Leave Them Wanting

Not hungry. Just not done.

Last week, Jack and I went to Brin Pirathapan’s book launch. Elevate — it looks gorgeous, by the way, go and take a look. Afterwards, the two of us slipped out and walked to Wilson’s. Walk-in, no reservation, two covers. Pretty ambitious. We didn’t get in — they were full, which is exactly what you’d expect. But Jan saw us at the door and waved us through to the kitchen anyway.

He called out an order for snacks and champagne without hesitating. We weren’t expecting it. We stood in the kitchen, Jan plating in front of us and handing them over himself, then going straight back to his tickets. Three things. A glass each. Twenty minutes of conversation while he plated and called the kitchen. Then we thanked him, left, and went for dinner somewhere else.

I need to go to Wilson’s properly. Not because they’re consistently noted in the all-important lists, but because three things eaten standing up in a kitchen left me more lit up about returning than some meals I’ve sat down to properly. The less I had, the more it opened.

There are two kinds of full, and they’re not the same. There’s the physical kind — done, properly done, couldn’t eat another thing. That’s the baseline; if a kitchen isn’t clearing that bar, something has gone wrong. But there’s the other kind too. The dish you didn’t order. The train home where you’re already arguing with yourself about what you’d choose differently next time. Not because anything was missing — because you’ve just been reminded that there’s more.

In January, Jack and I ate at Adam Byatt’s Trinity; last autumn, at 64 Goodge Street. Both one Michelin star. Both running an à la carte — Trinity’s in a 4-4-4-4 structure, four snacks, starters, mains and desserts at £125; 64 Goodge Street running three courses at lunch for £59, which is, quite simply, too cheap for what it is. Outrageously good cooking at prices that feel like an oversight.

At both restaurants, Jack and I ordered differently and shared. At both, we finished the meal having eaten perhaps half the menu between us. The other half sat there, unordered, unknown. At Trinity I’d been torn between the agnolotti and the smoked salmon. The waiter noticed, suggested the salmon — a classic, apparently, worth having on a first visit — and I took his advice. Then, quietly, while Jack and I were into the starters, he came back and set the agnolotti down between us. “I couldn’t have you miss out, seeing as I recommended the salmon.” So simple. So elegant. So powerful.

Agnolotti at Trinity

On the train home I was already planning the return visit. Not because anything had been missing — the meal was complete, the cooking was dizzying — but because I knew exactly what I wanted next time. The menu had given me enough to want the rest of it. FOMO, really. The good kind. The kind that brings people back.

I wrote something a while ago about the joy of anticipation — the pleasure of waiting for a meal you’ve already booked. This is the same instinct, activated from the other end. The restaurant puts you on the hook not before you arrive, but after you leave.

I should say, tasting menus can be extraordinary. I’ve eaten some of the best food of my life sitting through them. This isn’t a polemic.

But they do tend to close. You’ve eaten everything, seen the whole thing, and until the menu changes you’ve finished it. That’s a valid experience, although different altogether.

I think about this from our side of the pass at BANK and Lapin, more than people might expect. The dish you put on the menu sits next to the dish you don’t. The thing a guest orders shapes what they leave wondering about. Not every table needs to leave hungry in the literal sense — they absolutely shouldn’t — but the best outcome is a guest who’s eaten well and can’t stop thinking about what they didn’t order.

Jan wasn’t thinking about any of this when he called out that order. He was just being generous. There’s no other word for it. Three snacks in a kitchen while he called his tickets and we talked.

I simply need to go back.

The Joy of Waiting for Dinner