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Charles Spencer is theatre critic of The Daily Telegraph.
Contents - Vol 18, No 3, 2007Editorial - Trust or bust 3Bill Hagerty - Anna Ford: Try a little tenderness 7 Denis Forman - Where are the new Carlton Greenes? 17 Charles Spencer - Foodie? Or not foodie? 25 Maurice Neill - The media as peacemakers 33 John Cole - Feral? Why Blair wasn't all wrong 38 Heidi Kingstone - Life and death in party city 45 Heidi Kingstone - Action Replay 51 Andy Bull - Training: a matter of degrees 54 Thembi Mutch - Sex, lies and audio tape 61 Hugh O'Shaughnessy - Media wars in Latin America 66 Victor Davis - Nightmare on Oxford Street 73 BOOK REVIEWSJoe Haines on Alastair Campbell 81Geoffrey Goodman on Brenda Dean 83 Martin Rowson on Mark Bryant 86 Don Murray on Thomas Rid 89 Donald Trelford on Meryl Aldridge and Jackie Harrison 91 Brian Winston on Jean Aitchison 93 Cal McCrystal on Kemsley 95 Quotes of the Quarter 6 Ten years ago - The way we were 24 Richard Stott dedication - Outside back cover 
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Theatre critics have been receiving a ferocious roasting of late. Nicholas
Hytner, the director of the National Theatre, called us a bunch of dead white
males who were deeply prejudiced against lesbians and experimental theatre,
then AA Gill joined the fray, insisting, in what looked suspiciously like a job
application, "that no aspect of the culture is as badly served by its critics as
the theatre". Worse still, he was shocked to discover that drama reviewers
wear old macs, shiny-buttocked suits and almost certainly wouldn't know
how to behave at a dinner party. Meanwhile, director Trevor Nunn barred
critics from his production of King Lear for more than two months while
charging regular punters full prices, and Tom Stoppard privately complained
that we are too inclined to deliver either raves or hatchet jobs, with far too few
reviews occupying the middle ground. I cheerfully admit to the charge that many theatre critics are disgracefully scruffy, this one included, unlike Gill, who according to a Guardian profile wears suits lined with ladies' silk scarves and is the proud owner of a smoking jacket. I bet he has one of those camelhair overcoats with a black velvet collar too, that infallible sign of a bounder and a cad. But I would argue that most drama critics care passionately about theatre, bring a wealth of knowledge to their reviews, and also enjoy rich and varied lives beyond their seat in the stalls. I've been hob-nobbing with my colleagues for almost 30 years, and still find they are capable of surprising me with their range of wit, wisdom and endearing eccentricities. I'd also argue that when a bunch of critics excite such animus from such varied sources, we must be doing something right. Getting up people's noses is part of the job as is, pace Stoppard, letting people know whether it is worth spending more than a hundred quid on a pair of tickets. Yes, of course there is a place for qualification and balance within a notice, but reviews that remain impaled on the fence and unable to make up their mind strike me as worthless. But that's enough about theatre critics. The editor of this august publication, who has a secret life as The Sun's theatre critic (a job title that sounds almost as improbable as striptease correspondent of the TLS), had the mischievous idea of commissioning a review of the restaurant critics, of whom, I suspect, AA Gill may secretly regard himself as the doyen. I ought to state my qualifications for this task. I like food, a lot, and go to restaurants frequently. In middle age I find myself dismayingly fat, though there's still a skinny 17-year-old longing to get laid and wasted lurking somewhere behind the obese and generally respectable facade. I have, however, tried to write a restaurant review only twice. The first occasion was as a trainee journalist on the Surrey Advertiser more than three decades ago when I turned up at the restaurant too hungover to eat anything at all, and had to leave in a hurry in order to be sick. The second occasion was for The Daily Telegraph last December, when they were asking staffers to fill in for the much missed Jan Moir. I found the whole business of trying to write about food faintly ridiculous, and discovered that taking furtive notes, and keeping a record of the items on the menu and their cost, entirely ruined the meal. In contrast I find reviewing plays deepens the experience. I suppose that means I think of the theatre as something serious and demanding, as well as pleasurable, whereas food is simply there to be enjoyed. There's nothing worse than a dining companion who talks so much about the grub that there is no time for a proper conversation, and in print, as I've found over the past few days researching this piece, excessively detailed analysis and description of food can result in both scary depths of pseudery and feelings of nausea on the part of the reader. In his Sunday Times article AA Gill wrote generally about theatre critics (though he did single out Paul Taylor of The Independent, Quentin Letts of the Daily Mail and myself for particular odium for having the sheer bad taste to enjoy The Sound of Music). Here I intend to get up-close and personal with the restaurant reviewers, confining myself, mostly, to those who appear in the daily and weekly national newspapers. I have read a month's output from each, though obviously I had encountered several of them in the past as a regular reader. I have a couple of general points to make first. Restaurant reviewers tend to divide into those who might be described as the serious foodies who fill you up with lots of hard facts and background info, and the ego-trippers, who use their notices largely as an excuse for personal rumination, slabs of autobiography and jokes. I have no preference in principle — it all depends on the quality of the writing and the personality of the author. My second point is that, by and large, restaurant reviewers are a bone-idle bunch. With the exception of Fay Maschler, in the London Evening Standard, who usually goes to three restaurants a week, they confine themselves to just one establishment. In contrast, theatre critics on daily newspapers are usually out four, five and sometimes six times a week, while Sunday reviewers will cover at least three shows and often more. The restaurant reviewers' far from Stakhanovite approach to the task in hand increases my puritanical suspicion that restaurant writing isn't an entirely serious form of journalism but just a jammy way of getting paid to eat posh grub free. But that's enough of the generalities. Let's get stuck into the menu, presented here in strict alphabetical order, with marks awarded out of 10 for each critical dish of the day as is the custom in several of the restaurant columns.
Giles Coren, The TimesSon of Alan, brother of Victoria and sporting a deeply regrettable moustache in his picture byline, Coren is a writer who clearly finds his own life riveting and hilarious. Occasionally he persuades the reader that it might be too. Reading his column I discovered his partner is a former public school headgirl, bossy with it and many years younger than he is, that he goes swimming once a week, likes a drink or six and a good steak, and has been known to hire a campervan so he can sleep off the results of his excesses before motoring on, Mr Toad-like, to his next gastronomic blow-out. He's not bad when he finally gets down to describing the food, and proves generous and unsnobbish in his judgments. He's witty — though not quite as witty as he thinks he is — and seems dismayingly proud of the fact that he had never set foot inside the Royal Festival Hall before reviewing its new restaurant, Skylon. I could happily have lived without the information that the thinly sliced calf 's tongue ("I can't deal with a really chunky tongue in my mouth unless it is my own") was "lovely and crunchy, almost with that cartilage crackle of pig's ear". Yuck! 5/10.
Terry Durack, Independent on SundayDurack is billed as "Restaurant Critic of the Year" under his picture byline, although who or what accorded him this honour is not vouchsafed. Perhaps it was Durack himself, who seems to take himself extremely seriously. Jokes are not a big feature of his column, written in a leaden style that leaves the reader feeling as if he has eaten too much suet pudding topped with foie gras. Of all the writers featured here I found Durack the hardest to plough through, though he clearly knows his stuff. If he hasn't turned up in Private Eye's Pseuds' Corner yet, it can only be an oversight. "The tiny grains of couscous, steamed the requisite three or four times, are like particles of the lightest, dreamiest, airiest desert sand." Has Durack never experienced sand in his sandwiches? It's not pleasant. 3/10.
AA Gill, The Sunday TimesObviously I'd love to give Gill a good kicking, since he has offended me and my tribe. And while he despairs that theatre critics are no longer as good as Tynan, I'd argue that his TV reviews aren't a patch on those of Clive James or Nancy Banks-Smith. But damn it, he's both readable and enjoyably infuriating in his restaurant columns, with the foodie stuff coming after stimulating riffs on such subjects as the power of smell, the art (or is it?) of tap-dancing and the dangers of self-Googling. He's irritatingly pleased with himself to be sure, and when he finds himself in a naff pizza joint with no redeeming qualities why doesn't he give it a miss and review something else? Or would that be too much like hard work? For a severe dyslexic his writing style is miraculous, though sometimes he tries too hard and the effect is merely embarrassing, especially when he uncurls his lip and tries to praise something. At Olivomare, which he loved, we learn that "Sardinian cooking is an insistent, complex mix of indecent proposal, kidnap demand and a poem written to the Samaritans". Knock it off, mate, and get back to the insults you do so well. Gill is not the first critic to discover that knocking copy is far easier to write than interesting praise. 6/10.
Tracey MacLeod, The IndependentMacLeod alternates her column with that of John Walsh, and although her voice is quieter, her judgments seem more penetrating. There is a refreshing absence of ego in her writing — indeed, having worked with her briefly many years ago, I'd like to have learned more about her current circumstances. She's also industrious by restaurant critic standards, troubling to review both the grill and the top of the range restaurant within the RFH Skylon, and venturing to Littlehampton to report on what sounds like a spectacular new beach cafe. Most of the restaurant writers seem to be alarmingly London- centric. There's also a nice dry wit at work in her column, and an ability to evoke atmosphere and place. 6/10.
Fay Maschler, London Evening StandardMaschler was long established as the Standard's restaurant critic when I began five years' hard labour on the paper in 1979, and her byline photograph appears eerily unchanged after more than a quarter of a century. Perhaps eating out every night keeps you young and beautiful. You don't look for stylish prose or much in the way of humour from Maschler — her jokes tend to the Pooterish. What you get instead is immense though hardly lightly-worn authority, and an unrivalled knowledge of the restaurant scene in London. She also tends to get in first with her reviews of the big new openings, which are almost as hyped as West End theatre first nights, and is regarded as the one restaurant writer who really puts bums on seats. Uniquely, she also gives the impression that restaurant writing is a proper, full-time job, rather than an entertaining and lucrative sideline, and it's just a shame that her writing is often as lumpy and indigestible as a bad bouillabaisse. 7/10.
Matthew Norman, The GuardianI've never met this prolific, poker-playing journalist, but have long had a soft spot for his work, which is often wonderfully funny while also being blessed with an endearingly baffled, down-at-heel humanity. His restaurant reviews are hugely entertaining and knowledgeably informative, and he really seems to love his grub. As a result he becomes splendidly indignant about bad food and bad restaurants. Ignored for almost half an hour at one without even being offered a drink, he describes a waitress as a "recent summa cum laude graduate from Khmer Rouge Catering College". Elsewhere, he vows never to return to a once beloved but now pretentious fish and chippie in Notting Hill unless "at the controls of a wrecking ball". The gags just keep on coming. 8/10.
Mark Palmer, The Daily TelegraphPalmer took over earlier this year from Jan Moir, who would be one of the stars of this round-up if she were still writing about restaurants, as her beady-eyed observation and use of the killer put-down were both peerless. She's a hard act to follow, and I suspect no one is more keenly aware of the fact than her successor. At present there's a worrying feeling of unearned grandeur about Palmer's writing (he's a toff and it shows). Arriving late for dinner at Wild Honey "in a foul mood" after Ken Livingstone and the Tour de France have had the nerve greatly to inconvenience him, he buttonholes the headwaiter. "Look, sorry, but we're running badly late. We need to be in and out of here within the hour and we want three courses." The waiter says fine, but Palmer then starts demanding the rearrangement of tables. If I were the maitre d' I'd have kicked the blighter out on to the street by now. Too much of Palmer's column seems to consist of mere lists of what was on the menu, with a desultory sprinkling of adjectives on top. He did however come up with a useful piece on the new fast food outlet Leon, which sounds like a welcome alternative to Pret A Manger. 5/10.
Jay Rayner, The ObserverI'd somehow missed Rayner's column in the past. Like many restaurant write-ups, it is buried deep within the polythene-wrapped mags and supplements inside the main paper, a package that often ends up unopened in the bin. He proves a cracking critic though — exceptionally knowledgeable, exhibiting a real love of food without sounding merely gluttonous, and often laugh-out-loud funny with little of the ego preening of Gill or Coren. He was in particularly effervescent form about the famous Jewish restaurant, Bloom's, where the fried gefilte fish were "flat, the size of a dinner plate and as dense as Jade Goody". After enduring a wretched meal described in stomachchurning detail, Rayner concludes: "It should not have been this way. Bloom's is an institution. Mind you, so is Broadmoor, and no one ever went there for dinner." But Rayner can also write a rave that really sets the gastric juices flowing, and after reading him on the roast black-leg chicken at La Petite Maison, which sounds like heaven, I wanted to rush straight off and eat it myself. 9/10.
Deborah Ross, The SpectatorRoss was one of Boris Johnson's most inspired signings and her Spectator restaurant column is a delight. Coming on like the neurotic, martyred, self-obsessed housewife of one's worst nightmares, Ross satirises both herself and the whole concept of "first-person journalism" to hilarious comic effect. I suppose there may be some who fail to warm to her combination of non-stop jokes (some of them touchingly terrible) and lacerating self-portraiture, and it doesn't always work elsewhere, most notably in her disappointing Non Domestic Goddess column in the Daily Mail. But there is a let-it-all-hang-out exuberance about her restaurant column that makes it one of the first items one turns to in the magazine, and amazingly, beneath all the showy self-display, you get a strong sense of whatever establishment she happens, almost incidentally, to be reviewing. A real original. 8/10.
John Walsh, The IndependentWhen you meet John Walsh, as I have a on a couple of occasions, he proves a delightfully ebullient if sometimes overwhelming personality, and the same is true of his restaurant column, in which he barely seems to pause for either breath or thought. The words tumble out engagingly enough and fill the space, but there is little that startles or goes deep. Significantly, the most interesting comment in his piece about the new Gary Rhodes restaurant came not from him but from his companion, who remarked that her highly expensive meal was "delicious but frictionless. Everything about this food is terribly smooth. You don't actually need any teeth to eat any of the dishes tonight". With my teeth getting ever rockier, this sounds just the place for me. To give Walsh his due, he did come up with a lovely description of veal Holstein with fried quail's egg at The Forge. "Nothing more dispiriting, more redolent of a 1950s cafe supper can be imagined than the sad lump of bread-crumbed depression that lay on my plate — and on it, with all the presence of a dead sparrow on an old mattress, the teensy egg, fried about half an hour earlier, utterly pointless and sad." If he came up with more like this, he could be terrific. 5/10.
Zoe Williams, The Sunday TelegraphWhenever I read Zoe Williams she always strikes me as a nice girl trying desperately hard to be one of the lads. The effect is faintly embarrassing. She can't even compliment the walls of a gastropub in Wales without remarking that they have the "kind of plastering finish that in London you would only get if you were shagging your builder". As Michael Winner (and we'll come to him in a moment) might remark: "Calm down dear — it's only a restaurant column."Her remark that the Festival Hall looks more like the Brixton DSS (she'd been to Skylon, too) might be funny if it were even remotely true, and her bizarre conviction that this celebrated concert hall is best known for "spoken word" performances seems equally wide of the mark. She may, however, have spotted the truth about the Emperor's new clothes in her review of the latest Gary Rhodes, and if she had the confidence to reject the ladette inanities — "Don't worry about the culture... just close your eyes and think of squid" — she'd be a much better writer, because there is a genuine freshness about her breezy personality. 5/10.
Michael Winner, The Sunday TimesHow it must irk AA Gill that he's buried in the middle of the glossy Style mag while Winner has a commanding position in the far more authoritative and, I suspect, more widely read News Review section. The vain and preposterous Winner, who one has always imagined strutting through life constantly saying: "Don't you know who I am?", has been gravely ill recently and his once grandiloquent and execrably written column has become rather forlorn. The name-dropping suddenly seems a little desperate, he gazes fondly at young lovers at an adjoining table, worries that he may have let the side down a bit at a classy establishment, admits to being stupid. This is not the Winner we used to know and loved to loathe. Could it be that his brush with mortality has taught the director of Death Wish a little humility? Could he be undergoing a Lear-like redemption through suffering? We must pray that he is. The Lord moves in mysterious ways, and there is more joy in heaven over one Winner that repenteth... His column is still crap though. 2/10.
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