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Don't Order The Salisbury Steak |
| From
Yoichi Shimatsu |
| Sir Winterbourne Gunner, Gourmet at Large Restaurant Review: Zizzi, Salisbury 5-Stars It is not the job to die for that foodies might assume about my post-retirement profession. Being a scribbler of notes at the table while others dig into the fine dining without a thought is the sad fate of a restaurant reviewer who is forced to find fault in what diners are happily stuffing between their cheeks. The gourmand and the critic are the sweet and sour of dining, if I may be allowed a Sinicism. Just the other day I tried a highly recommended cafe located in a shopping mall in Salisbury, a stone’s throw from my former place of employment. My training as a chemist has proven to be a boon due to my acute sense of smell and taste of trace substances in food and beverages. For example, one whiff and I can tell you if the fish and chips have that ammonia scent from being stored too long on trawlers, actually the mother-ships where fish fingers are processed, sometimes in quite unsanitary conditions if the trawler happens to be Russian. At first glance, I was disappointed by the crossness of the waitress who scowled, arms akimbo, when I ordered without looking at the menu: “a mash with Salisbury steak.” She curtly informed me that mince is available at McDonalds and other Yank shops. So, after studying the menu, I settled on the arugula salad with quinoa and burdock, which turned out to be a perfect stomach-shrinker for weight watchers. On behalf of our mostly female readers, three stars. The other two stars came with the surprise on the menu with its curious name, beet borscht Livid Uncle. When I asked, the dour waitress smiled, saying it’s made with 100 percent ruby beets, more than enough to turn your uncle’s face red. It was quite fruity, lacking the greasy beefiness of the borscht I’ve had during my missions to Moscow. Those memories instinctively had me blurt out: Waitress, a vodka martini, stirred not shaken. With sadness in her eyes, she replied: “I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve stopped serving alcohol after two of our guests, a young man and his mother, suffered a fatal auto accident on the A4, or was it the M6? They both were drinking heavily. Dreadful. The wife and son of that man over there sitting with his daughter. Regulars, you know. If they had been Americans, they would have sued us and put us out of business. But they are immigrants. Hah! I’ve seen him around, at my old research lab in Porton Down. The waitress took two steps back. “You don’t mean to say, sir, he’s one of Those? And he has a foreign accent . . . Russian.“ “Nothing to be afraid of dear, I’m one of Those, too. Don’t believe the rumours. You’ve watched too many James Bond movies. Our work is harmless, really, testing new products and such for consumer safety. Now if you would be so kind as to offer him and his lovely daughter a spot of tea from this pot. We used to always share a pot of tea and crumpets.” “As you say, sir.” The plebes are so obedient toward a tone of authority. The waitress dutifully served the pair their servings of tea, while I went to the bar to pay the cheque and then donned my trenchcoat. With a tip of hat, I nodded to an elderly lady entering with her corgie. Shutting the stout oak door behind me, I strolled past the boutiques filled with goods from our cousins and those newcomers, the Chinese, and stepped into the light drizzle. Whilst it’s nothing like the cheddary stuff of the past, I should have ordered a plate of Wilton cheese. At least it won’t kill you. |