Baldetti’s by Raymond Rodgers
Disclaimer - The restaurant in question and this review are entirely a work of fiction. They are excerpts from my novel called The Curse of Gluttony , an inter-generational battle between the old and new world of restaurant critics.
Whenever I sit at my desk with my pen poised, I remind myself that my purpose as a critic is to represent the customer and not the restaurant. I am in service to you, dear reader. And always will be.
A restaurant should act as a refuge from the storms of life. I like to think of them as the type of place that a sailor would seek solace when the weather turns rather inclement. A place to rest ones soul, before returning to the unfortunate day to day circumstances that you might find yourself in.
My visit to Baldetti’s started with such promise. A wonderful back story of an Italian immigrant coming over and committing his life to build his business. Decades of service to his community. The incredible pride that he must have felt as he heads off to the sunset of retirement passing the reins over to the boys.
At first the food was joyful, exactly what I needed on such a grim London day. Beautiful, seasoned meats and Italian cheese. A ‘cheeky’ little guanciale and a mortadella spiked with pistachio and jolly polka dots of fat.
But sadly, the veneer started to crumble and reveal itself. In an insane attempt to modernise, the young fellas have introduced some new rules. They seem to be adopting the same approach to hidden charges as the budget airlines.
I often chuckle at the joke about Michael O’Leary going out for a pint in Liverpool. The chap in charge hands him over his pint and says that will be a pound. A pound says Michael. Yes, but its three pounds for the glass, two quid for the seat, and if you want to use the loo, that will be another pound.
Surely this is not a prudent direction of travel for our beloved restaurants.
Taking away the pleasure of dining alone is grossly unfair and most definitely cruel. Surely if you choose to punish single diners, it is an act of discrimination, an infringement to our human rights. What comes next do you pay rent for your seat.
Sometimes in pursuit of satisfying my readers thirst, I eat alone. I have the feeling that sometimes they cannot wait to get rid of me. The fat bloke in the corner.
Perhaps the truth is that they worry that in the absence of any riveting company, that I might pay more attention to the food.
Perhaps I might realise that what I had was just a plate of meat and cheese. An Italian Ploughman’s, so to speak, and a couple of bang average glasses of fizz. The ‘Jack and Jill’ leaving me no change from a ton.
What started out as a romantic story turned in to one of naked commercial greed.
It’s a proper no from me.