Is it me ?!!!!!

IS IT ME????  Am I INSTANT DEATH to any restaurant through whose portals I enter?   I truly don’t understand it.  I take our restaurant ventures seriously. We’re not great gadabouts, but I read all the reviewers I care about – A A Gill, Giles Goren, the Good Food Guide, and a few others here and there -  and I ponder about the location, the price (oh God, THE PRICE!), and when everything seems to fall into place (or even when it doesn’t), I talk my wonderful husband into taking me.  In spite of years of CONSTANT disappointment, I still enter with a spring in my step and optimism in my heart.  At my age, I really should know better.

And so we come to The Quality Chophouse.  The clincher, of course, was Giles Coren saying that this was a restaurant you simply HAD to go to before you died – a touchy subject at my age, let me tell you. He positively waxed rhapsodic.  Well, I thought, obviously we HAVE to go.  I want to die HAPPY, after all. The fact that it was a HUGE schlep across London from Kensington gave me pause, but not for long.  Hey, it’s going to be worth it, right??? And I will die HAPPY, because  Giles said so.  So we went, taking our friend Alex with us, because this was a treat to be shared.  Had to hire a car, but that’s what you do if you don’t have one and the restaurant you’re heading for is halfway to Siberia.

DISMAL BEYOND BELIEF, this gloomy little area of London, this gloomy little restaurant with quite possibly the most underwhelming food I’ve had in a long time.  And I’m not even going to talk about the most uncomfortable seating I’ve sat on in a long time (my bones are still creaking).  Because if the food is good enough, you don’t really care about the seating.  WE CARED.  Oh God, WE CARED.  It was impossible to ignore.

I came home totally deflated and SO DAMN CROSS. This is howa I feel when my high expectations are dashed, which, unsurprisingly, is quite often.  And did I learn anything at all from that?  Obviously not, because our next Big Venture into Fine Dining was, again, a result of another Giles Coren review.  This one is called Gymkhana, and the food is Indian.  Now, I grew up with Indian food – we lived next door to an Indian family who became good friends when I was a child -  and I ADORE it.  I’ve eaten the best over the years (and probably some of the worst).  I KNOW Indian food, okay?  We are ALWAYS on the quest for a good Indian restaurant, preferably one that doesn’t require a second mortgage to dine there (incredibly difficult to find).

If I’d had my wits about me (recently they seem to have been mislaid, but only temporarily, of course), what should have rung bells and given me a message loud and clear was that Giles started off by writing words to the effect that he had never really liked Indian food.  And thereafter proceeded to shower this restaurant with all the highest accolades he could possibly think of.  So of course we went.  And yes, yes, it was STUPID of me.

The most notably memorable thing about this particular evening happened after we were ushered down to the bowels of the earth to the lowest level, which I didn’t mind, EXCEPT my God it was DARK. One little dim flickering light stuck on the wall next to our table, to the extent that we actually couldn’t read the menu. No, no, I’m serious, we TRULY COULD NOT READ IT.

Now comes the wondrous part (and no, I’m not talking about the food):  when we flagged down the (very nice) guy in charge and asked if MAYBE, just POSSIBLY, we could get an extra candle or a torch to read the menu, he whipped out his iPhone, switched the light on, placed it upside down on top of a wine glass and HEY PRESTO, we had a lamp on our table.  He’d obviously done it before, and I truly don’t know what to say about that.

The FOOD??  I can only say that there was not one compelling reason for me to want to return.  This may sound immodest, but I generally do it better at home, although there are times when I’d rather not.   The search continues.

So who can you trust these days?  Not you, Giles, that’s for sure.  Give up the day job and take care of your kids instead, okay?

I can’t end this without special mention of Bill’s, which has recently opened around the corner in Kensington Underground Arcade. A new restaurant opening in Kensington is always a subject of burning interest to us locals – good ones in our neck of the woods are few and far between, although it was not always thus.  This one has the dubious distinction of being the first restaurant I’ve ever been in where you can only – and I mean ONLY – get crushed ice in your drink.  And whether your drink is alcoholic or not, crushed ice is going to kill it DEAD (unless it’s just water, in which case who cares) even as it makes its way to your table.  TOTAL INCREDULITY AND DISBELIEF from me.

I made enquiries, being as patient and polite as I possibly could (my daughter would probably dispute this – she always seems to be THERE when I’m not on my best behaviour - it’s like having my mother back!!), pointing out the fact that in order to have crushed ice, you have to have REAL ice to begin with, only to be met with TOTAL INCOMPREHENSION.  No no, they said, looking at me as though I was some nutter from outer space.  That was how it came out of the machine, they said.  Like breadcrumbs happen without actual bread?  I’ll probably go back for a quick snack when my back is to the wall, because it’s just around the corner and the food is not terrible, and you can’t be too picky in this neck of the woods, but I’ll have to take my own flask of ice.  As you can tell, my life is not a bed of roses……