Restaurants run by people who come from, and live in the community that they serve need to cook, prepare and serve consistently good quality, affordable food. They're not in it to make big money, but to financially survive along with their neighbours. At the opposite end of the scale, you have the Renaissance artists of the food world and their patrons. Those who pay to see, rate and be seen, rating. Ticking the names off their culinary big game list.
At least both ends are fully involved in the journey from ingredients to plate. In the middle, you're well and truly shafted. Removed from the means of production by microwave, fryer, centralised menus, ordering and preprogrammed tills, the poor sods charged with bringing this from freezer to table are as involved with the culinary world as this blog is with the literary.
I was reminded of this at 9:57 a.m. on a Sunday morning, attempting to have breakfast at a Premier Inn in the middle of Leicestershire. Harried staff on a turnaround for lunch - "you know what happens if the juices are still out when Sheila gets in" - had to rush our order through to get it in before the axe swung at 10. Cooked to order, a anomaly in places like this managed by the big Pub Co's, it was hot and freshly cooked, but bland and forgettable. The ingredients were obviously selected by a corporate chefcountant for optimum price vs lifespan vs storage ratio and cooked to the tune of a laminated card above the fryer.
I came over slightly communist at this point, ranting at the Vole about the invidiousness of said corporations. I was sure that the guy in the kitchen didn't want to be cooking this crap, as much as I didn't want to be eating it. Would the bacon sandwich that he cooked for his mates the morning after a big night out not have been preferable? Not fitting a corporate template, but prepared with pride.
This experience was especially sad coming as it did the day after I'd found out that Sergios of Eagle Place was no more. That pissy alley between Picadilly and Jermyn Street held a tiny tobacconist, a fruity tailor of the Grace Brothers era and a formica table topped, mirrored wall, Sun reading, stuttering coffee machined workaday glorious cafe.
I'd pop in before a regular morning meeting that way. Always for a bacon on fresh white bloomer treat. It came soft and yielding with a lightly chewy crust and a slight crisp on the salty pig fat, garnished with red sauce, served with a steaming tea, bag firmly still in. Banter existed. The owner (possibly the Sergio of the title) knew his regulars and teas, coffees and 'works' were dispensed to a steady, mixed stream of brickies, cabbies and well preserved gentlemen in their Jermyn suits.
So here's to Sergio. And to other ones like him. Keep the good ones alive, we'll miss them when they're gone, and replaced by faceless Pain Quotien or Eat or worse. Shout cheers to the guy behind the counter as you leave, and don't dump your teabag on the table.
I came over slightly communist at this point, ranting at the Vole about the invidiousness of said corporations. I was sure that the guy in the kitchen didn't want to be cooking this crap, as much as I didn't want to be eating it. Would the bacon sandwich that he cooked for his mates the morning after a big night out not have been preferable? Not fitting a corporate template, but prepared with pride.
This experience was especially sad coming as it did the day after I'd found out that Sergios of Eagle Place was no more. That pissy alley between Picadilly and Jermyn Street held a tiny tobacconist, a fruity tailor of the Grace Brothers era and a formica table topped, mirrored wall, Sun reading, stuttering coffee machined workaday glorious cafe.
I'd pop in before a regular morning meeting that way. Always for a bacon on fresh white bloomer treat. It came soft and yielding with a lightly chewy crust and a slight crisp on the salty pig fat, garnished with red sauce, served with a steaming tea, bag firmly still in. Banter existed. The owner (possibly the Sergio of the title) knew his regulars and teas, coffees and 'works' were dispensed to a steady, mixed stream of brickies, cabbies and well preserved gentlemen in their Jermyn suits.
So here's to Sergio. And to other ones like him. Keep the good ones alive, we'll miss them when they're gone, and replaced by faceless Pain Quotien or Eat or worse. Shout cheers to the guy behind the counter as you leave, and don't dump your teabag on the table.
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