The Most Unsatisfactory Meal I've Ever Eaten

The chef at the restaurant I reviewed below had a serious fight with me after this review was published - he just didn't get that my pretentious flim-flammery was a carefully-written homage to his. Or maybe he did, hence the anger. Whatever; it's all history now (and I eventually managed to get the red wine stain out of my jacket). But still, I've XXX-ed his name out - if he's still around (he's certainly no longer in Bath), I wouldn't want to start another tiff in case he decides to throw the actual glass as well.

April 2007
Molecular gastronomy: the application of science to culinary practice, the search for foodie perfection ... or a case of the emperor's new clothes? Whatever your opinion, it's a food fad that's unlikely to have the same impact on your favourite neighbourhood bistro than the gastropub revolution had on your local boozer. But then again, it seemed unlikely that "chef extraordinaire" XXX would revolutionise one of Bath's longest established, traditional 'fine dining' hotspots with a menu that's far from tralatitious - but that's exactly what he's gone and done. The MG world, it seems, revolves around contradiction, controversy ... and confidence.



The ambience of the elegant dining room totally impugns the theme of XXX's menu (3/£55), which details a riot of cobnut infusions, bubbles of physalis and sour cherry snow. At first glance, it's far more literary than literal: laminates, compositions, emulsions, collages and various foams proliferate, while egg spume, aromas of tonka and even virtual mushrooms make appearances. Buoyed by pink champagne and canapes in the drawing room, we eventually selected starters of 'summer isles scallops with gelled apple balm and smoked cauliflower', and 'pigeon, minneola and roast barley', followed by 'chorizo roast monkfish, green leaf pulp, sesame potato puree with a spot of orange' and 'belly pork, fennel in various forms with a stroke of sweet paprika and quince sorbet' mains ... phew! Just relaying the detail here is a meal in itself, but the full-on frolics are yet to come. 



My courageous cohort's pigeon was unrecognisable as game: thinly pressed and rolled around the roast barley (or possibly the minneola) to create tight little tubes, alongside which the minneola (or possibly the roast barley) writhed in an excited flourish. My plump, tender scallops were complemented by an unpredictably oleaginous slick of apple-flavoured stickiness, and even though the cauliflower proved to be more of a suggestion than a reality (three tiny florets, a centimetre each in diameter, offering little in the way of smokiness), this self-confessed gastroporn junkie was, while not exactly smitten, definitely mesmerised.

 Next up, my monkfish, though deeply infused with a subtly sexy chorizo undertones, just didn't - well, just didn't do anything, all told. The silky waft of potato puree was surely the most elegant incarnation of spud ever, but unfortunately the 'spot of orange' seemed to have been lost somewhere along the kitchen physics superhighway. Meanwhile, CC's pork reclined on one of the 'various forms' of fennel (here cleverly disguised as what appeared to be half an onion), and the accompanying cubes of quince sorbet were umami personified. Both dishes came topped with a spindly finger of pork crackling, and both confounded, delighted and excited in equal measure. But it wasn't until the third course that I really experienced the complexities of XXX's personality. My rather timid choice of 'cheese our way', (a superb selection displayed on a rather intimidating trolley and served with huge savoury wafers, a dreamy cheese souffle and a little mouse fashioned
from half a quail's egg) was completely upstaged by CC's 'burnt creams of our garden flora, including pumpkin', which turned out to be four dinky pots of creme brulee, one of which featured fresh rosemary - that most aromatic and complex of British herbs - infused in cream and topped with caramelised sugar. Okay, our finale was magnificent. But, throughout this dynamic metagrobolis of a supper, if it hadn't been for the guidance of a chorus of diligent, thoroughly charming staff who performed a perfectly choreographed dance of attendance at every turn, this voyage of discovery could well have ended in total disaster. 



When we got home, we were both starving. When I went to bed, I felt distinctly queasy. When I look back on this meal now, I feel somewhat angry... and a little bit conned. So, this 'ere molecular gastrowhatsit thingie, then: a brave new world or the ultimate performance art irony? Let's hope it's actually just a passing fad.