Salad days? Don’t forget to get dressed
IT’S easy to take things for granted. The Bristol food scene, for instance. Our amazing, sublime and superb food scene. Somehow, I always seem to forget how spoiled we are. How lucky to live in this tasty little town we call home. I take it all for granted. Until, that is, I have to leave. Let me explain.It started with salad. Who would have thought you could take the humble salad for granted? Turns out, I have been doing so for years.
Not just salads, either. Oh, no. I’m talking about the whole kit and kitchen caboodle of culinary life. But that’s for another day and another column. Main thing is, it’s all thanks to the hard working, heart warming fair folk of the
Bristol food scene. Bless them. They make it so easy to enjoy fine food every single time you eat out, it’s easy to forget how lucky we are. Which is why I thank them from the bottom of my heart for doing what they do.
But first, a history lesson. The first time I ever ate well was in my teens, when my parents took our family to France. Many of the memories from that fabulous holiday involved food. The croissants alone were things of joy and beauty. My tastebuds had never known such light yet buttery and satisfying pastry.
But the thing that really threw me, was what they did to salads. Don’t know if you are old enough to remember life in Britain in the seventies, but in one aspect, at least, it was beyond grim. Back in those dark days, the pinnacle of fine dining was a Vesta Curry. A freeze dried, powdered box of MSG drenched hideousness. Followed by Angel delight. If we were really pushing the boat out, we might start proceedings off with a salad. Which would be a collection of droopy lettuce, watery tomato and maybe a few slices of bland boiled egg. Which was all very fine and dandy, until you ate salads in France.
Which is when my world was turned upside down. You see, even the humblest of salads over there involved black olives, beefsteak tomatoes and, most incredibly of all, they dressed them. With generous drizzles of olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Can still remember how I felt, the first time I had one of these fresh and crunchy creations. It was like a symphony of raw tastes, textures and tingles kicking off all over the palate. Life would never be the same again. These people ate for pleasure, not just to keep hunger at bay.
From that moment on, every time I ordered a salad in Britain, my heart broke a little bit. It would invariably arrive, looking reasonable. But, nine times out of ten, it would be an empty promise. A disappointment. Simply because British chefs didn’t dress their salads. Leaving them pointless and pathetic on the table. Strange as it sounds now, it genuinely was one of my biggest bug bears with British cuisine. Could never understand why penny pinching eateries refused to spend a couple of pence per plate on transforming the humble salad into a feast fit for a king.
And then I moved to Bristol. This paradise, this pleasure dome for foodies.
In this gorgeous town we call home, it is virtually impossible to travel more than a few yards without stumbling upon some new and intriguing cafe, bar or restaurant. And, if nothing else, the one thing you can be sure if, is that the food will be fantastic. Also, the salads will be dressed.
Reason I mention all this is simple. Was up in Birmingham recently, having lunch out with my dear old mum. We were at a Deli Cafe that, on first appearances, would not look out of place right here in Brizzle. Nice garden, home baked sourdough bread, lovely staff and an interesting menu, filled with dishes that included smashed avocado. Feeling reassured, I ordered a salad.
When it arrived, my heart sank like a stone in gravy as I realised my schoolboy mistake. It looked superb. Which was nice. With pomegranate bulbs, a selection of seeds along with all the usual salad suspects present and correct. Excellent. Except for one important detail. The dressing. There was none. I asked the friendly waitress if maybe there had been a mistake. She assured me there had not. I politely asked for dressing. Any dressing. She admitted they didn’t have any. When pressed, she went off, to return with the worlds tiniest, measliest dribble of supermarket standard mustard and honey mush. About enough to cover a rabbits thumbnail.
Which reminded me never to take the Bristol food scene for granted ever again.
Bon appetit!
Until next time, all the best