Julie Bindel

As I leant over to speak to one of my dining companions in a busy restaurant, I felt something shuffle on my knee. I briefly wondered if it was a rat. But it was just a busybody waiter, who had taken my napkin from the table and folded it upon my lap. It was a bit strange that he did so without asking – but then, this same waiter had, when taking our order, crouched down (so that he was sitting on a chair) and asked, ‘Are you guys ready to order, and do you want me to explain the concept?’ So much to dislike. My most serious complaint is reserved for restaurants that are incapable of serving up everyone’s food at the same time My biggest gripe used to be waiters who poured your wine too frequently, and too full, in their mission to total the bottle so that you order another.

I love salad but there need to be rules. Salad should never be squashed in with hot food (e.g., in burgers); must never be dressed with anything from a bottle; and salad must never be served buffet style. Oh, and if it’s warm it’s quite simply not salad. For this reason, today I am speaking out against the horror story that is the salad bar. Landing after a very long flight from London to Melbourne, I was looking forward to dinner with my hosts who promised me ‘a real treat at a gorgeous restaurant you will love’. But their email also informed me that we would be going to a vegan, raw food place, heavy on the avocados, and with a no onion or garlic section for those adhering to the plant-based Jain diet that excludes roots and underground vegetables.

Recent research has revealed what many of us suspected: that fake meat is highly processed and contains junk such as exotic emulsifiers, stabilisers, flavour enhancers and artificial colourings, all of which are designed to make them feel, taste and look like the real thing. Often, they are loaded with salt, sugar and fat. Many Britons become vegan (or vegetarian) precisely because they want to cut down on this stuff, but end up with even higher blood pressure and blood sugar levels. Lots of my friends’ offspring are vegan for ‘save the planet’ reasons – but they subsist on chips, cola, and fake burgers, not even realising that avocado farming is killing off the rainforest. Facon (‘This isn’t Bacon!’ – no kidding!), chickin and cheeze substitutes are hellish.

I tend to steer clear of large group meals but the last time I went there was a very awkward moment. When the bill arrived, I saw two individuals tapping away on a calculator app before announcing the exact amount of money they were prepared to put on the table. ‘I didn’t have a starter,’ chimed one. ‘I only had one cocktail,’ said the other tightwad. When the bill came it was divided equally – except that the couple counted themselves as one person We were at an inexpensive Mexican restaurant, with two cocktails for the price of one, yet this pair insisted on working out to the last penny what they had each consumed.

Jacques – a tiny French restaurant in Finsbury Park – was the very first posh joint I ever ate at, back in 1987, and I have fond memories of it. The proprietor, Jacques, was a flamboyant 40-something: very gay, extremely rude to his customers (did I mention he was from Paris?) and partial to drinking his own profits. Nouvelle Cuisine, with far less fat and much smaller portions, was on trend, and Jacques’s glorious menu of rabbit in mustard sauce with mashed potatoes, and rich crème brûlée, was slowly replaced by carrot salad, followed by minuscule portions of blowtorched fruit. The cheaper ingredients and smaller portions allowed Jacque to consume more champagne sur la maison.

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?’ Please do not confuse me with the likes of Jack Monroe Why had I turned down this luxurious offering?

I love certain sour flavours, such as the sprinkle of lemon on a piece of oily fish, or fatty meat. It is perfect with food that is naturally sweet, such as brown shrimp, scallops, or young, fresh peas. But spare me the heavy hand with the acid, which seems to be getting more and more frequent when it comes to pre-seasoned food in restaurants. Lemon juice should be a background note, helping the main flavours to stand out. It should not make you wince as though you are chewing a live wasp. We should resist drowning our food in lemon juice in the way that we would ketchup or salt I am just back from lunch at a lovely little Cypriot joint where every single thing is made from scratch.

Sick of sriracha? Try Sambal Oelek, an Indonesian chilli sauce that’s easy to make in minutes, by blending red chillies, salt and either vinegar or lime juice together. Or buy a jar ready-made. If I were to be consigned to a desert island and could take only one spicy condiment it would be molho apimentado from Brazil Will 2024 be the year of hot sauce? The Guinness Book of Records recently certified the world’s hottest chilli, Pepper X. In case you’re wondering, hot peppers are rated for heat on the Scoville Scale, created by American pharmacist Wilbur Scoville in 1912. It measures the amount of capsaicin (the chemical compound that causes spicy heat) in a pepper and assigns it an SHU (Scoville Heat Unit) rating.

You are in an Italian restaurant when a waiter appears brandishing a giant pepper grinder. The spaghetti carbonara is made with cream and garnished with a sprig of parsley. You suddenly realise that you are not, after all, in the Tuscan hills, but somewhere in the UK. An Italian restaurant in London will serve you a cappuccino after dinner Is it possible for Italian restaurants in the UK to be authentic? Some of the Greek restaurants in London I’ve eaten in are so much the real deal that I have managed to forget I’m not in Athens. Similarly, some of the Spanish restaurants – such as those on Portobello Road – are indistinguishable from those in Spain, except for the weather and the smoking.