‘I’d prop up the bar for hours on a promise of the brisket bao: a Big Mac for the beardy generation’
There was a piece in the US foodie press recently suggesting that New York was getting bored with the trend for no reservations in restaurants. Well, put out the bunting and pop the party poppers: this is the sweetest of music to my ears. It’s not that I’m a precious, overindulged restaurant critic, it’s that I’m neurotic: the idea that I might not make it into dinner sends me into a panic. I also don’t do spontaneity, much as I’d love to: I don’t live anywhere near 99.9% of the restaurants I review. Where New York leads, London – and the rest of the UK – frequently follows. All digits crossed for an end to standing in line with a gazillion twenty-somethings whose circulation clearly works better than mine.
Yet here I am again, in a place that doesn’t take bookings, where the music is deafening and you’re likely to teeter back out into the night fragranced with smoke (not, weirdly, from the barbecue). Despite turning up ludicrously early, all the nicest tables at the front are reserved. I thought you didn’t take bookings? “Sorry, madam,” says the charming manager. “We’re keeping those for the press.” As ever, I’m undercover and have to keep shtum.
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