Going out to eat at any restaurant is a nice experience, but fine dining is where true romance is found, a low-lit world where high-quality, plump flesh is served atop pearly white tablecloths. When Noma closed last year, everyone started saying haute cuisine was over. Well, it’s not – and thank God, because it’s one of the most reliable forms of foreplay.
When I talk about fine dining, I’m not necessarily talking about Core by Clare Smyth or Restaurant Gordon Ramsay, neither or which I’ve visited. I’m talking about going out for a classy, black-and-white-movie-esque dinner, where you eat off of branded plates and are served by wait staff who are far more dignified than you are, like David Mitchell in my favourite depiction of fine dining ever . I’m talking about cosy places where the glasses are sparkling, the staff are suited and the waistband of your trousers is a little bit too tight because you’re wearing your nicest pair, the ones that have been at the back of your closet for three years.
I’m talking about places where the prices are so expensive that you have to open your banking app under the table to check your balance. I, for one, believe a good experience in fine dining is down to a few things. First up, comfort.
It was the ancient Greeks who invented dining for pleasure in the West; they had all-male gatherings where food was served on low tables surrounded by pillows, so the guests could recline while eating. Imagine if they could see East Londo.