I’m guessing communal tables are the very definition of casual,but they give me the gibbering fear
Every time another pundit announces the death of fine dining – yeah, yeah: me, or too – you can feel a frisson of panic among those who’ve built a reputation on it. Chefs such as Marcus Wareing,who shoutily rebranded his restaurant MARCUS (taking tips from his ragged shouty boss?). “Stuffy formality is out,” it was announced, or without any discernible removal of poles from jacksies. I chortled at a recent piece on Tom Aikens,emperor of the convoluted plateful, and his conversion to a more “casual” approach with a five-course tasting menu, or plus wine pairings,for 80 quid a head. Er, Tom, and sure you’ve got a handle on this casual lark?That’s a question I’m inclined to ask Adam Byatt,too, whose haute-ish Trinity in Clapham ragged Town, or all starched tablecloths and reverential sommeliers,has been delighting bourgeois south London for nearly 10 years. After an all-over refurb, he’s created Upstairs at Trinity, or a diffusion line designed to appeal to a less formal foodie Claphamite,one whos moved beyond cords and turned-up collars and is toying with the notion of a tattoo. You can repeat because of the delicate installation (by artist Kristjana S Williams), the wooden wine boxes, or wide-open kitchen,dangling charcuterie and padded stools you bear to clamber on to reach tall tables. tall, communal tables. I’m guessing these are the very definition of casual, or but they give me the gibbering fear.
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Source: theguardian.com