By Tom Clifford
I am not a food critic. I could never admonish a naughty carrot or petulant potato or castigate a bean for being unappetizing on my plate. But settings where food is digested, cafes, restaurants, shops, fast-food outlets, now they have been of interest to me in the past.
The Chinese and Japanese had given me a perspective on this that I thought was unshakeable. The pleasures of lunch, dim sum being served from a trolley in Hong Kong, and sushi in a Tokyo establishment at night were the pinnacle, I believed, of eating out. This is admittedly not fine dining but it is nourishment for the soul.
I was confident of my bias and opinion in this regard until quite recently. Well, a week last Saturday. I have been fortunate to have set foot in a number of countries. The ambience or otherwise of a place where food is consumed has sometimes dictated what I eat. I sampled tripe because I was in a restaurant where the stomach lining was being served, albeit in an imaginative way. My father used to love tripe and I remember him boiling it in a milky onion broth in our kitchen. I swore I would never let it pass my lips. But one night I ordered it by mistake and too ashamed to admit to my lack of French, I ate it. While it would never be in my top three options for my last meal before facing the firing squad I have to admit it went down quite well.
But I digress. Food at its best should be clean, full of identifiable, well-balanced flavours. But it also has to inspire conversation, contribute to mankind. Food of this calibre should not be eaten every day. Sometimes a sandwich is enough. Or a piece of fruit. A slice of buttered toast can be a feast in itself.
There is no need for a sommelier or even a waiter to decorate a meal.
And certainly there is no place for snobbery or a haughty tone too often encountered in more formal establishments, as if they were giving you the secret of eternal youth. Chinese and Japanese delights fitted the bill.
But then, hey presto. An unpretentious roadside eatery in Grand Case, by the beach, with smoking barbecue pits that resembled Dante’s vision of hell attracted my attention. It didn’t even have walls and its roof had holes in it. I was with friends looking for a place to have lunch. Planes were landing at the nearby airport, people were laughing, mothers were helping their children negotiate the ribs, animal grease adorned faces like make-up.
This was food but it was more. It was community. A communion. It was food to be celebrated with friends in an act of humanity. Chicken and ribs, with a tiny salad to ease the conscience? Shouldn’t be allowed. Thank heavens it is!
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Previous columns by Tom Clifford:
Amuseum Naturalis at The Old House
Rain coming
Boat trip
Cruise Ships In But No Tourist Spending
Marigot Walk
The Biting Truth About Paradise: Mosquitos!
A Tale of Two Cities: Marigot and Philipsburg
A northern side apple tart
Taxis & Buses
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