Eating lunch or dinner in a formal dining room can be very exciting. If you are born into the vanishing aristocracy, its all par for the course. But alas, for a colonial mongrel from dubious pedigree, such as myself, it is all very educational, entertaining and exquisite. Apart from the sheer adventure of it all, eating fine foods in a grand room transcends time. At a moment in time you eat here – and suddenly that fact patches over a lot of the shady bits. I remember dumpster diving to get chow, at one time. I remember eating the leftovers of the people who left the restaurant I worked at. I’ve done very demeaning things in my day, to survive. And yet being in a room with an atmosphere, eating chow that was prepared to standards I couldn’t match myself if I was on the cooking end… it may sound horribly snobby or superficial of me, but that does heal the spirit a bit. Like – it’s okay, it’s okay, you got here.
While the experience is certainly good for the soul and expands the horizons, including the culinary horizons, it would be an absolute pain in the ass to eat like this all the time.
It’s all good and well, but do I love that homecooked meal I share just with my partner when we’re in front of the telly…