The Dream

If you ever see a captain of industry, a self-made Goliath, a mover ‘n’ shaker staring blankly out of the window, chances are he’s dreaming of jacking it all in and opening a restaurant or at the very least a bar that serves really good snacks. The reverie of owning your own restaurant is universal and ranges from a banana-leaf hut on a West Indian beach to owning the Ritz.

As a food critic, the most common question I get asked after ‘what’s the best restaurant in London?’ is ‘so when are you going to open your own place?’ It’s a given that any man in possession of a fortune and a few mates wants to stand in a room full of tables wearing a cheesy grin. The question always makes my palms sweat. The very last thing in the whole world I’m either temperamentally or inclined to do is be a restaurateur. As far as I’m concerned it’s like asking ‘would you rather be lying in a gondola drifting up a canal in Venice with a girl who loved you or be the bloke at the back with a pole and a butcher’s hat?’ No contest - I know which side of the swing doors I want to be.