Going out to eat at any restaurant is a nice experience, but fine dining is where true romance is found. It’s a low-lit world where high-quality, plump flesh is served atop pearly white tablecloths. When Noma closed last year, everyone started saying haute cuisine was over. Well, it’s not – and thank God, because it’s one of the most reliable forms of foreplay.
When I talk about fine dining, I’m not necessarily talking about Core by Clare Smyth or Restaurant Gordon Ramsay, neither of which I’ve visited. I’m talking about going out for a classy, black-and-white-movie-esque dinner, where you eat off branded plates and are served by wait staff who are far more dignified than you are, like David Mitchell in my favourite depiction of fine dining ever. I’m talking about cosy places where the glasses are sparkling, the staff are suited and the waistband of your trousers is a little bit too tight because you’re wearing your nicest pair, the ones that have been at the back of your closet for three years. I’m talking about places where the prices are so expensive that you have to open your banking app under the table to check your balance.
I, for one, believe a good experience in fine dining is down to a few things. First up, comfort. It was the ancient Greeks who invented dining for pleasure in the West; they had all-male gatherings where food was served on low tables surrounded by pillows, so the guests could recline while eating. Imagine if they could see East London’s restaurant scene now, punters perched on spindly bar stools, legs swinging in midair, one arse cheek sliding off the side. For me to enjoy a meal, my chair must be firmly planted on the ground, and there must be ample cushioning for my arse. The crème de la crème, seating-wise, is a booth. There’s something grand about them, like you’re on a cruise in the 1930s. A booth means you can sit next to your lover and hold hands in a discreet, classy way until you’re trauma bonded by the sight of the hair-raising bill at the end of the meal.
Next, the ambience. Please, please, please: give me a tablecloth! It reminds me of how special it is to eat out in this way. (Also, that I should really wash my linens more.) The cutlery and glasses should be less functional tools, more set dressing. Nota bene: I don’t care if I have no idea what to do with the little bowl of lukewarm water that arrives at the table with a lemon slice in it at the start of proceedings; I still want one. And there shouldn’t be too much art on the walls. I want the table and the eyes across from me to be my main point of focus.
Which brings me to the most important element of fine dining: the people. The front-of-house staff at these sorts of restaurants are the true stars of the show. As in Downton Abbey, the cooks are squirrelled away in the basement where they belong, and the waiters, sommeliers and GMs take centre stage, with the privilege of talking to me, the duchess of dossing. I like when a server introduces themselves, and I like it when they make me feel that, if it came down to it, they would take a bullet for me. I like the formality of it all. I like when a sommelier subtly shows me how ill-informed I am with a knowing smirk, or when my lack of decorum is emphasized by a waiter scraping away the crumbs I’ve made with a silver blade. I like the feeling of going out and being on my best behaviour, only to discover I am and always will be a little bit feral. And I especially like to experience all of this with a lover.
It’s romantic to spend money on such an excessive form of indulgence with the person who indulges in you. A good fine-dining date must be slow and indulgent and want to achieve the same level of “gently pissed” that you do. Neither of you should feel any sense of hurry or pressure, and there should be room for silence in your conversation, for moments to quietly look around and reflect on the silly little Lady and the Tramp role play you’re taking part in over the course of the evening (to be clear, you’re both tramps; the restaurant is the lady).
Finally, the food. I don’t want the food to be tweezer-ed or hidden beneath some foam. I don’t need an 18-dish set menu. I don’t even expect it to be mega-refined or innovative – but it must have some undeniable, swanky je ne sais quoi to it, in the same way that Christmas dinner isn’t actually that nice but is still very enjoyable because of all the festive campiness that comes with it. You and your lover should read the handwritten menu slowly, giggling together over the silly prices. The food will arrive and it will have too much butter and not enough salt, and that’s okay – because fine dining is about more than what’s on your plate. It’s a performance, a craft, a not-shit version of immersive theatre. And you’ve got top billing.
