There is almost nothing as disappointing as ordering food at a restaurant, expecting it to be delicious and having those expectations smashed into a trillion unpalatable pieces the minute your tastebuds decide to protest your culinary choices.
This was The Guru on Friday night at The Union Hotel in North Sydney, where we went for dinner. He ordered the crispy skinned salmon with wasabi emulsion, fried cauliflower and chimmichuri. Sounds good, right? (Tutti and I had schnitzel and chips. You can’t go wrong with schnitzel in my opinion). ANYWAY, The Guru diligently gobbled up every bite of his meal, short of licking the plate clean. It was only then that he declared he’d hated every single mouthful, and the more he thought about it, the more he whipped himself in a frenzy of fury and high dudgeon that the chef would so much as DARE to taint a ‘beautiful’ piece of fish with ‘hot sauce.’
“The wasabi was so strong,” he said. “That fish would have been delicious without fucken wasabi all over it. It’s WRONG. SO VERY WRONG. It just wasn’t a combination that one would enjoy! Wasabi on beautiful fish! A beautiful piece of fish, ruined by stupid hot sauce? Ridiculous. The chef killed it dead. That fish died in vain.”
“So, why did you eat EVERY SINGLE MOUTHFUL if you found it so objectionable?” I asked.
“I ate the lot because this dish came highly recommended and I thought there had to be something about it that I’d enjoy. But there WASN’T. I kept waiting for the flavours to meet up, and they DIDN’T. But I had to keep eating it, to honour the fish’s sacrifice.”
So, ladies and gentleman, I can hear you asking: What does the face of a man who has hated every cursed forkful of his dinner look like?
It looks like this: