‘Even after drinking quantities of wine and beer, and eating virtually every dish on the menu, the bill still comes as caress rather than headbutt’
Perfection is so overrated: flawless beauty is often not in the least bit sexy. “Fun” events regimented like military campaigns: no thanks. And restaurants that concentrate too hard on chilly consistency are less purely enjoyable than altogether less, um, anal establishments. I’ve never, for instance, had a bad meal at any Gordon Ramsay outpost: never. But neither have I paid up in shivering anticipation of a return visit. It’s a case of being impressed by the technical excellence, while feeling as processed as the filling in the signature shellfish raviolo. I recently attempted dinner at an ocakbaşı on Stoke Newington’s Turkish strip: the detergent bottle stayed on the table, unnoticed by staff, and we waited an hour with nothing to eat. Eventually, the handsome owner held up his hands, packaged our fine, smoky meats and puffy charred bread in a takeaway bag and didn’t charge us a penny. I’d go back tomorrow. (Yes, Mangal 2: I do mean you.)
Related: Pascere, Brighton: ‘This is no-messing brilliance’ – restaurant review | Marina O’Loughlin
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