Make a meal of it

So, I’m sitting in the Union, and the Felix Editor comes up and says, “Hi, would you like to go and review Giraffe?” And I say yes, especially as the restaurant is paying. But now, all I can think is, “Oh shit.” You see, I’m stuck. I just don’t know how to write a proper food review – I mean, where do I get the training for this sort of thing? I’ve never played this game before. Sure, I’ve always rather loved nosh. Yes, I can tell the difference between fried and poached eggs, vomit and ratatouille. I’ve even eaten in a few Michelin-starred restaurants. But when it comes to expressing my taste sensations in writing, I’m lost.

Around Imperial, between South Kensington and Hyde Park, there is a cluster of decent restaurants. How do I use words to differentiate between them? Am I supposed to use those bizarre clichés that seem to engulf the restaurant blurbs in the Sunday papers? Where everything is “by turns ingenious and divine” and “as rich as it is light”. Or should I do a Michael Winner? Do I need to be snooty and sniffy, should I embrace my inner cynic? Should I declare, whatever the true experience, that the restaurant is a waste of time, the food like bombs of filth exploding in the mouth? Do I snidely ridicule the cheery ambiance, unnecessarily belittling it with pompous irony? It just seems so unfair to patronise a place for what it is. How can I write a eulogy to a steak? It requires nothing except buying, and a brief introduction to heat. Perhaps I need to find some of that French_ je ne sais quoi_. A bit of wit, bonhomie, and banter. A succulent vocabulary, where I can harp on in lyrical prose about the deep egginess of the fat, the delightful whiff of griddle lines. I need to hit the satirical button. Those blokes off MasterChef have it easy. All they have to do is eat a few chunks of grub, look pensive, and mumble a few “eurghs” and “mmmms”. No need for the Oxford English Dictionary.

You get well-made food in a nice room surrounded by nice people

Or do I need to be philosophical? We are what we eat, and what we eat makes us who we are, and all that gibberish. Am I supposed to put the restaurant into context? Should I chuck in some guff about how London is the perfect place for an eatery aspiring to serve “world cuisine” to the tune of “world music”? And how the place provides the perfect retreat from the frantic pace of the capital? Am I supposed to mention the prices, or investigate the quality of the toilets?

I just can’t do it. No, I just can’t. Aaaaaargh! I just have to forget the stupid tried-and-tested methods, the corny metaphors – in truth, they tell you nothing about a place. I just need to stick to the point. I went to Giraffe with my good friend Eileen. During the meal, we had a brief chat.

“Eileen,” I said. “This is quite a good little restaurant.”

She replied, “Yes, it is.”

And that’s that, really. The food is perfectly good – we had Japanese tiger prawns (decent), edamame (over-seasoned), a lamb focaccia burger (very good), and the Chef’s favourite duck stir fry (not bad). For pudding, chocolate chunk brownie (hearty and sweet) and fruit crush sorbets (refreshing blackcurrant and apple flavours). Eileen is from New Orleans, so we were hoping to try out the Jambalaya, but unfortunately they had run out. The fruit smoothies were delicious, the atmosphere is relaxed, and the staff were friendly (I’ve been reliably informed that all good restaurant critics use the rule of three). You get well-made food in a nice room surrounded by nice people. And that’s all I want to say on the matter, forget any star-rating nonsense.

Giraffe

7 Kensington High Street, London, W8 5NP.

www.giraffe.net

Students with valid Imperial ID can recieve a 25% discount on food all day Monday – Thursday and on Sunday after 6pm.