Cuisine de Roof Tile

At some point in the not-too-distant past – let’s call it 2009 for argument’s sake – a man in a pub, probably with a beard and a degree in brand storytelling, stared down at his cheese and thought: "You know what this needs? A roof."

And thus was born the gastropub’s great gimmick – the slate plate. Roofing material repurposed in the name of rustic charm and culinary theatre. Yes, because what the cheese board lacked – what it really needed – was a sense of danger. A lacerated palm. The faint taste of wet Welsh shed.

Of course it started with cheese. Cheese can handle it. Cheese is robust. Cheese is stoic. Cheese has seen things. But it didn’t stop there. No, the madness spread. Charcuterie. Tapas. The occasional ill-fated scotch egg. All now presented on rectangles of geological hubris. And with each clang of cutlery on slate, with every smear of aioli refusing to be scooped by anything short of a carbide chisel, the diner is reminded that they’re not here to eat – they’re here to experience.

Because plates are for the plebs, aren’t they? Plates are for people with no imagination. Plates are for school canteens, and service stations, and grandmothers who “don’t get out much”. But slate? Slate is edgy. Slate is earthy. Slate is... roofing.

At this point I half expected soup to make its way onto slate – perhaps a dainty nouvelle cuisine consommé, served as a 3mm film with a parsley garnish and a smug waiter hovering nearby to narrate its backstory. But no. Even they drew the line there. Soup, it seems, remains too liquid for the revolution.

Still, this hasn't deterred the avant-garde. No, where one fad dies, another inflates. Enter – with a fanfare of tortured metaphor and ironic detachment – the artisanal tyre.

Yes, you heard me. The tyre. A Pirelli platter. A Michelin amuse-bouche nestled in the grooves of a well-aged Continental. Starter served in the hubcap. Pudding balanced on a wheel trim. And for the main? A delicate smear of jus, elegantly applied across the sidewall of a Goodyear all-season.

Call it “road-to-table” cuisine. Eco-conscious, industrial chic. Reclaimed rubber, upcycled for your degustation pleasure. Pop-up dining in a layby. Waiters dressed as traffic wardens. A starter so small you need an air compressor to find it.

Because this – this – is where we are now. A culture so desperate to signal sophistication that it’ll eat a radish off a floor tile and thank the chef for the privilege.

Slate was never food’s friend. Slate never asked to be involved. Slate was minding its own business, keeping out the rain in Blaenau Ffestiniog. And then one day, it woke up under a beetroot foam.

So let’s be honest. It wasn’t the cheese. It wasn’t the roofer. It wasn’t even the chef. It was us. All of us. For clapping like seals every time a drizzle of balsamic vinegar arrived in a mini watering can. For pretending chips in a flowerpot was charming. For pretending, even now, that any of this matters.

Now pass me the tyre – my soup’s ready.