Video Killed the Food Critic (& why we should all be more cow)
It’s only a commercial, dear!
A few disclaimers right from the off…
Yes, that’s all I really remember about Michael Winner - Food Critic No. 1 (Yes, I’m just about old enough to remember those commercials from Esure - other insurance providers available). It just suited me to have three examples. Sorry!
I am, as a certain former Prime Minister put it, far too fat, and love the very thing I am about to slate so mercilessly.
Like most “normal” folk I have eaten in a handful of high-end food establishments - I am rightfully no authority on what we are about to receive - but let us all be truly thankful!
Picking the right trough
As The Blonde would point out (with much sorrow and embarassment) I am fond of a bovine comparison - that is to assimilate the human condition with that of our booby black and white friends. This is often in the realms of pregnancy and other female afflictions (Sorry) But for once, dear reader, I am able to offer a new thread of comparison.
Cows are extremely picky when it comes to the food they eat. This will strike you with a sense of disbelief I am sure, but picky they are. They are the original Michael Winners - in fact, they are also the original Joe Wicks as, unlike the growing proportion of us humans, they are picky and insistent on nutrients - striving to ensure their diet consists of the right foods - cows will favour nutrient rich and toxin poor foods, including weeds.
Now, many of us are bang on board with the cows - this healthy section of our society would happily follow a swinging udder to an idyllic field somewhere and start munching away on dandelions and thistles - they’d probably roll out a Yoga mat and match the cow fart for fart (You can’t possibly tell me that Yoga studios don’t stink like a teenage boys sleepover party at daybreak.)
However, more and more of us shun the teachings of the holstein, instead rushing to our iPhones, enter private mode and boot up Instagram - seeking out the latest in Food Porn - desperate to seek out the latest sticky endeavours - typically of a bearded, beanie hatted northerner (Clapham Surrey Trust Funder models also available) straddling a 60 patty Cheese Burger and going to town on it, before collapsing in a hot mess (Unlike a porn star they wear immaculately white t-shirts when engaging in this brand of debauchery, why is that?)
Impotence
It’s neigh on impossible to ignore the click-bait madness that now occupies the hallowed pages once held in court by the giants - Carême, Reichl, Bourdain, yes, Gill. Gone are the drag-queen level put downs of service and atmosphere. Gone is a genuine care for the provenance of the ingredients, the graduation of Michelen and AA stars, the back-story of the pub landlord and landlady.
And In? In is the competition to have the flappiest cheese-pull available, the girthiest sandwich or the moistest chocolate cake. The result? Overstimulation, an under-appreciation for beautiful simplicity, the inability to get it up for a meal that pulls less than 25 likes on Instagram. We’ve simply seen too much filth.
And through this shift - the sub-six second scroll, we’ve lost our cravatted critic, draining the lush fund of The Sunday Times and blagging a bucolic weekend in Bath. We’ve gained all and sundry equipped with the latest iPhone, a Social Media virologist and a train ticket to London, Bristol or Manchester.
The Food Critic is Dead - Long Live the Food Critic!