Bon Appetite. Of Course, That’s If You Know What You’re Eating!

Last week I was invited to lunch by a former client to one the city's more 'fashionable' restaurants.

The experience convinced me that these eateries compete with each other in crafting their menus, to the point where the bewildering descriptions of the cuisine, distracts one from the astronomical prices hidden in three point type on the edge of the page.

Once seated, our over - attentive waiter proceeded to whip the napkins, folded like origami sculptures into something resembling a swan in flight, from the table with a dramatic flourish that would have made any matador envious and then  draped them across our laps.

Once done, he retired, only to return a few seconds later with two menus.

The construction of these giant tomes was such that, when opened, it was like holding up a broadsheet newspaper but so heavy it could easily shelter a family of four caught in a monsoon downpour. To discuss a certain item with one's dining companion, entailed leaning both to the left and right to gain eye contact, a bit like having a conversation around the corner of a high -rise building.

Our arms, trembling with fatigue, were rescued when our waiter returned and offered us, " an amusing little something to titillate the palette."

The titillation turned out to be a minuscule scallop diligently performing backstroke in a shallow puddle of colourful jus, topped with a 'crafted' sprig of something green.

One swallow and the amusing piece was gone and it was back to the arduous task of raising the wall-sized menus to wade through three paragraphs devoted slavishly to describing each entree.

Looking around at our fellow diners, I see a sea of menu covers held upright like Roman legionnaire's shields protecting themselves from a sea of arrows. I know I am not alone in trying to decipher the dishes written in something akin to ancient Sanskrit.  The delicate parchment pages of the menu were no doubt hand crafted from Nile bulrush stems, rolled flat on the thighs of Egyptian virgins.

Finally, arms trembling under the weight, I had no option but to make a choice between something I think was described as,  "A brace of Bolivian humming birds, flash seared and arranged playfully on a bed of wilted Laotian high mountain grass, drizzled with a hint of larks vomit," Or the specialty of the house, " The Terrine of Antarctic whale barnacles, energetically poached in fresh Pacific seawater and teased with spray of Sardinian frangipani oils".

The task of ordering complete we handed back the house sized menus and awaited the fruits of our labours. It appeared that my dining companion's order, met with our waiter's approval as he tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially, acknowledging that one of us had made a splendid choice.

The plates, when they arrived were the size of tractor tyres.  The meals lounged about like a Thomas Moore creation dwarfed in the middle of a sea of white porcelain.

My humming birds, were arranged as if they decided that it was once again time to take flight invigorated no doubt by the flash searing, as they reached vainly for the ceiling.

Why is it that chefs feel the need to 'sculpt' something that, in an instant, will be swallowed in one bite or take great pains to present an offering bordering on the indecent?

My companion's rack of something, simmering in who knows what? stood to attention on his plate like a gigantic erection engorged on a double dose of Viagra.

The wine came in barrel-sized goblets ensuring one's entire face disappeared into the bowl each time you took a sip. Coffee too, when served was in a vessel closely resembling a gravy boat requiring the drinker to pour the contents into one's mouth from the elongated spout.

Thankfully, the meal was soon over and we could take our leave.

We departed (I famished,) having consumed in just four delicate bites the entire meal, while battling with the designer crockery. The bill, again presented with a flourish, equaled the gross domestic product of a small African Country.

As we said our farewells outside just in case we were in earshot of any passing  'fashionable" diners, we both pronounced the cuisine scrumptious.

At the Macdonald’s drive through on the way home, I decided that I might give the more up market bistros a miss and take more interest in the TV series, Master Chef.

Paul v Walters is an internationally acclaimed novelist who, when not cocooned in sloth and procrastination in his house in Bali, scribbles for several global travel and vox pop journals. His latest novel, ‘Scimitar’, will be released in August 2016.