Rues of Roo

I was hesitant. Cynical. It must’ve been the air. Food is just food. I’ve had plenty of good food in my life. Why this, why here? “It’s two stars!” she argued. Two stars. Wow. Big deal. There are fifty billion million stars in the universe, it’s just two. “Michelin stars!” she adds.

Wasn’t Michelin the tyre company? Big fat Michelin man, white, of course, from eating too much food and giving stars away. Good way of making money, I bet.

Apparently, Mr Michelin man gives out three stars, two, and one. So this one was two. So that makes it, what? Average? Average food. Sky high prices. “Thirty five pounds, for lunch! We have to go!”

Thirty five quid? That’s a hundred and five Sing. I could buy twenty McDonald meals for that for crying out loud. Bloody hell.

In the end, of course, I relented. Two stars. Fiddle sticks.

Deep down, of course I like good food. I can’t say that now though, can I? Okay, so there’s crap food, and there’s good food. But seriously, how good can food get? And is it really worth spending that much more money for? I can count on one hand the number of times I thought paying fifty dollars for food was actually worth it, let alone a hundred and five. Most of the time, I am never satisfied. All these hullaballoo restaurants claiming to be wonderful. It’s all a big joke, really. Two stars? Pish tosh.

We walk down New Bond Street, the shops too distracting, and find this restaurant. The Square, it’s called. I don’t know why. The staff are friendly enough, actually, very friendly, but then they’re paid. I’m not convinced. So we sit down, and yes, I’m getting into the mood. Looking around there’re only a few people sitting there. The place sits about twenty tables, so it’s not huge, and it’s less than half empty.

There are some other fat people sitting at the other tables, wearing power suits and turning red from too much cholestoral I’m guessing. Why isn’t the Michelin man red? Anyone with that many rolls of fat wouldn’t be pasty. Or smiling. But that man there was, so maybe you can be very happy and very very fat. Was the food that good?

The waiter ‘yoor menoo, sir’, plops the menu, la carte, in my hands. Merci. Let’s see.

‘Tasting menu, 95 pounds’ okay, next page, ‘a la carte’ the dishes read 40 pounds, 30, thereabouts. Hmm. Next page. Ah, the back, for those who can’t afford anything. ‘Set Menu, two dishes 30 pounds, three dishes 35 pounds’. Okay so the choice is obvious, two dishes.

“Three!” she objects*. Okay okay, three. I choose the salad, chicken, and chocolate cake. Wow, sounds exotic.

First impressions are not too bad. There are actually two butters sitting in front of us. Salted, and unsalted. We discuss the merits of both. “This one is salty,” she says. And this one isn’t, I add, pointing at the other one, of course. We nod our heads in sophisticated acknowledgement.

And then the aperitif arrives.

I take a crappy photo because I’m too nervous in this high class environment. I laugh while I do it. We’re such tourists, I whisper. Apparently, this is celery gelatin, some jelly and bacon mousse on the top.

Now, I know some people vomit when they eat celery, so what’s up with the gelatin? And isn’t that a ‘Frazzle’ on top? Like, as in some pork rind snack. Well, okay. At least this is free.

I dip my spoon to taste the top later, the bacon mousse and gently place the spoon on my tongue.

What happens next I’m not entirely sure, but I remember looking up and we both struggle to contain the superlatives.

It’s mousse, but it’s bacon, it’s salty, and it melts, it’s absolutely, undoubtedly, wonderful. I dip my spoon to the bottom of the glass and take out the celery gelatin. Celery and bacon. The combinations are odd, but in your mouth, none of this really makes a difference. The celery jelly isn’t really as strong as you expect, it’s subtle, and cool, and it combines with the salty bacon so well. Unbelievable.

I actually say, at that point, that the 35 pounds is worth it. I must be mad. For a glass of mousse and jelly?

What follows are an array of dishes that honestly, have too many flavours for me to find adjectives for. The salad has duck eggs, some bacon, spinach, the main has chicken, some kind of puree and a lone cauliflower. And the dessert, chocolate cake at its best. Delicious, I keep saying. Superb. Wonderful. Mmm. It gets a bit repetitive.

Two stars? I wonder. Maybe the Michelin man isn’t so fat for no reason. He must know what two stars truly means. I wonder what three stars tastes like. I would pay for that.

It’s the end of the meal. And I’m full. I’m actually full. Fine dining leaves you full? Reality somewhat dwells lightly on my head as the waiter comes back. “Cafe, sir?”

What? At a two star restaurant? How good can coffee be? And despite my meal, I decline. I’ll grab something at Starbucks on the way out.

Old habits.

* In reality, I desired three dishes as well. However, for the purposes of this blog, slight indiscrepancies are present. Apologies for any inconvenience and misunderstanding caused.