Mr Snooty Food Critic

By Steve Sirk
Columbus Wired Columnist
8/1/02

Columbus Wired columnist Steve Sirk plays the role of the insufferably pretentious food critic who is completely out of his element when he visits a far-from-exquisite eatery.

Choosing a restaurant to review is never an easy task, but an idle daydream proved to be inspiring. As a summer breeze swayed my hammock to and fro in a pendulum of contentedness, I envisioned a relaxing stay at the Isles of Glencoe Hotel and Leisure Centre in Ballachulish, Scotland, on the shores of Loch Leven. I was dining at the Lochside Conservatory Restaurant and feasting upon Cullin Skink Soup, Pickled Salted Herrings, Roastit Bubbly-Jock, and an ample helping of Potato Scones. In my mouth-watering vision, I capped the meal with a sumptuous Oatmeal Rhubarb Truffle.

Sadly, ‘twas but a dream. But since flying to Scotland would require me to ingest the unpalatable offal that the airlines offer as an unfavorable alternative to starvation, I opted to check out a local restaurant specializing in Scottish cuisine. And so it was with the lofty expectations borne of a mid-summer daydream that I visited a Scottish eatery called McDonald’s.

I did not call ahead to announce my intentions, as I find that the choreographed genuflection, the pseudo-worship of the exalted restaurant arbiter, is disingenuous and does not paint an accurate portrait of the dining establishment. But as I drew near, and saw an exterior sign boasting that “billions and billions” had been served, I had second thoughts about my decision to forgo reservations. Fortunately, the dearth of automobiles in the parking lot hinted that I wouldn’t have to wait long, if at all, for a table.

Upon entering through a double set of glass doors, I was greeted by no one. There was no sign at all of a maitre d’, resulting in an excruciating and inexcusable awkwardness as I impatiently stood at the doorway, waiting to be shown to my seat.

After several minutes of foot-tapping, watch-peeking and idle whistling, a nose-ringed young floor-sweeper named Amber informed me that there was no loitering on the premises. I informed her that there wouldn’t be any loitering if the maitre d’ would return to his post and seat waiting customers. She rolled her eyes and mumbled something unintelligible due to the clacking of her tongue piercing before telling me I could sit anywhere I wanted.

When it comes to seat locations, I love corners. They’re so cozy. So I gravitated toward a larger table in the corner and made myself at home. The seating accommodations were unsatisfactory. Rather than individual seats, the table was lined with two benches made of a pre-molded polymer product utilizing angular ergonomics that defy comfort. Hanging above the table was a painting, the sort of bland pastel abstraction that is better suited for a dentist’s waiting room than a fine dining establishment. The lack of place settings lead me to believe that I was expected to barbarously tear into my meal with my supple, soft-skinned hands. And if that was the case, the lack of finger bowls was a criminal faux pas.

I was again subjected to eternal neglect as I waited for my server to take my drink order, or even hand me a menu to peruse. Or make his or her presence known for that matter. After several minutes of drumming my fingers on the cheap formica-like table, a young Hispanic man passed by with two bags of trash. I politely asked him to send a server my way, but he could not comprehend my English articulation. I was able to traverse the language barrier by gesticulating in a manner that demonstrated my strong desire to eat. He responded by pointing in the direction of the kitchen.

Although I had already written the experience off as a total loss by this point, my desire to taste the succulent delights that had attracted billions and billions of visitors compelled me to walk up to the counter that bordered the kitchen and place my order myself.

I was greeted at the counter by an acne-riddled young man named Doug whose lifeless eyes hinted at a cranial vacancy. My suspicions were confirmed when the dullard responded to my menu inquiries merely by pointing at a large board behind him.

Based upon word of mouth, I asked the young man about the legendary Big Mac ($2.29). He informed me that it was a sandwich that was slathered in a “special sauce.” He could not, however, divulge the secret ingredients of the sauce, which left me in a quandary in regard to my wine selection. Assuming it might be a red sauce, due to the preponderance of red meat in the sandwich, I asked for a glass of Chateu Petrus, one of the most storied red wines of Bordeaux. The young man’s response of “diet or regular?” flummoxed me to no end.

Figuring that red wine was out of the question, I then asked for a glass of Gavi de Gavi or a comparable white wine. I was shocked that the “glass” I was handed was made of cheap plastic and contained upwards of 32 ounces of a bubbly white. And they served it with a straw no less! Clearly the establishment was shamelessly hoping to intoxicate all memory of my dining experience right out of me.

After watching Doug struggle furiously with the task of handing me proper change (be advised that this restaurant does not accept even major credit cards), I then made my way back to my seat with my meal.

After removing the straw, I took a sip of the white wine. It was a syrupy Asti Spumante knock-off that hinted of lemon and lime. It had ample vigor, but was petulant and menopausal. What it had in prescience and turgidity, it lacked in temporal dispensation. There was a lingering note of swamp gas on the finish. Perhaps I would have been better off with the “diet” Chateu Petrus.

With a name like Big Mac, the sandwich conjured up images of a hearty meal eaten by Braveheart warriors before risking life and limb on the grisly fields of battle. Instead, beneath a poorly presented wax paper wrapper, I found a soggy mess of a meal. The special sauce was the color of squashed insect innards and presumably tasted similar. The quality of the meat in this legendary Scottish sandwich made this reviewer suspicious as to why there haven’t been many Loch Ness Monster sightings lately.
All in all, McDonald’s failed miserably on all the hallmarks of a fine dining experience: atmosphere, presentation, quality and value. Afterward, I spent the good part of the afternoon on my “throne” at home, which oddly enough provided inspiration for my next dining adventure. Hopefully fortune will smile upon me when I make a foray into authentic medieval dining at a storied restaurant called White Castle.

 

Found as an infant on the steps of the Culinary Institute of America (CIA), Sirk was raised solely on the finest of foods and wine. In every year since 1996, Sirk has received the coveted "Golden Tongue Award" from the International Society of Food Critics- an unprecedented achievement. Whether reviewing the finest nouvelle cuisine, classic French cuisine or the latest trends in exotic truffle bars, he has always been the unblemished standard to which all other critics aspire. Sirk's taste buds are considered a global treasure and have been insured by Lloyds of London for $2,000,000.