It’s an open secret among restaurant critics that we – every bit as much as other hacks, with normal BMIs and a healthy lack of interest in lactic fermentation – like a scoop. Or, failing that (and with magazine lead times and the yelping maw of the internet, it’s an increasingly rare privilege), at the very least a bit of a story. We’re all, what’s new? What’s hot? What’s happening, baybee?
Me, too. Then I clock comments under a piece I wrote on cult internet dishes– dishes designed to appeal to the new, social-meeja-savvy breed of restaurant-goer – and see howl after howl of disenfranchised pain from people who appear to find the 21st century food fan as evil a construct as a banker pal of Pol Pot’s. And, because I’m accommodating, I resolve to review somewhere everyone will love. Somewhere that takes reservations. With cocktails devoid of sipping vinegars, nothing but round white crockery, and a distinct lack of anything fashioned from pig’s blood or muntjac.
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