This excess, with its gels, soils, foams, is often conflated with haute cuisine
Of all the jibes that eggs on Twitter like to lob at me, my favourite has to be “metropolitan liberal elite”. As a Glaswegian from a working-class background living in a Ukip-scented seaside town, this tickles, but as I approach The Wildebeest, I think, right you are. Fair enough. There can be few more “metropolitan liberal elite” jobs than mine. Let’s see what it feels like to behave like one.
We critics tend to be kinder to places outside the capital, in a sort of reverse London-weighting. We turn a blind eye to gauche decorative touches. The Wildebeest features brass-buttoned leather chairs (the kind of thing elderly, arse-obsessed internet commenters swoon at as “Comfy!”) and unclothed tables of rough-hewn wood. There are ye olde beams, B&Q standard outdoor seating and decapitated blooms floating in small vases, the full Come Dine With Me contestants special. We wouldn’t mention crockery, the kind of thing now offered in “artisan” ranges by catering supply companies. We’d wax benign about the service style with the kind of bright, sing-song voice usually reserved for saying, “Just pop up on the bed for me.” Not new elite moi, though. I’m beady as on their provincial asses.
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