Decisions; I’m no good at them. I should never have agreed to run the marathon one year, for instance, just because I’d had a long and refreshing lunch (grappa gives you confidence). There’s never been a sane reason to head to a karaoke bar, let alone rap at one — but, well, there are videos I can never unwatch. And when the food writer Bill Knott sidled up to me at a party, put a glass of red in my hand and said: “I wonder if you’ll do me a favour?”, I can’t fathom why I didn’t skip a beat before replying of course, it would be my pleasure, and what did he need?
Here’s the fix I’ve got myself into. For two decades, Knott has chivvied his fellow food sorts into putting down their pens and picking up a spatula for a night called Too Many Critics. The premise is origami neat: upending the natural (and frankly correct) order of things, Knott’s band of critics head into the kitchen to cook a four-course meal for a room full of chefs (and, perhaps, you). Critics plays chef, chefs play critic.
