Come dine with me…

Memories of my time as a restaurant critic

Last week I had dinner at the new Gordon Ramsay restaurant in Grosvenor Square (Lucky Cat). It was the first time I’d been somewhere ‘posh’ for a while. I liked having to think about what to wear rather than resorting to my normal drawstring trousers, tee and hoodie.

I also liked being greeted by a glass of Champagne on arrival and not being given a bill at the end of the dinner (I was the guest of an agency I do some work with).

Being at a ‘hot’ restaurant (does anyone even think that, much less say it, anymore?) reminded me of when I worked at Fabric magazine and had a regular restaurant column. I also used to review for Square Meal and enjoyed more free dinners than you can shake a stick at.

One of my Fabric covers. Editing the glossy monthly was the best job I ever had (and I knew it at the time). I quit while I was still at the top of my game - the account was about to move to a different agency – and took a year off to hang out in Australia.

Sometimes I’d go out for so many fancy dinners in a month that I’d moan to friends that all I wanted was a quiet night in with baked beans on toast (I know, what an arsehole!).

Today’s post is a random selection of memories of fancy meals out.

Lunch at La Dame de Pic, Four Seasons, London. ‘Excuse me, what is this?’ I ask the waiter about the chewable garnish that has come with an extraordinary mushroom/fungus dish. ‘That sir, is the decoration! Please do not eat it.’

‘Oh,’ I say to my dining companion at the atmospheric (ie dimly lit) Le Petite Maison, ‘is someone smoking in here? That’s very French!’ Turns out my menu is on fire – I’ve had to hold it very close the tealight on the table to be able to read it.

On a press trip to Barcelona our group has Michelin-starred food at a new hotel. We are plied with fizz and wine and are plastered by the time we sit down for dinner. Food is all style-over-substance: my vegetarian main course is a test-tube of pea purée – basically about three peas. Whisky at the end of the meal tips me over the edge and I have to be ‘helped’ to the lift by two burly waiters. The shame! Another of our party spends much of the meal in tears while the youngest person disappears and is not ‘located’ until the following evening.

I couldn’t possibly eat all that!

My favourite cocktails are margaritas and negronis but I’ve never had anything as delicious as the Enniskellen iced wine martinis at the long defunct Osia on Haymarket. The outstanding thing I remember eating from those days was eggs and bacon ice cream at the Fat Duck. The eggs bit was ice cream and French toast swimming in syrup – the bacon bit was a dark brown fudgy blob.

The enthusiastic waiter hands us a battered old suitcase. ‘May I introduce you to the menu?’ he says before opening the case and pulling out a piece of paper that promises us ‘an unforgettable gastronomy global odyssey’. The suitcases is the only thing I remember about the evening.

Our final breakfast at a five-star hotel in Florence. As she serves me my eggs on toast, the friendly waitress who has looked after us during our stay gleefully announces for everyone to hear: ‘Now I know who you remind me! Mr Bean!!!!!’

Separated at birth! On the same trip to Florence, in a sculpture gallery, an old granny grabbed me and dragged me over to the bust of some long-dead octogenarian informing me (and everyone within earshot) ‘Ees you!!!’

David and I are reviewing a swish self-catering cabin in the Cotswolds. A DIY dinner is in the fridge. A huge selection of mezze for me and lobster for David. The lobster is in a box. It is, we discover to our horror, still alive. We debate whether it would survive in the hot tub but know it would only be served again if we save it. In the end we freeze it, hopefully into insensitivity before dispatching it with a sharp knife.

What are your favourite food/drink memories?