Peter Bromhead: Degustation disasters

Illustration / Peter Bromhead

One social activity I prefer to avoid at any cost is being frog-marched off to some uppity restaurant to partake of a chef's special degustation menu.

I've been forced to face this ordeal twice recently, first in Honolulu and again at a Hawkes Bay foodie festival, thanks to the caregiver's enthusiasm for culinary events.

Both were held in so-called luxury settings and, surprisingly, followed identical menu formats.

The Hawaiian sitting was particularly gruelling, with endless microscopic servings of the chef's signature dishes matched with a collection of indifferent Californian wines.

This particular establishment enables overseas visitors to experience the way wealthy locals live, offering guileless tourists a reasonably priced set menu. I was bemused to discover that the super-rich enjoy having their culinary delights dished up on slabs of black building slate, recalling my rustic grandparents using spare roofing slates as serving plates when they ran short of crockery for family gatherings.

The decor of the Honolulu restaurant was a mixture of bejewelled bling and brick, the creation of a Japanese zillionaire. You can become a member of his dining club for a mere US$50,000 joining fee, giving you access to an exclusive wine cellar with bottles of plonk that can set you back US$25,000.

Was it my best meal in Hawaii? No. That came the following day when I enjoyed a shopping mall jumbo-sized hamburger, washed down with canned beer.

The Hawkes Bay degustation menu event was held in yet another multi-millionaire's private residence, attached to his extensive vineyard.

Once again, numerous pre-cooked mini-dishes were matched to a selection of wines produced from the vines that could be seen from the dining area, suggesting I had another long, turgid night in front of me.

It was tempting to repeat to my host the story about one of the Rothschilds visiting a South Australian vineyard, sipping the wine produced from the vines nearby, and observing dryly that the stuff in his glass hadn't travelled well.

You know you're trapped in a hollow dining experience when you spot the usual suspects on the menu -- micro-shellfish bits splashed with truffle oil and the inevitable quail egg lightly sprinkled with Beluga caviar.

Gratefully leaving foodie country the next day, I bought a couple of doughnuts from a Napier cafe. Even that mundane treat held a final tosser surprise when I discovered the bag included two jam-filled throwaway plastic syringes to inject into the doughnuts. How twee is that?