Plated and Opinionated #1: Stop Overthinking Dinner
A Michelin walk-in, unforgettable flavours, and why not every plate needs to start a revolution.
It’s been all quiet on the writing front. Not because I’ve nothing to say; I’ve got a notes app full of half-formed rants and service stories. I’ve just been neck-deep in the day-to-day of our restaurants. Hands and heart full. Brain fried.
Still, I wanted to check in — and since I’ve not had the time (or clarity of thought) to string together a properly structured piece, I figured I’d share some recent scraps. Musings. Loose observations from the last few weeks. They’re not quite essays, not quite rants. Somewhere between a diary entry and a napkin sketch.
Take from it what you will. Argue with me. Rip me to shreds. I’d love that.
Michelin Luck and the Joy of Stumbling In
Last month, I went down to London with Jack (my business partner and Exec Chef) and Ollie (senior sous at BANK) for a bit of menu research — which, translated from restaurant speak, means we ate a shameful amount of food in not much time and called it work.
Lunch was at Town, the not-long-opened spot on Drury Lane that’s been lighting up Instagram and the chef group chats. We stepped into a room that felt like The Jetsons directed by Wes Anderson: oxblood banquettes, brass edges you could see your face in, huge lights recessed into the ceiling. It smelt of warm, yeasty bread; a low lunchtime hum rolled across the floor.
Dinner, by complete luck, was at Oma in London Bridge — we walked in off the street, found a table for three at a Michelin-starred spot, and felt immediately suspicious of our own good fortune. The room was low-lit and calm, service moving like a well-practised waltz.
What struck me was how much your expectations shape your experience. It hit me somewhere between the labneh and the octopus. If we’d booked Oma three months out, hyped ourselves up, pored over every Instagram story and press clipping, would we have enjoyed it as much?
It was undeniably, really fucking good. But part of the magic was the surprise of it. That spontaneous feeling of oh wow, this is actually great is a special kind of joy — and maybe one we don’t get enough of anymore.
Sometimes, technical brilliance is less important than discovery. The unknown little place you wander into on holiday, where the fish is fresher than anything you’ve ever had and the service barely qualifies as service, but there’s charm in that too. I’d take that over a 27-part tasting menu served with the reverence of a religious ritual. Sometimes.
When a Sage Leaf Steals the Show
Town was good. People have been talking about the fried sage leaves — crisp, aromatic, moreish. To Jack, a fried sage leaf is a garnish, the kind of salty little snack chefs nick from the pass in the middle of service. At Town, it’s a dish in its own right — and that reframing is the point. A small, well-executed idea made big enough to notice. Fair play: it was delicious, and it got us talking.
The bread was excellent. Standout stuff — chewy, warm, clearly made with care. The ‘gravy’ it came with was mostly pot-skimmed dripping. Tasty, but definitely not what I’d call gravy. Still, no complaints from me. The standout for me was a cod, clams and mussels curry with coconut, rhubarb and South Indian spice, served with ghee flatbread. Seafood cooked perfectly, mussels steamed open like they’d been wooed by poetry, cod that flaked at the lightest nudge. A broth so deeply aromatic I considered bottling it and wearing it as cologne. Proper good.
Salt Cod, Silence, and Trusting the Dish
At Oma, we kept it fairly light. Bread and dips to start — the labneh topped with salt cod XO was a small miracle. So simple. So perfect. A dip already worthy of reverence made better by this funky, saline, umami-rich topping that should, by rights, be more famous than it is.
What I loved most, though, was how I wasn’t dissecting each element. I wasn’t doing the ‘cheffy’ thing of breaking down textures and ratios and whether the acidity was carried across the plate. I just… ate. And it was a delight.
Sometimes food is just good.
Someone recently described one of our dishes at Lapin as ‘too well-behaved’. What the fuck does that even mean? Since when did a plate of food need to start a revolution to be enjoyable? You don’t need to split the atom. There’s a time and a place for deep analysis — during dish development, for one — but not when you’re out with your mates trying to have a nice time. No one needs your unsolicited breakdown of how a dish could be improved with spherified lime pearls. You’re not Ferran Adrià. You’re just a guy making dinner awkward.
There’s a phrase I love: Does it eat well? That’s the thing. You can make the most delicious dish in the world, but if it’s anxiety-inducing to eat — if you’re worried about dribbling sauce on your shirt, or trying to work out how to divide a beef rib four ways without pissing off the in-laws — then it doesn’t really work. How are you meant to share spaghetti, or worse, soup, unless you’re going full Lady and the Tramp? Unless you share a very specific kind of friendship, you’re probably not.
Food is about joy. Ease. Flow.
There’s also a lot to be said for seeing what the chef actually wanted to accomplish with a dish. Sure, you might think it needs more acidity, but not everything needs balancing like GCSE chemistry. Sometimes a dish can just be rich and delicious, unapologetically so. Ask yourself: did the chef really forget that a chutney might lift the cheese course? Or did they just decide to let the cheese shine?
One of my favourite ‘unbalanced’ plates is the fried cheddar curds at Upstairs at Landrace in Bath. It’s gloriously literal — a plate of fried cheese with more cheese grated on top. Would a ketchup or chutney taste good? Sure. Would I change a thing? Absolutely not.
Eat or Evaluate?
Having spent the last four years working the floor in our restaurants, I’ve realised some people arrive absolutely determined to have a bad time. They’ve read every review, watched every Reel, and made a mental list of what we’ll get wrong. It’s wild. They sit down armed with a measuring stick and a magnifying glass, and then leave surprised that they didn’t feel joy.
The miserable ones all start their reservation the same way. They walk in, emotionless. ‘Reservation for so-and-so.’ No hello, no smile. We are there to serve. To them, we are a functional accessory to the evening.
Most guests aren’t like that. Most people spend their hard-earned money trying to have a nice time — they ask what’s good, take a recommendation, and relax into it. Table 12 asked for a server pick and ended up passing the cod like communion. That’s the stuff that makes a room feel alive.
Don’t get me wrong — if you’re spending £200 on a tasting menu, the team should remember to relay your cutlery and refill your water without you having to resort to silent-film theatrics. But expecting to love every element? Expecting a restaurant to be your vision of perfection down to the wall colour? That’s not a reasonable bar. That’s a fantasy.
There’s a massive gap between what’s technically brilliant and what you personally like. Recognising that might make your dinners out significantly more enjoyable.
In Defence of Just Enjoying Your Dinner
I suppose what I’m getting at is: there’s a lot of joy to be had in this world. So much of it comes through food. Not always from the food itself — but from what it allows. Connection. Comfort. That rare feeling of being totally present for a moment that feels bigger than the sum of its parts.
So maybe don’t go into every meal like you’re preparing to mark it out of five stars on TripAdvisor. Maybe leave a little space to be surprised. To be moved. To be impressed.
And if you really hated your dinner?
Stay at home and cook for yourself, mate. You’ll get everything exactly how you like it — and there’s no one else to blame if it disappoints.
I’ve never understood why some people go out determined not to enjoy it. They’re also the most awful people to have dinner with, if you have the misfortune of having one of those types in your group.
Ah yes, those who walk in with their arms folded across their chest and a thought bubble, I’ll decide if it’s any good.”