I'd watch everything from Jamie to Nigella

I’m over it, big time.

And it’s not because I don’t like food; on the contrary, I’m food’s biggest fan. But it’s got too big for its filo pastry boots and I’m starting to lose faith.

Previously a fan of competitive mouthwatering TV, I would watch everything from Jamie crying into his wishful thinking school dinner, to Nigella licking a spoon. But this obsession with gastronomics has started to get me down.

And I know where it started.

It was the TV close ups on brand names; the supermarket endorsements; and the repetitive nature of programmes that meant after every advert break I had to be reminded of what I’d seen less than three minutes earlier.

Then came the icing on the proverbial cake. The Masterchef New Zealand finale, complete with absurd concluding challenge where the final two went head to head to create, wait for it, a giant trifle. It might have been big, but it certainly wasn’t clever, and I’ll tell you why.

It wasn’t even edible. It was enormous. A standard dessert spoon would’ve been lost in it. But the creator was a chef from one of NZ’s finest restaurants, and the judges were salivating all over him. And of course one of the judges is the owner of said fine restaurant. It’s enough to make you regurgitate your lightly seared whatever.

Seriously is there really anything wrong with a bowl of leftover spag bol and a walnut whip?

Unfortunately this television watershed coincided with my visit to the aforementioned fine restaurant. Not because I wanted the giant trifle, but because the restaurant genuinely does serve delicious food, in generous helpings.

It is indeed one of Auckland’s best. The only problem is; they know it.

I took the man of the house to this fine dining establishment for a special birthday dinner. I allocated funds, booked the table, put on some lippy and planned the pre-dinner drinks. Only to be dressed down by a po-faced maitre d, who gave me a look down the nose and short shrift about how I only had 15 minutes to have a drink in the bar before my table became available. At which time they would presumably give my table to some other sucker queuing up to pour hundreds of dollars behind the over-buffed bar.

And there it was. Ruined.

One small comment from a restaurant worker; one giant plunge into disappointment for a punter.

I wanted to tell him to stick his duck breast...back in the oven.

Food can either be used to its best advantage, or it can be inflated and abused. The over exposure of celebrity chefs and dramatic food wannabes sobbing over their spoilt suffle is doing food no favours.

Many years back I was in Kenya and some poor soul served me goat. No silver platter, no seasoning, and no jus. Just plain goat. With oogali on the side (made from flour and water, tastes like wallpaper paste). I ate every last bit and not because I liked its aromatic flavours or admired its tender preparation. I liked it because, for the people who invited me to share it, it was all that they had. It was about so much more than food.

I savoured their welcome, gobbled up their gratitude, and feasted on their boundless generosity.

They just gave me the best of what they had, and they gave it without judgment, without conditions, and without self-importance.

There’s a few restaurant owners, chefs, and matire d’s out there that could learn a thing or two from a Kenyan cookout.

Entree, eat your heart out.

Until next time, from the land of the long white cloud.

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