Dining out is a great pleasure - in the main - chefs crucify themselves to invent, design, prepare, present and come up with excuses such as sustainability and “respecting the entire animal” for using ever cheaper ingredients in their dishes in order to keep themselves solvent to provide dishes to customers; Maîtres D’Hotel - the very best at least - schmooze and smarm charmingly and convincingly (who doesn’t want to feel loved by the maître d’, feel picked out for special attention and to be congratulated that the dish or wine just chosen was “an excellent choice”?); the usually young front of house staff, soft voiced and often not fully conversant in English, struggle to remember the detailed descriptions of what they’re bringing out to their diners and to enable old blokes like me to understand what they’re whispering and precisely what is on the plate set before one ….. aaah! the pleasures of dining out. There are many more.
But then there are the other diners who are generally horrible. And not one of the pleasures of dining out. The problem is that the younger middle classes now just have too much money and while being useless to society and self absorbed, they are able to make themselves seen in decent restaurants though it would be better that they were never seen by anyone apart from their fellow self-admirers and ‘selfie’-takers.
This diatribe, not yet finished, was set off by a recent visit to Weston super Mare’s The Ginger Pig Kitchen (which really does deserve a mention in The Good Food Guide given the guide’s new approach to sites of dining out that caused it to allow hipster neighbourhood restaurants such as Eat Vietnam in the Stirchley Socialist Republic to be admitted to its august pages). I was pleased (and surprised) to see how busy the restaurant was at 6PM on a Thursday evening but I noticed that there had been a paradigm shift in the clientele dining there - the Brummie and West Midlands elderly holidaymakers had made way for a younger, scruffier (sorry, more casual) collection of diners with middle class West Country accents. And a lot of them spoke very loudly.
My table was unfortunately positioned next to that of the loudest man in the room where he sat with his three dining companions. One of the females had a loud repetitive inauthentic laugh - ha ha ha - which advertised her presence to everyone else in the restaurant and filled in for the periods of a few seconds when the male, a large man of about 40, unsuccessfully doing his best to look cool and admirable, gave his tongue a rest. The group behaved as though they were entitled to ignore the presence of any other diners in the room or, conversely, to inflict their dull conversation on the other diners whose presence they were treating with indifference. In truth it is likely that they were indeed unaware of all the other diners except that they provided an audience for them.
The previous evening I had dined at an Indian restaurant and again was unfortunate enough to be sat next to a table of excruciatingly loud mid-twenty year old men whose conversations were carried out by what could only be described as shouting with respite only being obtained when they paused, which they frequently did, to pose for ‘selfies’.
Diners, especially those from the middle class which feels empowered to use foul and filthy language on social media about anyone who does not share their outlook on life, live self-righteously and sanctimoniously, are relatively well-educated but are often vaguely thick and foolish, adept at manipulative behaviour, seem to be running riot even in fine restaurants. Apart from the question of loud speech there is the question of dressing to dine.
I found it hard to believe that male diners at Adam’s restaurant thought it appropriate to turn up to dine in shorts when I ate there one evening a few weeks ago on a not particularly warm night. What was the staff to do? Adam’s is not a cheap burger joint and diners should be expected to respect the nature of the restaurant and fellow diners. I really don’t want to have the sight of hairy male legs inflicted on me while I’m dealing with my mackerel ceviche.
It’s all about middle class entitlement. This is the section of society that allows its children to rampage around other diners in dining establishments which have embraced the concept of child-friendly restaurants. They speak to their brats in ways designed to broadcast to those unfortunate enough to be around them that they have very bright and forward children. If only they would understand that no-one finds their children to be any where as charming or as interesting as they think they are (though there is usually some old middle class biddy sitting somewhere nearby ready to engage the horrors in a silly question and answer conversation). Advice to restaurateurs - don’t be child friendly (unless you sell burgers and hand out free plastic toys) - be dog friendly instead - dogs cause far fewer problems, are much better behaved and are far less likely to spread disease than human brats do.
The worst gastronomic product of the new socialist middle class is the blogger/self-proclaimed food expert - usually aged in the range 25 to 49. These are self-publicists, rapidly approaching, or having already arrived at, a feeling of lost youth and who are unsuccessful in a career that is useful to society. They think that chefs and important restaurant figures love them whereas they are in fact rather disdainful of these sad people, often alcoholics, but humour them just in case a potential diner does take notice of a negative review sparked off by any perceived slight they receive in a restaurant. Notably these people are never offered a job as a food reviewer for a respectable organ of any type and they haunt the internet tweeting like there’s no tomorrow. By the time they arrive at fifty they have run to seed looking prematurely aged, have established alcoholism but have been unsuccessful in overcoming their insecurities and have developed even more severe personality traits than they had one or two decades before.
Earlier this year, I was dining in a restaurant belonging to a celebrity chef and had the dubious honour of witnessing one of these ‘influencers’ - a woman - preening herself over an expensive plate of fish and chips and self-consciously drawing attention to herself. I had no idea who she was but was interested that chef himself brought her meal out to her - I’m not entirely sure that he wasn’t taking the mickey - but I searched around the internet and found that this individual - her literary skills clearly somewhat limited - had recorded her day visiting this particular restaurant and I was pleased to have identified this particular diner though I have long since forgotten her identity and I doubt that I would recognise her again. Oh, how short are those fifteen minutes of fame.
It is remarkable to me that these middle class, so casual, so self-aware, so self-entitled diners are spending hundreds of pounds on consuming expensive meals out while proclaiming the financial distress of the country. It seems that the government they blame for the financial disturbances has not been so disastrous for them.
I dislike dining in the presence of the smug diner or the diner who doesn’t understand the privilege they are experiencing when dining out in fine restaurants or why they should have a little consideration for their fellow diners - not just those at their table - in keeping the sound of their voices down to a level where everyone else is not having to hear their conversations and braying laughter. I dislike the way those who feel self-entitlement are wholly indifferent to those around them.
I wonder what old Nathaniel Newnham-Davis would have made of it all? - “Tut tut. None of that sort of behaviour in my day, yer know”.
By the way, on the day of writing this, I record that it’s Escoffier’s birthday (28 October 1846 - 12 February 1935). Happy birthday to a giant of gastronomy and a failed fraudster.
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