Marathon-length movies and dinners are all too indulgent

Ralph Fiennes in The Menu. Picture: Eric Zachanowich

So, the tasting menu. Well, it’s about control, isn’t it? The chef, the maestro, the genius in the kitchen wanting to have power over all your dining choices. It’s about a very modern contempt for the consumer, taken to its logical conclusion.

I was a tasting menu virgin. Came away from the novel experience thinking, why? Why does the restaurant industry think this is the way forward as belts tighten for the chilly road ahead – and who, frankly, has the time for it now? What I thought was going to be a simple night out with beloved mates turned into a performance, an imposition, a marathon and a dictatorship, not to mention the swilling weight on my stomach that took 24 hours to settle. The menu was about strictly obeying Chef’s orders. There would be no veering from the evening’s rigidly pre-ordained course, no changes, no choice.

One of our number had mentioned casually, a few hours before the allotted time, “We’ve booked a tasting menu. 130 bucks a head. Ten courses. Meant to be amazing. You OK with that?” How could I say no. If I’d bowed out I’d be scuppering everyone else’s plan for the grand event. “Yes, fab, wow, ” I responded. Weakly. Of course I was in, had to be.

The teeny tiny squares and slivers, curls and clouds, drips and dots of gorgeousness were exquisite, of course. But after several offerings I just wanted something grandmotherly-plain, recognisable and prompt. The lamb – presumably the main – wasn’t served until after 10pm. Were the wait staff deliberately instructed to go slow to allow our digestive systems sufficient time to recover? It was too much, of everything. It all felt so tight, humourless.

Could I sense a faint contempt for the ridiculous, high-paying customers emanating from the meals? It felt like the end times of civilisation; consumer as idiot; a new, brazen sourness towards customer. See also: Babylon, its entire, exhausting three hours and nine minutes. Cinema that felt like it was made for director Damien Chazelle’s indulgent gaze as opposed to any audience’s, and at my session a third of the viewers had walked out before the end credits. Then there’s that breed of high-end women’s fashion of startling unwearability, created by male designers who feel, at times, like they’re pushing the boundaries of how far they can go in terms of ugliness. The utter contempt shown for the consumer. Give me a Phoebe Philo over Viktor & Rolf or Hussein Chalayan any day. Humiliation of the model – or food consumer – seems part of that particular ego trip. All these examples involve a failure to communicate with the consumer about what they might actually want. The unexamined excuse: “But this is ‘art’.”

Margot Robbie plays Nellie LaRoy in Babylon.

Can a female chef/designer/filmmaker afford to be so indulgent? Egotistical? Show-offy? Rarely. Does she want to be? Usually no. It’s a muscular audacity that feels very male. Because men are bestowed with that handy label of genius much more frequently than women, and they’ll be indulged in the pursuit of it; given another shot in the way women aren’t. “It’s harder for women to get a second chance at directing,” filmmaker Olivia Wilde said last year. “Fewer people will invest in the second film of a woman than a man.” Women’s work is generally more modest of scale and ambition, although hardly less powerful. We can’t afford the risk of abrasive, domineering ego.

Dude ’tude, I call it. Dude attitude. It’s about domination and control. The consumer doesn’t get a choice – the consumer must obey. The consumer is not consulted because the genius creator knows best. Patron Saint: Ye. Bold new entry: Ralph Fiennes’ chef in The Menu. I’d hazard a guess that most tasting menus have the towering male ego behind them. Interesting experience. Don’t have the stomach for another go.