A Critique of Criticism

In the not too distant the Dear Leader and I are off to Mitton Hall, a rather swish country house hotel and restaurant, to do a review of their new tasting menu. I can feel the waves of sympathy flooding over me - having to work evenings. We are clearly looking forward to the experience. Being paid to eat well is not a bad gig.

But how critical will we be? And is the degree of perfection expected of our chefs healthy and fair?

Last night I cooked two dishes that could have been better. The dressing on the warm lentil and parsnip salad (one of the last of our parsnips from the allotment) needed to be far sharper; and the cheesy-oniony spuds done in the oven with the parsnip chunks could have done with higher heat and a few minutes longer. But both were still good, and I got no complaints: the two things went together well, and were perfectly acceptable.

It must be galling for pro chefs whose dishes stray slightly from the perfect path to be criticised when they are still dishing up excellent fare. Should our degree of criticism be related to the cost of the meal (the higher the cost, the greater the expectation of miracles)? Or to some accepted degree of difficulty (a la ice dancing) for each dish? Or do we judge them on their own standards, so someone with two Michelin stars is expected to be at least 99 per cent on song all the time?

I prefer not to regard every aspect of a meal, every dish and every detail, as an examination with a 100 per cent pass mark. It is the overall experience that counts. That could in itself be a tougher test than each dish being perfect, as if the balance or choice is out, that spoils things for me.

How healthy and useful is criticism? Being terribly British I'm embarrassed about the process, but if we keep quiet when served rubbish it's a disservice to future diners. I tend to vote with my feet (however difficult it is holding a pencil that way) and boycott a place that has failed me.

On occassion I've felt the need to be more direct - memorably when a meal at an 'Italian' restaurant was beyond Mr Bean: ordered a half bottle, got a full one and was asked to drink to halfway; garlic bread was in fact cold rubbery polenta that had never met any garlic; likewise the garlic and herb sauce with my main course, sans herbs, sans garlic, and with easily discernible lumps of the powder from which it had been knocked up. The evening was crowned when we asked for espressos and the waitress didn't know what they were (they had filter coffee, she thought). When the head waitress came over to ask, belatedly, the 'was everything alright?' question I let fly.

Does criticism do any good? A couple of years later that same place was the only restaurant open for Monday lunch when I had French colleagues to feed. It was no better. When rivals opened up nearby, it changed beyond measure (I was told - twice bitten, thrice shy).