The language of foodThe language of food

To paraphrase Jane Austen: There is no place better designed to further the cause of true love than the restaurant. I was reminded of this when on Friday 13, Valentine’s Day Eve, my breakfast waitress presented me with a menu to whet my appetite for the next day’s festivities.

She did not know, and I did not enlighten her, that in a few hours I would be almost 1, 000 km away from this restaurant, and probably even further away than that from any hint of romance.

However, her kind efforts to include me in the plans of her restaurant reminded me of my previous week’s visit to a fancy eatery.

Tired of fast food and hotel room snacks, I had decided that I would splurge my meagre allowance in a fancy restaurant.

However, after studying the prices in the menu I decided to try out the “Chef’s Surprise Menu” whose two courses worked out 30 per cent cheaper than choosing two courses from the card. Just as most “surprises”, I suspected that I would regret it.

First surprise

However, you only live once...The waiter smiled at me and complimented me on the wisdom of my choice in his heavily accented English. Fifteen minutes later he presented a very hungry Kate with the first surprise.

As he whisked the cover off my starter with a flourish he announced, “Madam, I present you with two morsels of baby snail with a trail of creamed carrot and tart mayonnaise and an aftertaste of brown sugar.”

He then made a brave attempt to interpret my horrified African face as an expression of supreme anticipation of pleasure.

I tried valiantly to content myself with the trail and aftertaste while ignoring the morsels, and hoped that the second surprise would be enough to fill my stomach.

Realising that the customer was not content the waiter returned with a new dish and informed me that, “Madam, the snails were “compliments of the kitchen.

Now I present to you the surprise starter: Cone of Steak Tartare surrounded by a medley of fresh vegetables and a foam of green onions!”

For the uninitiated “steak tartare” is raw mince meat and “foam of green onions” is exactly that.

The hunger pangs threatened to overcome my good manners and I was very tempted to announce to the waiter: “Get me a surprise that I can really eat or you will experience an acid tongue encased in a foam of adrenaline-soaked saliva followed by two black knuckles in rapid succession.”

Luckily, the last course of sea bass wrapped in veal with minimal “aftertastes” was slightly more normal and I was able to depart from the posh restaurant while slightly nourished.

I walked into the chilly street wondering why restaurants no longer serve “steak and ‘salt and vinegar’ chips” but instead present us with “rectangle of seared bull flesh with matching root vegetables embellished with minerals and acid.” I suppose that – to misquote Shakespeare – if “food be the music of love” then the language that describes it must be suitably flowery and poetic.

Even in the most difficult of circumstances, there is always a lesson to be learned. The only thing that I remember about that meal (apart from the culinary linguistics) was a glass of very fine Chardonnay wine. Suddenly I appreciated why wine is so often served with a meal. It helps you forget the “aftertaste” and drown your sorrow.

This reminds me of my two favourite fly and food jokes. The first: Waiter! Waiter! There’s a fly in my soup!”

After examining the offending creature, the waiter tries to reassure the customer: “That’s fat.”  “I know it is... It has eaten all the pieces of meat that were in my soup!” The second: Frugal Macdonald is enjoying a pint at his local when a passing fly dives into his drink.

Quick as a flash he fishes it out and holds it over the glass. “Spit that out!” he roars. Choose right from your menu this weekend.