Return of the Bogun

I’m an outer suburbs kind of guy.

To be sure, the inner city has much to recommend it: great cafes and restaurants, brilliant coffee palaces, and interesting little taverns and gin joints. But in one vital area, it is critically deficient: junk food.

Nor am I talking about the big chain operations. Rather, I am referring to those poky little shopfront places with names like Greasy Chips Galore, or Joe's Deep Fried Chicken. Suburban, mum-and-dad joints that are open late at night on a Sunday, and who make no pretension to class or style.

No kidding, my mouth is watering even as I type. I can just taste the succulent chicken flesh, moist and melting in the mouth, the savoury barbeque seasoning on the crispy golden-brown skin a tangy, flavoursome paradise. And the chips! I’m not talking about a miserable scattering of stringy, wilted stalks here, folks, but a veritable forest of crunchy, deep-fried potato delights.

And let’s face it, there’s a certain amount of tedium associated with fine dining. To begin with, there’s the dressing up. I don’t care what anyone says, squeezing yourself into a suit and tie just so you can appear sophisticated is not my idea of a good night out. Maybe there are people who enjoy looking like asphyxiated penguins or mobile lemon meringues, but I’m sure they’re safely locked away where they can’t do any harm to themselves or society. By contrast, at the local junk food emporium, they don’t give a toss what you look like – so long as you’re actually dressed. The point is not to be seen and admired, it’s to enjoy the food.

Which brings me to my next point: what could be crueler than to be in some la-de-da restaurant, watching with gleeful anticipation as the waiter staggers toward you bearing a plate the size of Tasmania, only to discover the serving has the dimensions of a malnourished pea! With what despair do you remember the exciting description of said morsel in the menu, trying to reconcile the apparent abundance with the impoverished reality. And that’s the main course! Never mind false advertising, I reckon these sadistic sods ought to have the book thrown at them. Something weighty, for mind - like the collected works of Karl Marx. At least I know my local chicken bar will make up in portion size whatever it may lack in nutritional value – a fair and reasonable compromise, in my view!

Finally, there’s the service. Don’t you just hate it when you get some snooty waiter who spends the whole meal reminding you that you’re in their restaurant, and they’re consequently doing you a great favour merely acknowledging your presence, never mind actually serving you? Don’t get me wrong: I hate the uppity types who pay out on the waiting staff just because they are the waiting staff. But nothing annoys the bejeezers out of me more than when you get some snide git who’s bitter because he’ll never make maitre d’, and who has decided to vent his frustrations on the clientele. Sure, maybe at the local cholesterol 'n' chips joint you don’t exactly get service with a smile and a song, but, hell, I ain’t there for the conversation, either. I’ll take indifference over a lousy attitude, any day.

No, you can call me a gastronomic philistine if you like; to me, this food heaven. Cuisine nouvelle and all the rest of that pretentious guff can go on being elegant and refined; I’d much prefer to enjoy my food.

Besides, as my inner Homer would say: mmmmmm, chicken…

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: Restaurants are just brothels for the mouth. (Frederic Raphael)