Atom Feed (xml)You know how it is early in the evening in a trendy Cornish fishing village, streets lined with tempting quality restaurants, when you go with a scratchy-tired baby and arrive at the Shipwright public house instead?
Looking back the choice seems perverse, I don't know, maybe even perverted.
We should have fled when we saw the menu. Menus on laminated place mats are rarely an indication of imaginative, careful, dining on the horizon.
But as my travels so far have revealed, the quality of food on offer in a pub is not necessarily on a par with the quality of the beer, and so it proved at the Shipwright where I drank a pleasant pint of Doom Bar.
Doom Bar is one of the best beer names in the world; it also has unintended resonance in certain situations.
The pub, in St Ives, was selling itself as a place to eat with large signs inviting in the unwary, and the perverse, and it had big plastic menus on the tables, so it is only fair to judge it by its food too.
As I looked at my big plastic menu, I was ignored by all staff, whose only task in relation to food, it seemed, was to put numbers in a till and take your money (you could go and bugger off, for all they cared, was the impression I got), I chewed on this question: why is buying a plate of food such a problem in our pubs?
Surely this is a simple enough transaction: I pay you £8 for a burger and chips and you provide that advertised food, and here's the crucial bit, in a form which is undisgusting. Seems simple to me! In fact, I didn't go to chef university, but I serve tasty, cheap-ish food at home most nights of the week. But the cack I have been presented with pubs in the UK I would not serve to my family. They would think I had gone up the pole.
The reason, I suspect, that pubs, like the Shipwright, serve up such dismal grub is because they are far removed from the basics of kitchen life and the pleasures of cooking. The idea for the plastic menus, for instance, and the boring food, was probably farted out by a frownsome middle manager in an office at 3pm one bleak Wednesday, one dreak March day.
So this is the meat of the matter: my burger was tasteless, gristly, cheap and soggy. The bun that contained the flesh was sodden with the water used to wash the tasteless heap of salad by its side. The handful of chips were lifeless, tasteless, and, in fact, virtually pointless. My wife's 'prawn salad' was in fact five battered prawns and a bit of tasteless lettuce and two tasteless factory tomatoes. It was, all told, a disgraceful way to accompany a good pint of beer in a fairly unspoiled public house by a busy little harbour.
So much for that. It's not the end of the bleeding world, I hear you rumble. Indeed not.
But why go on about it? Why whinge? Well, with good reason, my friends, with good reason. Our pubs face terrible peril. They are going bust. I want the good ones to prosper. Some will prosper by selling good food, and if they can't manage that, and it takes effort and money to serve food well, then sticking to good old crisps, nuts and scratchings.
Maybe a sandwich.
Maybe a pickled egg. On festival days.
