy's Surprise (a 'pillow' of egg mousse containing salted cashew nuts), By Gum! (a beetroot-coloured aspic ring sur- rounding sliced tongue) and Sticky Flossy Pud- ding were three I avoided. Not for those with

wisdom teeth. (D.A. Prince) On arrival at the Moon and Parrot, the chefer- ee's assistants check your footwear before allow- ing you to take up your positions. The cheferee himself then tosses a pancake to decide who orders first. (There is a reserve menu for those

unhappy with the premier selection.) Dishes include topside of beef, game of two halves, deli- cate chips and tender ribs: extra thyme is option- al. There's plenty of bottle too: goalkeeper's punch and broken Beaune are especially popu- lar, drunk de rigueur from Coca-Cola cups. If you linger too long and your table is required you'll be discreetly yellow-carded; disregarding this caution may lead to the shame of a red card and forcible ejection. But there are jokes, too: the lavatories at the rear of the building are called the 'back four' and the FA Vase is empty. A pleasant way to kick off an evening, but I don't

recommend a season ticket. (Tim Hopkins) The virulent yellow of the dress McLeod (the 'bumbee' tartan) was hardly a soothing choice for carpets and upholstery, never mind waitress- es' minis and waiters' kilts. However, Devolution Diner is the current crowd-puller. Used to menus in French, I had language problems and, though the staff were eager to help, their accents were impenetrable, so we chose somewhat at random. My companion insisted on homemade haggis for starters, which became 'finishers' as far as his meal was concerned. A pity. I had been looking forward to learning what `roastit cuddy' is. When they appeared, my `champit tatties and neeps' were dry mashed potatoes and swede — a disappointing accompaniment for venison pie. But you can wash most things down with a good malt. The volume of bagpipe muzak was moder- ated at my third request. Fortunately it was not a Saturday; they have a brace of live pipers then.

(Manna Blake) Gimmicks start early in the Philosopher's Den, as an odd, gangling waiter ('Hi! I'm Ludwig') serves you a freebie of cheap sherry, observing, in arch tones, that a meal without an aperitif is like chess without the pawns. The other waiters are philosophers too, each with a gruesome joky feature explained in a key alongside the menu: Socrates, for instance, has plaits dangling from his gown ('hemlocks'), while Heidegger clumps around in heavy boots ('the original Doc Martins'). To avoid confusion, they all wear their names on their backs like footballers. The place is, needless to say, Ayer-conditioned. I found the gents' loo especially unnerving with its life-size picture of Bertrand Russell, the expression sug- gesting he himself had no need of such a place. The ambience largely numbed any sense of what I was eating — which, to judge by residual signals from my palate, was just as well. (Chris Tingley)