Do we foodies have a secret dirt fetish? I've met many foodies given to the idea that the smarter the front room of the restaurant, the dirtier the kitchen must be.
Perhaps it's a testament to the persuasive powers of George Orwell. If his description of the hell behind the scenes in French restaurants described in Down and Out in Paris and London wasn't the first look at the sometimes dirty reality of the restaurant trade, it's certainly been one of the most persuasive. The roast chicken has fallen on the floor? Pick it up and wipe it down. The customer will never know.
Eighty years of regulation later, many of the poor hygiene practices Orwell describes have disappeared, but other aspects of high-end chicanery are still with us. In his day, one trick was to make sure the steak knives were very sharp so customers thought the meat was tender. These days, the trick might be to convince unwitting diners that the corked wine is actually OK.
Tricks aside, the real dirt is often to be found in the professed paradise of the modern foodie: the street. I am as much a fan of street food as the next person, but I wonder why so many foodies seem oblivious to the surrounding dirt.
People rave about the street food in Thailand, and I've certainly had some great dishes in seaside resorts. But I've also seen mystery meat on sticks sweating under the sun as Bangkok's infamous traffic roared by, belching lead and who knows what else over the food.
How appealing.