I do like a really over-the-top posh restaurant now and then: the whoosh of spinnakering napkins in whispery candlelight; Mrs James in her favourite frock and, just like Marie Antoinette or the Holy Roman Emperor, comfortably and ruthlessly giving the thumbs-up or thumbs-down to all that passes before us, from the decor to the Herculean efforts of an entire army of highly drilled, highly strung personnel in the kitchen and in the dining room.
Formality invites criticism, and being super-critical is such an easy, exquisite pleasure: "Why, this foie gras has far too much truffle in it! It's preposterous." Yes, from time to time I do enjoy the theatre of all those meek explanations and unbidden mouthfuls of intra-course flubbery that come with fine dining. Yes, I am happy to wallow like a delicate hippopotamus in endless layers of twiddlings upon twiddlings: just now and again, plenty of "Is everything all right, sir?" and being hovered over by those with apparently no other purpose than to push one's chair back in or explain the bread over the gentle refrain of glug and fizz of bottles refilling glasses is all great – but only now and then. I can only enjoy that level of formality occasionally: birthdays, anniversaries, and the odd wet Wednesday. Any more than 12 Michelin stars per year would be enough to make me want to lick my knife and scream.
In fact, much as I love food as grand theatre, when I cast my mind over the great culinary delights of the world, it's nearly always cheap food that I find myself dreaming about. Nearly all of the contenders for my last supper, if I had to elect one, would cost less than £3. There are some foods that have to cost less than £3 to be authentic. Any more than that and they become an ersatz facsimile of themselves. For example, pizza in Manhattan peaks in quality around the three-to-four-dollars-per-slice mark, or it did last time I was there. Any less, they're skimping on ingredients, and any more than that, it's somehow not the real thing any more.
I love pizza more than anything. In fact, for one entire American tour when I was young and foolish I ate nothing but pizza, and everything was fine. I like it so much I had an arrangement with a friend in Miami to FedEx me one from Cozzoli's in Coconut Grove because it's not possible to get pizza that is quite the same in this country. It really doesn't come close anywhere. My friend stateside managed to roll one up into a cylinder and get it into a FedEx overnight delivery tube, but it never arrived. Shame.
Still, some things will always be better in situ. Orange juice in Marrakech, hot dogs in Copenhagen, steak in Buenos Aires, soba noodles in Tokyo, arepa con huevo in Bogotá. All street food, really, and if you really want to get in touch with where you are it is worth spending a little less on eating out than spending a little more.
If there's one thing that is better in London than anywhere else, it would probably be the builder's breakfast. It costs around £3 and is always good, apart from when it costs a lot more. For example, in hotels: hotels for some reason want to start skipping the beans and cooking the eggs beforehand. A fry-up isn't particularly healthy, but then nor is pizza or, for that matter, truffled foie gras. Fried tomatoes on fried bread? It's a genuine gourmet delight, and no geese were harmed. Never mind the balsamic – where's the proper stuff? Where else in the world do they put vinegar on the table?
