The drift began with the Anglicised version of tapas – a word meaning ‘to cover’, or ‘lid’, that originally described the small pieces of food used to cover and protect drinks. But ‘small plates’, now a mainstay of those fashionable, overpriced restaurants that pride themselves on being the antidote to stuffy and formal, have dominated the restaurant world for more than two decades.
In Venice once, in the early 1990s, I ended up in a backstreet bacari, which is a booze and snack joint, as I couldn’t afford the restaurants in the centre. It was full of working men, and cheap as chips. Huge platters of cold mussels, cured ham, anchovies and crispy gnocchi sat behind a glass counter. Perched above the bar were a barrel of red, and one of white. The purpose of tapas is to soak up early evening booze. One bite, two at most. So how did this evolve into massive plates of meatballs?
The late Russell Norman is credited with having brought small plates to the UK with Polpo, which opened in Soho in 2009. There was a lot to love about his style of restaurant, and Brutto, his Florentine joint in Farringdon, continues to offer gorgeous simplicity as well as a £5 negroni. It dares to serve cold butter on bread, topped with tinned anchovies. Just like the wildfire now cooking your hispi cabbage, his concept spread out of control – and it is time for it to stop.
The worst words in restaurant parlance have to be ‘The dishes come out when they are ready’ (a rival to ‘Shall I explain the concept?’), and I suspect most of us are by now completely over the small-plate scam. Yet it remains beloved of restaurateurs because it maximises profits while allowing chefs to send out food in whatever order best suits the kitchen. The other day, I received a potato dish at the same time as dessert.
Not that I’m wedded to a starter, main course and dessert, but there are limits. And what I do find challenging is being expected to share plates of food with people whose eating habits are less scrupulous than my own.
This sharing is meant to bring you closer together, but it’s my idea of hell: leaning forward en masse, dropping splatters of whipped cod roe on to the wooden table (a tablecloth would, of course, be overly formal). Sticking used cutlery – or worse, fingers – into food is an abomination. It is the main reason I never had children.
Since tapas usually proffer three or four discreetly positioned portions on the plate, it does make sense to share. But what if it’s a chicken thigh, or worse, a small bowl of pasta? The inconsistency drives me mad. For example, a sizeable dish of potatoes that gets left on the table because all the things that go with it have already been scoffed. Playing pick-and-mix with dinner isn’t my idea of fun: it’s unhygienic and inconvenient.
It saves the kitchen – and not the diner. It works for Instagram, but not for me
A bit of Russian roulette is only to be expected when ordering food at a restaurant, and we all owe it to ourselves to order badly on occasion. But having a dozen small plates on the table only increases the scope for mistakes.
In addition to never arriving in the proper order, small plates never fit on the table all at once. For the restaurant, it’s a way of selling more, making more money, and getting you out quicker. It saves washing up, it saves on napkins, it saves the kitchen – and not the diner. It works for Instagram, but not for me.
The idea that you’ve got to try everything on the menu is as annoying as it is impractical. If you really like what you’ve eaten, go back another time. Why would you need to eat the entire menu? Do you do that with à la carte? You never get a sense of how big the portion will be, and sometimes the small plate at £26 is the same size as the one at £6.50.
When you’re out with a group of friends, the chances are some irritating person will have a food allergy, at least two will not eat either meat or fish, and another will eat fish and meat but not dairy. And on it goes – how are you expected to share 12 plates of food while accommodating all of these special needs?
Charred broccoli with a pistachio crumb is perfectly fine on a plate with some belly pork and a little sauce to help it along, but I am damned if I want to sit there at the end of the meal with it staring up at me amid a sea of empty, oh so small, plates.
This article is free to read
To unlock more articles, subscribe to get 3 months of unlimited access for just $5
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in