My lovely wife Wanda will argue I’m a fussy eater, but it’s one of the few things within her logic that I fail to grasp, nor acknowledge.
It’s true that I only like a few things on most menus, but surely that makes me easy to please.
Throw a piece of meat on a plate alongside a few chips and some gravy, and I’m a happy diner.
That I like to order my food from a person and not a machine has nothing to do with my limited desire for fancy cuisine.
That I like to eat my food with a metal knife and fork rather than one made from wood or plastic is also irrelevant to the argument.
And I argue that a flower on top of a steak, or a piece of wilted herb sitting amid peppered sauce and layered above a schnitzel is quite simply, just not food.
It is decoration, and nothing to do with my alleged fussiness for food.
My case, your worship, states that these factors might make me a fussy diner, but they certainly don’t make me a fussy eater.
It’s taken me the best part of seven decades to refine my palate, and over that time I’ve decided there is a right and wrong way to enjoy a meal.
Steak should be charred, not broiled; the schnitzel crumbed with bread, not panko – whatever the goodness that is; and the chips crispy on the outside and soft in the middle.
A chip which is crunchy in the middle is an uncooked potato and not worthy of a plate.
I’ve learned that meat can be pink, but not bleeding; slightly flame-grilled, not blackened; and salted with the natural flavours of marinade or a delicate rub, not lathered in chicken salt.
At the risk of controversy, chicken salt is for chips, not chicken.
And it’s become clear to me over many years of testing that the same amount of joy comes from a thinly-sliced schnitzel as a massaged chicken breast or a $99 plate of foie gras topped with caviar and watercress.
For clarity, the expensive dish is liver forced from a goose’s throat, topped with fish eggs forced from a pregnant fish’s stomach, and a weed thought by some to be healthy.
When wait staff ask me how much I enjoyed my meal, Wanda is regularly embarrassed when I respond.
Contrary to what I might be led to believe, this is not the same as “how are you?”. It’s an attempt by the proprietor to seek genuine feedback.
And I like being helpful, particularly when there’s a piece of gristle wedged firmly in my back molar.
It seems others agree, according to a survey done by EatCllub who tell us people are dining more but spending less.
Blame the cost of living if you will, but I think it’s simpler than that. People are discovering the wonders of a world without pretentiousness.
They’re embracing the humble chicken and returning to the pub lunch.
Thankfully, the pub chef seems to know of this trend, because they’re doing a damn good job winding back the menu a couple of decades, and finding ways to dish up good old fashioned quality tucker.
According to the survey, people are sharing more main meals, seeking out Thai and Vietnamese street food, dining alone more often, and doubling down on pizza when looking for takeaway.
So, when Wanda says I’m a fussy eater, what she means to say is: “Wayne’s just not a bougie kind of guy.”
And I’m comfortable with that.
Hey Wanda, do you want to head down to the local Vietnamese place you like? They made me a nice baguette last time I was there, albeit with a few too many vegetables.
