My abiding memory of chef Dom Robinson’s Renaissant, a fine-dining restaurant in Bagnor, Berkshire, is of witnessing the greatest standoff over a tasting menu I’ve ever seen. A couple had foolishly arrived for their Saturday-night booking, imagining there to be an à la carte menu, rather than just a bespoke seven-course experience that lasts about three hours. “But we went out for lunch,” they pleaded. “We’re too full to eat the full seven courses. Can’t we have just, say, three?”
Sadly, this was impossible. Unthinkable, even. It was the full shebang, or nothing. A painfully polite, low-volume “discussion” then ensued, during which the server made no attempt to consult the chef. Or even offer a goodwill gesture to cancel, say, the “baguette française, Normandy butter” course, or the Victoria pineapple plate that comes around the midway point. It was almost as if the staff already knew that not one amuse-bouche could be missed. “Well, we’ll go then,” the customers eventually said, calling Renaissant’s bluff. A long silence hung in the air, followed by the sound of footsteps crunching across the car park gravel as the pair huffed back to their car. It was only 7pm.
