The great posh food con

I had taken a friend out for a significant birthday, to a high-end French joint in London. We ordered the tasting menu, an eight course extravaganza with wine pairings. It was not a cheap date, but a special occasion. The third course was a tiny bowl of herb risotto, and as it was served, a waiter appeared holding a large white truffle and a tiny grater, asking if we would like some shavings from the magnificent looking beast. I politely declined, but my friend answered, ‘Of course, why not?’

Why had I turned down this luxurious offering? Not only because of the £30 supplement on the already monumental price of the meal, which of course the waiter didn’t mention to my dining companion (only my menu contained prices). The main reason was because I can’t stand the stuff – it smells and tastes a bit like wet dog.