Isn’t it funny. Sometimes you write a review, publish it, read it back and realise it’s the most boring thing to ever leave your being. I’m talking about my previous John Salt write up, which now lives in the same place as Zayn Malik’s charm certificates.
Look. Eating at John Salt is a seriously orgasmic journey, from start to finish.
On entering, I couldn’t quite believe a) how happy the staff are to be alive – as I left, one of them actually hopped on one foot and called me ‘a cheeky little thing’, or, b) how much fat was on the menu.
You see, a meal at John Salt can be incrrrrrrrredibly unhealthy, depending on what you have. Not in a, ‘I’ll have 20 chicken nuggets and a big mac at midnight’, kind of way. More a, ‘this expertly cooked corn fed chicken is delicious because it’s been deep fried 18 times in extra virgin olive oil ‘, kind of way. Y’know? ‘My chips are slathered in natural calf dripping and ,yeeesh, I think these potatoes may have lived inside the anus of a pig for a while’ sort of way.
You don’t have to order these things – you really don’t – but the problem is when stuff like this is on a menu, I, we, you(?) just DO. When all is said and done; you have to look back on these things and remember what you did. Remember where you went wrong.
You came in all guns blazing, destroyed your hors d’oeuvre of potted brisket and sour dough in seconds because you were as hungry as A MONSTER owing to the new douche at work who’s had a weird stretchy effect on your appetite. You took a militia approach to the subsequent little plates of burnt leek, chicken hash, monkfish cheek, raw beef and sesame , (W’HOW by the way), and actually drew blood as you (I, me, I did these things) struggled to crack open the crab who when he was alive, must have been such an obstinate wanker. When all is said and done – you.. sorry, I…I.. felt… AWFUL. Wretched. ‘On the brink’, as they say, of, well, passing out I guess.
Of course, this is no reflection on the cooking. Neil Rankin is my new favourite feeder and better food critics than myself will say I was a victim of my own immature gluttony. But I wonder how many people have the self control not to choose all the crispy, oily, so-tasty-my-organs-swore, dishes on the menu. Not many, I suspect.
I say, go. Go, go, go! Get your John Salt food orgasm now. But don’t be a sexual predator about it. Because if you do, mark my words, you’ll incur diarrhea of the highest order.131 Upper Street
London N1 1QP