John Whiting

Elizabeth David's status at the Times was very much that of eighteenth-century musicians in royal courts; i.e., very much below stairs. She was exasperated that the editor never deigned to read her copy, not taking her at all seriously. On one occasion she was invited to put together a little luncheon for the board and took the opportunity of preparing a magnificent spread, complete with a little negro serving boy. History fails to relate whether she made her point.

There's no finer English cheese than the best cheddar. An entire cloth-bound cheese weighing two kilos is a practical size and will survive the journey without drying out. Neal's Yard will advise.

Ability to cook does not, alas, carry with it the ability to talk or to design. Not many chefs are, like Shaun Hill, Greek scholars with published textbooks to their credit; nor do they, like Adria, create miniature sculptures worthy of more durable materials. Mirabel Osler, in A Spoon with Every Course, wisely advises the reader not to judge a French restaurant by its decor. And in his essay, Bullets and Smashed Homelettes, Simon Loftus observes: Except, of course, the chefs contributing to eGullet, who can turn a phrase as neatly as a pancake!

I confess! They are part of an electrician's all-purpose tool called a Leatherman, which I have carried about my person for almost twenty years (except, of course, when I board a plane, when it goes into my hold luggage). Unethical though it may be, they remain in my bag when I enter a restaurant.As one who spent much of his life working with the projection and recording of real music, I find it difficult to get worked up about the ethics of stripping away involuntarily endured aural wallpaper. I reserve the right to be as disrespectful to audible polution as I am to neighboring smokers and the pushers of junk food.

If that's what they're like when they're not performing for anyone's benefit, then so much the worse. The plates on view were indeed sensational to behold but artistically they were on a level with the Christmas cards my parents used to get from the newly and ostentatiously rich. EDIT: If there's no one out there that agrees with me, that will be an education in itself.

I was seriously depressed by both of them; I'd rather watch the Hamiltons in panto. And the plates looked vulgar beyond imagining. We promptly dropped our plan to visit.

What Gill and Winner both display in their writing is a profound disrespect for human thought. Bourdain can be annoying, disgusting, flippant, but at his most outrageous there's a sense of playing an intellectual game -- building an intellectual structure which doesn't actually misuse or abuse the tools he's working with. There's a logical progression which, if followed, brings the reader to a vantage point that provides some sort of new perspective. Gill is totally destructive both of his subject matter and of himself. I find him painful to read, just as I would find it unpleasant to watch a man beating his head against a stone wall until the blood flowed. If allowed into a kitchen, he'd pour a bag of salt into the cassoulet. EDIT: At the simplest level, what I ask of any writer I read for pleasure is that I enjoy his company.

Unless I'm reading purely for information, I want an author to posess a mind that I can admire or empathize with or at least be entertained by. In one review, A.A. Gill describes himself as "a spiteful no-mates old queen" and then uses the rest of the article to present his credentials. I remain convinced to this very day.

There's now a demand for perfection -- and worse, uniformity -- that runs counter to what it's reasonable to demand of every single meal. Does it relate to the unreasonable assumptions of music lovers who expect a concert to be as error-free as a recording, which has been edited to death? I once heard Rubenstein give a bad recital. I didn't ask for my money back.

The sad thing is that reviewers who live by their wits but offer no substance can make or break restaurants through their effect on punters who can't tell when they're being misinformed. I daresay you've met the occasional financial advisor whose advice was as useless as a bad restaurant reviewer, and even more damaging.

As a sound designer for much of my working life, I never travelled without wire cutters, for exactly that reason. With plastic-covered handles, in case the wire turned out to be live.

There may even be an Ancient One out there who remembers Kip's on Durant in Berkeley from half a century ago. Charcoal-broiled hamburgers, cooked to order, a toasted bun, and a relish table aginst the wall where you helped yourself to green or red relish, ketchup, mayonnaise, sliced onion, sliced tomato, sliced dill pickle, lettuce . . . Charcoal broilers in snack bars were new and the flavor was thrilling. Later across the bay, Hippo offered hamburgers a hundred different ways, all of them good.

That's the way! Indispensible as a part of Christmas Dinner!

Anyone who is old enough (or has been isolated enough) to live in a community without restaurant reviewers will know that, for better or for worse, reviews have greatly accellerated both the success and the failure of new restaurant ventures. Without instant feedback, those who put their money into restaurants expected it to take a long time to either get their money back or demonstrate that they never would. In other words, the curve of success or failure was bound to be gradual. What reviewers in big citys have done is to make the restaurant business as volatile as the stock exchange. It is possible to win or lose enormous sums in a very short time. This tends to make both the venue and the cuisine theatrical in the extreme. Which brings me back to the bistro. I prefer the marriage of true minds to the one-night stand.

Don't knock it; vented spleen is a great dish. Like unmitigated tripe, it goes well with a dose of salts.

From my France travel journal, Through Darkest Gaul with Trencher and Tastevin:

There are competant critics, but there's no effective quality screening. To some degree, a chef must be able to cook, but a critic needn't be able to taste or even to write -- only to abuse. Nothing is perfect, but on the whole I find the yearly Time Out guide usefully informative, particularly in its coverage of obscure ethnic restaurants. Because the individual write-ups are anonymous, there is less temptation to make them into ego trips. Where reviews of new multi-million-pound celebrity magnets are concerned, these are bound to be about as reliable as pop concert write-ups.

That's another thing I object to -- it makes listening more difficult. Eavesdroppings make the best sauce.

Eric Asimov on music in restaurants. I've just realized why I love French bistros so much -- no music!

You're looking back at a time when it could be profitable to do one thing well, over and over in the same way. A large corporation can no longer survive staying in the same place; it moves either up or down. Up means expansion, expansion means diversification, and diversification means loss of control.

My wife invited a working companion to lunch, a young girl from Dubai. She was a sweet, modest creature, unassuming, well-behaved, a perfect guest. In the course of pre-luncheon conversation, she remarked that what disappointed her most in British food was that nothing was spicy enough. As a joke I brought her (along with a warning) a jar of Whistle Blower's Pickle from Bombay Bangers, the hottest and strongest condiment I've encountered. She tasted a bit on the end of a spoon, then ate a whole spoonful. "Yes," she said, "that's what I miss." When the steak and kidney pie arrived, she ladelled a generous amount of the pickle over it. She ate it without apparent effort -- no sweating, no heavy breathing. It could have been ketchup.

(Partially) pressure cooked cassoulet This is not a complete recipe, only a suggested mode of adapting whatever recipe you usually follow. My own traditional recipe, based on Charles and Lindsey Shere’s recipe in the Open Hand Celebration Cook Book, takes most of a week’s worth of separate tasks; I can do this pressure cooker version in a day. The starting point for a cassoulet is usually confit of goose or duck. For purposes of preservation, this is of a saltiness beyond what my palate now prefers. Instead, I begin with duck legs which I accumulate through the year as they go on sale at Waitrose having reached their sell-by date (not, in this case, their sel-by date). They go into the freezer to await the January cassoulet. After slow thawing, they are browned in the pressure cooker and a large frying pan, then combined in the pressure cooker with about a cup of water and a conservative sprinkling of salt (plus, if you like, crushed juniper berries). The cooker is brought to full pressure and the legs are cooked for about fifteen minutes, then checked for doneness. I continue to give them five-minute bursts until the meat comes readily from the bone. Leave the skin on or not, as you please and also, if you like, cut the meat into chunks for.the diner’s convenience. The juices go through a separater jug to separate the fat from the very strong stock. The pork and/or lamb stews are similarly cooked, first browning the meat then adding whatever vegetables your recipe calls for. Perhaps a couple of cups of water; it’s not necessary to cover the meat. Cook for fifteen minutes and check, cooking further as required. The pork stew may include one or two pig’s feet. If they are not split, it will be easier to separate the meat without leaving jagged pieces of cut bone. I leave them whole and transfer them from the pork stew to the lamb stew and finally to the beans, so that they are cooked much more thoroughly than the other meats. The sausages are first browned in a pan at high heat, then go into one of the meat stews. The timing of the beans is, of course, critical – best to check after ten minutes and every five minutes thereafter. Use more than enough stock/water to cover and top up as required when you check for doneness – this will provide the topping-up stock for the final cooking in the oven. Salt conservatively until you've arrived at the stock's final concentration. This final oven cooking is the stage at which the pressure cooker is no substitute, but if the intermediary stages have been properly judged, a couple of hours in a moderate oven should suffice for a well-browned crust and a thick rich sauce. To reiterate, I’ve said nothing of the finer (and more contentious) points of cassoulet construction, such as how often to break the crust, or mixing blended cooked pig fat and garlic with the final stock. Take this as a series of suggestions for adapting your own preferred recipe to pressure cooking and turning out a very creditable dish within a single day.

Has the whopper been better in Britain than in the USA? On those rare occasions when I've been forced by some combination of hunger, geography and the lateness of the hour to go for a chain burger, I've had the impression that a cheese Whopper had the edge over a quarter-pounder with cheese from McD. Some friends who eat them more often have confirmed this. But I'm no expert. Do any British eGulleteers have an opinion?

Such a relief to learn that old favorites are still performing to their old standard. My last visit to Chez Denis was too long before I set up my website to justify including a write-up, but obviously it's time to return. I'll never forget my solo visit for lunch some ten years ago. I ordered tripes au Calvados and was brought a bowl, a glass, a huge pot of tripe and a litre of Brouilly. An hour later all were empty and the waiters applauded. My dinner that night would have left a fashion model hungry.

There's an epidemic of these attacks. Betty Fussell is the next in line. Is it true that Anthony Bourdain will be doing a gourmet version of Silence of the Lambs?