Over summer, because of my father, I had to sit through several evenings of ‘fine dining’ and worse horror, ‘silver service’. I think silver service means one waiter to every two diners, so basically if you fart, one of them will rush forward and offer his services because they have  nothing better to do than to stand still whilst you eat your over-priced fare.

And what do we eat? I don’t know. Even if the food is good, it is masked by the pomp.

The menus are often unreadable. Why call something a ‘gallette of algae-cultivated tubers’ when it is just blooming potatoes? In Asia, we would simply call them ‘chop suey’ if there is no specific ingredient involved.

And as my gallette was being served to me, the pompous waiter launched into a long, tedious monologue about the tubers’ cultivation process.  “Please just get on with it before my ‘chop suey’ gets cold,” I told him sweetly.

From across the table, my father frowned disapprovingly. Should I use my fingers to pick my food up to piss him off? Should I use the wrong fork just to wind him up? Should I ask for tomato ketchup?

Sure, I love good food. I am a foodie. I am not averse to going to restaurants. Even Scotts’ of Mayfair. But this fine dining experience did my head in. I got home and made myself some hearty soup from  the stock that I always keep in the freezer (just add fresh vegetables and egg) and had a game of air hockey with my partner. BLISS!