Matt
Google
After three decades of loyalty, I am compelled—reluctantly—to acknowledge that even the most revered institutions are not immune to the slow, inexorable decay that comes with resting on past laurels. What was once a temple of taste now presents itself as a masterclass in culinary complacency.
The calamari tubes arrived with a peculiar scent that suggested either extreme confidence in their indifference to freshness, or an imaginative interpretation of the word “edible.” The Greek salad was reduced to a few microscopic cubes of unimaginative feta, drowned in dressing that could generously be described as watery. The calamari platter, apparently sourced from the frozen aisle, could have served as a cautionary exhibit in a museum of culinary neglect. And the curry—overcooked, stubbornly thick—was an exercise in chewing patience rather than enjoyment.
The tiramisu, that once-celebrated crescendo of a meal, had been reduced to a few soggy ladyfingers swathed in an indeterminate cream-like substance, bereft of mascarpone, dark chocolate, or any trace of artistry. One cannot help but imagine any self-respecting Nonna rising in protest from her grave.
Service, for its part, seemed to operate under the charming assumption that being present is optional. Attentiveness is evidently considered passé.
It appears that success and popularity have been embraced as the final destination, rather than as the incentive to continue striving. The restaurant now thrives on the uncritical approval of tourists and locals with a tenuous grasp on gastronomy, a phenomenon, I regret to observe, that has become rather typical in Cape Town. One leaves with the distinct impression that the establishment prefers its diners at a polite distance, as if our presence were a mild inconvenience.
In short, what was once an experience to savour has been replaced with an exercise in polite endurance. A shame, truly.
