Sometimes one must make sacrifices in the selfless pursuit of truth. So let's hear it for those stoical men and women who daily brave over-garnished langoustine, unremarkable sevruga caviar, and kedgeree inexplicably flavoured to clash dismally with the Ch¿teau Lafite-Rothschild 1961. Night after night they endure such culinary imperfections at the hands of the nation's top chefs.
There are some tough jobs in journalism - crossword compiler for the Dyslexia Association magazine, say, or rural-affairs editor of the Jewish Chronicle - but none can match the sheer wretchedness of the restaurant critic's beat. Why, you only need read their columns to feel their pain.
Take, for instance, the Sunday Telegraph's Matthew Norman, forced by professional circumstances in recent months to ingest Gary Rhodes's 'Pot Noodle-flavoured' mullet, Terence Conran's chicken-¿-la-iron-filings, and the Dorchester's 'absolute howler' of a shepherd's pie.
For readers of the Sunday Times, meanwhile, Adrian (AA) Gill has had to eat 'belly buttons in fake tan' at an Egyptian restaurant, 'three blobs of invalid gloop' at the Hempel, and 'cat food' at the Millennium Dome. Not even a liberal newspaper such as this is guilt-free, having sent Jay Rayner up to Glasgow to witness an 'offence of grievous bodily harm' against an innocent little sea bream.
To free the critics momentarily from having to chew glycerine-flavoured brownies or pungent smoked salmon, we invited them to pose for a group photograph intended to celebrate their art. There were of course dangers in placing in one room such a gaggle of opinionated critics: there remain a few unsettled scores in the restaurant world; any number of chefs could have sought their blood en masse.
Gordon Ramsay, for one, has never warmed to AA Gill, once expelling him with guests including Joan Collins from his restaurant. Gill, in return, dismissed Ramsay as 'a failed footballer', prompting the chef, when asked in an interview about his pet hates, to reply: 'I loathe AA Gill. And okra.'
Fay Maschler, the London Evening Standard's critic of three decades, has also fallen foul of a chef's temper. In a well-documented public spat, Marco Pierre White told Maschler she was unwelcome in his establishments - although it was White's long-running feud with the Sunday Times's Michael Winner, since resolved, that provided far greater entertainment. For some inexplicable reason, the understated, subtle charm of Winner's prose tends to irritate a number of those it targets. Take this typically humble review of a 'disastrous' lunch at Claridge's (pre-Ramsay):
'"Luigi," I said loudly. "How dare you serve me this!" Luigi smiled the marvellous half-smile he uses for naughty children. "I'll have some freshly made," he offered. "I don't want any, just wrap this," I said. "I shall send it to Giles Shepard (the chairman of the Savoy Group) in the morning." Luigi duly returned and took the offending piece of Yorkshire pudding to wrap it somewhere discreetly. "Don't take it away! Wrap it on the table," I yelled.'
Perhaps his manner explains why Antony Worrall Thompson once banned him from all his restaurants, and placed a picture of Winner's face on his toilet seat.
So how difficult, then, is the troubled life of a restaurant critic? 'Actually, it's a piece of piss,' says Giles Coren of the Times, the relatively new kid on the block. He admits that he can be influenced by his peers' columns. Take E&O in Notting Hill, for instance, which he dismissed as 'pretty terrible'. But didn't other critics acclaim the place? 'I gave E&O a crap review because Adrian Gill loved it,' Coren explains.
As for the job's other occupational hazard, you may judge for yourself whether relentless expense-account dining leads critics towards a certain girth. 'There were a couple of porkers at the photo shoot,' Giles Coren notes afterwards. Of greater concern to him was AA Gill's loose interpretation of the photo shoot dress code. 'We were all asked to turn up in black, and Gill wore a handmade blue pinstripe suit with an open shirt,' he notes with some anxiety. 'So naturally it looks like we're all there just to serve him ...'
What the critics said
Restaurateurs pray for a good review. We, however, prefer the bad ones ...
Matthew Norman
The Sunday Telegraph
Marquee Bar and Grill, London, 2002
'Sweet dreams are made of this,' as the Eurythmics' first top-five hit chorused, 'who am I to disagree?' I'm the restaurant critic of the the Sunday Telegraph magazine, that's who, and I do disagree. Bitter nightmares are made of this.
Our studenty waitress took so long to fetch our fizzy water that it would have been quicker to fly to Switzerland and fill a flask from an Alpine spring. The main courses, served on weird, sloping plates seemingly bought in a job lot from the Alice in Wonderland closing-down sale, were no better. The Eurythmics track that came to mind the moment I tasted what the menu humorously described as a 'prime fillet burger' was 'Here Comes the Rain Again'. By the time the bill came we were reflecting that so long as he retains an interest, Dave Stewart will remain immunised against any recurrence of Paradise Syndrome.
The Mulberry Restaurant at the Belgravia Sheraton, London, 2001
Did they mean to create one of the world's worst restaurants, or was it all a tragic accident?
Within two minutes of arriving first and being seated alone in a corner, I noticed a strange whining noise. At first I thought that, going that extra mile for authenticity, it was a tape of wind-whistling-on-the-sea noises, but then I began to make out words. 'Save me,' a pitiable voice was moaning, 'saaave meeeee.'
I looked around for the source of this heart-rending whimpering. It was me. My salad of pickled wild mushrooms was, our Swedish waitress explained, a speciality of her native land. If so, you wonder how far this saccharine horror - and nothing so trivial as lack of sunlight or a morose nature - explains the works of Strindberg. There he was, poised to write a light comedy of manners, when someone served him the pickled mushrooms. And then, bam! Doom, gloom and Weltschmerz all the way.
Almeida, Islington, London, 2001
'How was the coq au vin?' the waiter inquired. 'Really nice, huh? ... And really traditional!' Well yes, I thought, if infusing that classic chicken dish with a metallic tang hinting at a generous sprinkling of iron filings is the tradition.
We were rewarded with four shocking dishes out of four. My friend's asparagus were the worst examples of that princely vegetable either of us has ever tasted. Or rather not tasted. These would have gone down well at the National Association of People Without Taste Buds annual dinner, and nowhere else. My fish soup did have a potent flavour, although of what precisely it's hard to guess. Not fish, certainly. The herb crust (with the cod) could have been adapted, with minimal effort, for use in germ warfare. After all that, the only sensible answer to the question 'Would you like anything for dessert?' is, 'Ah, you're very kind, I'll have the Listermint and a large spittoon.'
Fay Maschler
The Evening Standard
Chittagong Charlie, Golders Green, London, 1992
It is difficult, if not impossible, to imagine anyone conjuring up a restaurant, even in their sleep, where the food in its mediocrity comes so close to inedible. The menu is based on traditional Indian dishes, plus what are described as reproductions of the original recipes once used in the clubs, restaurants and regimental messes of India, Singapore, Burma and other British colonies. Many of these recipes, say the press release, have remained undiscovered for years. It would do no harm if some, like those for dumpling stew and Cotton Club steak, faded straight back into permanent obscurity. Six Degrees, Soho, London, 2000
Chicken laksa, an innately likeable dish and not difficult to assemble, arrived looking like debris caught in a drain and tasting not much more appealing than the image suggests. I won't bore you with the main courses save to say I haven't seen liver cooked so grey since I was at boarding school.
AA Gill
The Sunday Times
San Lorenzo, Chelsea, London, 1998
It is, all things considered, quite the worst restaurant in London, maybe the world. San Lorenzo serves horrendous food, grudgingly, in a dining room that is a museum to Italian waiters' taste circa 1976. It's laughably overpriced, but doesn't take credit cards. But all that is just by the by compared with its unique horror. To get in, you have to be kissed by a woman called Mara, who must surely have been around to do tongues with Garibaldi.
The Langley, London, 2000
Slow-baked cheese-and-onion tart - snot in a box. Grilled kipper - smoked postman's Odor Eater. Battered saveloy, a thing that only specialist medical staff handle, with rubber gloves. Now, I haven't actually been sick for 20 years, but it's amazing how fresh and strong the memory was. Who would have thought a simple motherless mongrel sausage could do that? The duck p¿t¿ was interesting. It was also a Kurdish insurgent duck that had been interrogated to death by Turkish policemen using rubber hoses, then left in a warm, damp cupboard to emulsify. Coq au vin was thick-skinned chicken knuckles soaked in tepid Brylcreem and aftershave. Sherry trifle: unspeakable. Black forest g¿teau and apple pie: both would have worried gypsy caterers at a Troggs concert in Norwich. Congratulations to the Langley for managing to come up with quite the peerlessly worst restaurant so far this millennium.
The Fashion Cafe, Leicester Square, London, 1996
I am prepared to stick my neck out and say that the Fashion Cafe is the worst restaurant that I have ever reviewed. It hit professional depths in every department. The dining room looks like it was decorated over a weekend for an art school. There really is very little point in describing the food in any detail. I didn't put a single thing in my mouth twice. It all went back.
Michael Winner
The Sunday Times
Bibendum, Chelsea, London, 1995
I have recently had the worst meal I've ever eaten. Not by a small margin. Not 'This is terrible but another one somewhere else was nearly as bad.' I mean the worst! The most disastrous. The most unrelievedly awful! You don't need to be an atomic physicist to grill steaks, do you? They arrived so raw you could have drowned swimming in the blood. But the pi¿ce de resistance was my persillade of tongue. Leathery, so hard it was difficult to cut and, as far as I could tell, not fresh. I picked away at it. What I should have done was tell everyone, then and there, very icily, that it was a disgrace.
The Lanesborough Hotel, London, 1994
What I only go through. How I suffer. The food is grotesque, so awful as to be almost indescribable and an absolute disgrace. The owners should call a board meeting at once and fire themselves. And, believe me, what I've written so far is kind. Chinese duck cakes turned out to be no more than duck hamburger, with no sauce to help it. It was bland and dreary. For a main course I ordered a kedgeree of salmon and haddock with curry butter. It was totally uneatable. 'The chef would like to know when your write-up will appear,' the manager said. 'No he wouldn't,' I replied. 'The food is disgusting. I shall say so in no uncertain terms.'
Pont de la Tour, London, 1993
The least enjoyable, worst restaurant evening of my life. Everything had been appalling. The food was cold, the service rotten. I wrote to Sir Terence [Conran], detailing how a distressing meal had been turned into a remarkably unpleasant evening by the quite extraordinary antics of his unrepentant manager. Sir Terence replied sarcastically. 'Thank you for your film script. I shall certainly investigate the situation.'
Giles Coren
The Times
E&O, Notting Hill, London, 2002
Roast crispy skin chicken. Well, technically, yes. The skin was crispy, but the breast meat was sponge-dry and crumbled into that awful bog-papery consistency in my mouth. What do you do? You can't gob it out in front of Patsy Kensit. I thought of the starving babies in Africa, and downed it with a wince. The bird in the spring roll was worse: mashed to the consistency of peanut butter and tasting faintly of herring. Chicken this bad actually makes you yearn for tofu, except that E&O's tofu is biffed into a J-cloth consistency and rolled around sweaty fistfuls of rice and ginger. That stuff stayed on the plate, and sod the babies in Africa.
The Court Restaurant at the British Museum, Bloomsbury, London, 2002
The taste and texture of the pease pudding reminded me of occasions when I have accidentally inhaled while emptying the Dyson. The pork was grey and grizzled. The gravy was Oxo-ish. It tasted like airline food. I'll take that kind of grub if I can swallow a couple of Temazzies afterwards and wake up in Sydney. But not to spaff £96.
Jay Rayner
The Observer
The Corinthian, Glasgow, 2001
The old Sheriff's Court is now a place where the crimes are actually committed. Granted, bad cooking probably does not warrant a long stretch inside. But the offence of grievous bodily harm upon a lovely little sea bream really ought to carry with it some form of judicial penalty. There was no cutlery on our table. I looked for waiting staff, but the room is so big they were probably obscured by the curvature of the earth. Eventually we got up and nicked knives and forks off a table half a kilometre away. It was a bit of a pity we did, because it meant we could eat.
Elijah's Garden, Shepherds Bush, London (run by Louis Farrakhan's Nation of Islam)1999
After the starter, everything went downhill, to such a degree that attempting a formal review of the food would not only be pointless but unfair. Ali's starter was described as a Pizza Petite. This was one side of a piece of wholemeal pitta bread, layered with waxy cheddar cheese and a few slices of raw tomato and onion, all of which had then been flashed under the grill. In other words, the kind of food students make when there's nothing else left in the fridge. A pretty sad affair, but grist to my mill; after all, it is far better to attack anti-Semites for their lack of culinary skill than to bother discussing their politics.
The Philip Owens Dining Room at Corney & Barrow, Leicester Square, London, 2002
Pat's main course was a disaster: a chicken breast stuffed with mint, a flavour combination which should go in the file marked Very Very Bad Ideas. It didn't help that the chicken was served with a dense red-wine reduction which she said 'tasted of Marmite'. This was bad cooking of the first order. Finally, we shared a bread-and-butter pudding, which had a caramelised surface but was cold in the middle. It gave the impression of having been plated up way in advance and then heated by the application of a blow torch. Risible.
Matthew Fort
The Guardian
Opium, Soho, London, 2001
Occasionally, you come across a restaurant that causes you to question the very nature of human existence. Now, I can't be sure of this, but I got the impression from the menu that the food has a Vietnamese slant to it. [What] looked like a sea mine in miniature was the most disgusting thing I've put in my mouth since I ate earthworms at school. The contents appeared to have been scraped off the inside of an S-bend. On second thoughts, I preferred the worms.
The following apology was printed in the Observer's For the record column, Sunday December 22 2002
In the above article, we said that Marco Pierre White had 'a well documented public spat' with Fay Maschler, the Evening Standard's restaurant critic, and that he told her she was unwelcome at his establishments. In fact, there has been no public spat and she has never been made unwelcome at any of his establishments. Mr Pierre White tells us that he has the highest regard for Ms Maschler. Apologies to all concerned.
