There comes a point in a food writer’s year – usually somewhere between the third langoustine of the week and fifteenth duck terrine of the quarter – when everything starts to taste like homework. Tasting-menu fatigue is the most obviously apparent, but there’s a broader ennui, too. Fatigue of trends. Fatigue of “concepts”. Fatigue of chasing the next thing when the old thing still feels alive and kicking.
So what do you eat when you stop caring? When the idea of booking a table makes you feel tired and the idea of queueing for a smash burger makes you violent?
