A good rant.
TS Eliot declared April “the cruellest month” – a sentiment that seems confusing (had he not met January?) until you find yourself standing in the rain, without a brolly, waiting for your dinner.
This season of sudden, squally showers is all well and good if you’re watching nature’s showcase through the windows of an oven-warmed kitchen, but not if you’ve set your sights on that impenetrable fortress of the food scene: a restaurant that doesn’t take reservations. The trend began in London but, like the hype, it’s spreading – so if your local pavements aren’t yet beset by hordes of hungry punters, just wait.
The no-bookings restaurant brings much to whinge about. There’s the panic on approaching the place pre-6pm to find a queue already snaking out the door. There are the cold feet, the sharp elbows, the slew of frantic WhatsApps. The having to eat your dinner at either a geriatric 5:30pm or a basically-breakfast 10pm, both of which necessitate extra meals to keep you going. Not to mention never being able to take your in-laws because you don’t want to make them stand in the street for an hour – or the difficulty for less able diners who simply wouldn’t be able to stand in the street for an hour, not even for the best cacio e pepe in the world.