Hell is a Small Plates Restaurant — and the Devil orders Orange Wine

The smallplates-ification of the London dining scene is a cause close to my heart

How a family lunch turned me into a reactionary old man

It takes more than a single experience to radicalise someone; usually, it’s a series of small offences that build to a breaking point. I’m guessing this is how incels are made (Men Who Hate Women has been sitting on my bedside table for the past six months, but I always seem to get sidetracked), and this is how I became a traditional restaurant^TM purist. It all started with a Sunday lunch when my family was in town for the weekend at an establishment that shall remain nameless, as this isn’t solely about the restaurant itself but also about everything it represents. I’d heard rave reviews from every Tabi-clad and Carhartt-wearing East London resident, and was ready to beg and barter for a dinner reservation. I was elated to move plans around in order to make it for a weekend lunch. As we walked over to the restaurant, I made an offhand comment about my disdain for QR codes in place of physical menus. As we were greeted at the industrial chic door, we were told to take a picture of the blackboard menu. I was committed to not ruining the vibes, so we followed the server to be seated. This is cool my dad commented, looking at the metal stools at the bar. We were handed a drinks menu, and I squinted to read the minuscule print (though here I’ll admit the average patron was probably under the age of forty, and I have unnaturally bad eyesight for my age). We ordered drinks and proceeded to zoom into the hieroglyphics on the picture we’d taken of the blackboard out front, and I found myself biting my tongue and longing for a QR code menu (a piece of general advice: if you’re doing a handwritten menu, make sure you’re employing someone with legible handwriting). The waiter who had said she’d be back to check on us and explain the menu was never to be seen again. After flagging someone down to check on our drinks, we managed to put our order in. I’ll commend that we weren’t rushed out or told when they’d need our table back, a rarity on a weekend. This restaurant seemed to exist outside the natural laws of physics, where time was a loosely regarded construct and the staff would disappear into black holes. I was in equal measures underwhelmed by the food and impressed by our waiter’s ability to avoid eye contact with the dedication of an Olympian, and became increasingly sympathetic to my mother, who insists on impeccable service, reasonable portions and stark white tablecloths whenever the bill has triple digits. My dad and brother, who were at first amused by my comments highlighting how our lunch was playing out as a comedy of errors, realised the severity of the situation when I said no to dessert as I just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. I didn’t think I’d ever rage against cheesecake, but the situation was dire.

Tapas and other things that do not travel well

You’d be mistaken to assume that I am a hater of sharing plates as a concept. I love to share a meal, and my enthusiasm for multiple things on a menu, coupled with some indecisiveness and people-pleasing tendencies, means that I will almost always suggest ordering a few things for the table. If a man tells me he doesn’t share food (or God forbid, isn’t down for splitting dessert) on a first date, I know I will never [voluntarily] see him again. I’m a lover of tapas, of long nights at wine bars snacking on cheese and olives, and a devout follower of Aperitif hour in the summertime (girl dinner with a side of spritzes, anyone?). Part of why I enjoy these so much, however, is that it’s a low-effort and usually reasonably priced way to catch up with friends. It starts in the late afternoon and is full of possibilities. It can be the plan itself or the prelude for a late dinner. It comes together at the last minute, and the food and company rarely disappoint. It doesn’t require setting an alarm for when reservations open thirty days in advance and won’t leave a gaping hole in your wallet. However, as things often do, the art of casual dining got lost in translation as it made its way across the channel. The casual becomes pretentious, the owner wears Jacques Marie Mage frames, gives interviews to London-based small print magazines and lands a place on a TimeOut list and next thing you know you’re standing in line for forty-five minutes waiting for an uncomfortable seat (back support is never a guarantee), an uninspired menu served on plates handmade in Portugal whilst googling the logistics of skin contact wines. Several things that are charming under the Mediterranean sun become less captivating under the closer scrutiny of British weather. Italian men with loose schedules and year-round tans who go with the flow feel adventurous from June to August, but an inability to text you back or nail down concrete plans will drive you crazy once you’re back in the real world. Laid back, midweek day-drinking is fun on vacation, but concerning once you’re back home and unemployed.

Please, let’s eat

I’m not fundamentally against wine bars and small plates restaurants. What I am protesting against, however, is the fact that they are taking over the city. For all the GLP-1 users out there, these small portions might be just right, but for anyone whose quick and unexplained weight loss can be attributed to Bali Belly instead (my friend got Salmonella whilst travelling in South East Asia and had to communicate via Google Translate with the hotel staff, on the flipside she looked fantastic in all her bikini pictures — I’ve always said that grocery store sushi is the poor man’s Ozempic), you might find yourself feeling insatiable. A single bad experience has not deterred me from trying small plates restaurants and wine bars (I actually have a few that I love and recommend in London). I still think they’re a great option for first dates or catching up with friends if you don’t want to commit to a full meal, aren’t too hungry or want to go somewhere where attractive and well-dressed waiters can choose your wine for you. I’m just left wondering, what happened to leaving a restaurant satisfied, to unbuttoning your jeans in the back of an Uber? Can we please bring back having dinner?