I have been trying to steer clear of thinking too much about politics for a short while, for the sake of my mental health as anything else, at least until Friday's out of the way; but I did think that graceless, petty and embarrassing display from Farage and his ghastly cadre of Brexiteers yesterday was worth a comment or two. Though, in the spirit of trying to avoid getting too political, I'll mostly be talking about steak.
But first, politics. Inevitably, the Brexit debate has curdled into stereotypes as the two sides became ever more entrenched. On one side, we have the Remainers, easily characterised as shrill, condescending, sneering, failing to understand that their attitude won't convert anyone else from the other side (as an excellent and perspicacious article from Rafael Behr considers here), on the other the Brexiteers, myopic, blinkered, angry, self-satisfied, convinced that they're right in the face of all prevailing evidence.
Of course, as is always the case with stereotypes, these are crude line drawings, but it was difficult not to watch Farage et al's cringeworthy display without feeling all the old bigotries of the debate starting to bubble up. It was the absolute worst of the pro-Brexit argument in a nutshell, childish, points-scoring, obsessed with nationalism (and, in its use of tiny, cheap, mass-produced flags, unwittingly symbolic) The sight of a line of fat white blokes sporting matching Union Jack ties added a level of grim amusement to the whole sorry spectacle, but when contrasted with the dignified and regretful statements by Michel Barnier and Ursula von der Leyen it essentially made me feel a deep shame that these overgrown children were ostensibly representing this country.
It put me in mid of a group of people who, in my professional life, aren't the bane of my life as such, but are something of a minor irritation. The steak people, and their closely aligned allies, the no veg people. Now, I should point out that this is purely my own personal prejudice, but let me explain to a degree.
It is yet another stereotype (I'm clearly only dealing in them today, seems fitting, in these cartoonish and simplistic times) that chefs routinely sneer at people who order their steak well done. This is not, in my experience, the case. Indeed, in the middle of a busy dinner service, a well done steak is a boon to the pressurised chef, a quick sear, and you can pop it in the bottom of the oven and forget about it for a bit, before bringing it up to well done when resting it. Much more like hard work is medium, because half of the people who order medium actually want medium well ("Medium, but with no pink in" is a common request, I just do it on the well side of medium well, and it's always "lovely, perfect"). No, my objection to steak isn't its done-ness, it's more the paucity of imagination which ordering steak implies. There are any number of other dishes on my menu, many of which have taken years to get right, nearly all of which are far more interesting to eat than steak. Steak you can cook at home, indeed, I often do. I certainly wouldn't order it to eat out because a) there's always something more interesting on the menu and b) I'm acutely aware of what restaurant mark-ups are, and I'm not paying for a steak out when I can get a better quality one from my butcher for a fraction of the cost. If I'm going out for a meal, I want something I couldn't do myself easily at home.
But okay, okay, I'm getting a little snobbish here, a little sneering, a little, dare I say it, Remainer. So I'll narrow it down slightly. Possibly you've been looking forward to a meal out as a treat, and for you, a steak is what you want. That's fine. I have no problem with that. It's a little dull, but fair enough, it's what you fancy.
But every time? EVERY SINGLE TIME? These are the people who furrow my professional brow, the ones who make me consider throwing in the apron. Yes, it's a service industry, and yes, you serve what the customer wants (within reason), but the Steak People, the People Who Will Only Eat Steak, they are the enemy of all that is holy, and they, dear reader, are definitely a bit hard-Brexity, the sort of dogmatic, uncompromising narrow-mindedness which characterises the Farages of this world (with pepper sauce). They're the ones you want to shake gently and say hey, other things are nice, too. Try something else, there's a whole world out there. You don't always have to have chips.
The only time these people don't eat steak is a Sunday, when they eat roast beef. You can always tell when one's in because the check asks for no vegetables and extra roast potatoes (this, to stretch the metaphor somewhat, is leaving the single market whilst keeping tariff free trade). That's right, actual grown-ass adults who wrinkle their nose at the thought of vegetables, people who've never moved past the palate of a six year old. People who, more pertinently, have been allowed not to, have been pandered to. These are people who've never been told that if you don't eat your greens then you can't have pudding. Spoiled, indulged and left with an incredibly narrow idea of what constitutes a nice meal, and therefore, people with no joy in their lives, no sense of adventure (they have spiritual cousins: the crap beer fans, we had a guy in on NYE who sulked all night because we didn't have John Smiths, and so he stayed sober as a result, we've had people refuse to stay because we don't have Carling), people whose parochial view of food stretches, I suspect, to their politics. Brexiteers, in other words.
Because if Farage, Widdecombe and the rests antics yesterday resembled anything at all, it was the crowing of a spoiled child who's parent has crumbled and bought that toy they said they wouldn't, it was schoolyard, it was pathetic, it was boorish. It was refusing to eat anything but steak, and god help you if you want me to eat a vegetable, and as such entirely self-defeating.
But first, politics. Inevitably, the Brexit debate has curdled into stereotypes as the two sides became ever more entrenched. On one side, we have the Remainers, easily characterised as shrill, condescending, sneering, failing to understand that their attitude won't convert anyone else from the other side (as an excellent and perspicacious article from Rafael Behr considers here), on the other the Brexiteers, myopic, blinkered, angry, self-satisfied, convinced that they're right in the face of all prevailing evidence.
Of course, as is always the case with stereotypes, these are crude line drawings, but it was difficult not to watch Farage et al's cringeworthy display without feeling all the old bigotries of the debate starting to bubble up. It was the absolute worst of the pro-Brexit argument in a nutshell, childish, points-scoring, obsessed with nationalism (and, in its use of tiny, cheap, mass-produced flags, unwittingly symbolic) The sight of a line of fat white blokes sporting matching Union Jack ties added a level of grim amusement to the whole sorry spectacle, but when contrasted with the dignified and regretful statements by Michel Barnier and Ursula von der Leyen it essentially made me feel a deep shame that these overgrown children were ostensibly representing this country.
It put me in mid of a group of people who, in my professional life, aren't the bane of my life as such, but are something of a minor irritation. The steak people, and their closely aligned allies, the no veg people. Now, I should point out that this is purely my own personal prejudice, but let me explain to a degree.
It is yet another stereotype (I'm clearly only dealing in them today, seems fitting, in these cartoonish and simplistic times) that chefs routinely sneer at people who order their steak well done. This is not, in my experience, the case. Indeed, in the middle of a busy dinner service, a well done steak is a boon to the pressurised chef, a quick sear, and you can pop it in the bottom of the oven and forget about it for a bit, before bringing it up to well done when resting it. Much more like hard work is medium, because half of the people who order medium actually want medium well ("Medium, but with no pink in" is a common request, I just do it on the well side of medium well, and it's always "lovely, perfect"). No, my objection to steak isn't its done-ness, it's more the paucity of imagination which ordering steak implies. There are any number of other dishes on my menu, many of which have taken years to get right, nearly all of which are far more interesting to eat than steak. Steak you can cook at home, indeed, I often do. I certainly wouldn't order it to eat out because a) there's always something more interesting on the menu and b) I'm acutely aware of what restaurant mark-ups are, and I'm not paying for a steak out when I can get a better quality one from my butcher for a fraction of the cost. If I'm going out for a meal, I want something I couldn't do myself easily at home.
But okay, okay, I'm getting a little snobbish here, a little sneering, a little, dare I say it, Remainer. So I'll narrow it down slightly. Possibly you've been looking forward to a meal out as a treat, and for you, a steak is what you want. That's fine. I have no problem with that. It's a little dull, but fair enough, it's what you fancy.
But every time? EVERY SINGLE TIME? These are the people who furrow my professional brow, the ones who make me consider throwing in the apron. Yes, it's a service industry, and yes, you serve what the customer wants (within reason), but the Steak People, the People Who Will Only Eat Steak, they are the enemy of all that is holy, and they, dear reader, are definitely a bit hard-Brexity, the sort of dogmatic, uncompromising narrow-mindedness which characterises the Farages of this world (with pepper sauce). They're the ones you want to shake gently and say hey, other things are nice, too. Try something else, there's a whole world out there. You don't always have to have chips.
The only time these people don't eat steak is a Sunday, when they eat roast beef. You can always tell when one's in because the check asks for no vegetables and extra roast potatoes (this, to stretch the metaphor somewhat, is leaving the single market whilst keeping tariff free trade). That's right, actual grown-ass adults who wrinkle their nose at the thought of vegetables, people who've never moved past the palate of a six year old. People who, more pertinently, have been allowed not to, have been pandered to. These are people who've never been told that if you don't eat your greens then you can't have pudding. Spoiled, indulged and left with an incredibly narrow idea of what constitutes a nice meal, and therefore, people with no joy in their lives, no sense of adventure (they have spiritual cousins: the crap beer fans, we had a guy in on NYE who sulked all night because we didn't have John Smiths, and so he stayed sober as a result, we've had people refuse to stay because we don't have Carling), people whose parochial view of food stretches, I suspect, to their politics. Brexiteers, in other words.
Because if Farage, Widdecombe and the rests antics yesterday resembled anything at all, it was the crowing of a spoiled child who's parent has crumbled and bought that toy they said they wouldn't, it was schoolyard, it was pathetic, it was boorish. It was refusing to eat anything but steak, and god help you if you want me to eat a vegetable, and as such entirely self-defeating.
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