Sublime

I am always impressed by a well-written menu, one that is informative and appetizing without slipping into pretentious nonsense. Here, for example, is a London restaurant’s attempt to justify the exorbitant price of its whitebait: “The tiny fresh fish are tossed by our chef for a few fleeting seconds into a bath of boiling oil, and then removed bef

In a prime spot just across the yellow-tape road from the lemon trees, he tended his own dark grove of bookshelves, and beside them a field of legal boxes, which held thousands of menus from restaurants famous and obscure. Whenever I passed Horace’s collection, there was someone flipping through the menus with the furious intensity of a DJ digging

The Paper Millionaire, by some Arab-turned-Englishman named Roger Shashoua. He sat

there's a big crock of softened butter on almost every cook's station, and it's getting a heavy workout. Margarine? That's not food.

But as is so often the case with men who have made it like this, he was arrogant and self-righteous.