Time was, the only blackberry to bother a restaurant table was in a bowl of crumble. Suddenly, it seems, you can’t visit your new local bistro, brasserie or Japanese joint without snap-happy food bloggers papping pappardelle, pissaladière or wagyu no sumibiyaki on their smartphone’s cam to ram in fellow foodies’ faces. You WILL Come Dine With Me. Just get the food outta my face, fellas! I’ve recently been bombarded by pics of ‘the best Bánh canh in Vietnam’, jerk snapper from some jerk in Jamaica, tartar of musk ox from a (pretentious) acquaintance showboating live from Noma in Copenhagen, the world’s ‘premier must-do eaterie’ (he says) and, from a pal, giddy with excitement to be in Edinburgh, an image of a pile of ‘stovies’: gussied up potato, gravy, fat and more fat, it looked like the residue from a porker’s posterior, post-emergency liposuction (see above left). Cocktails are considered fair game too but do I really need to see the (so infra-dig it may be the next big thing) sex on the beach you grubby package dealers had last night on Lesbos? I know Britain’s gone cuisine crazy, but enough already! You’re putting me off my dinner.
