Dining Theatre

Why is it that, in Britain, every Indian restaurant looks like the Maharajah’s second-best drawing room? You walk in and are immediately greeted by swirly carpets in angry-boil red, lacquered elephant statuettes, bejewelled wall hangings, and light fittings that appear to have been looted from a Bollywood remake of Moulin Rouge. Order a lamb rogan josh and brace yourself for the table to collapse under the weight of decorative brass alone.

Chinese restaurants? Thematic to a fault. Red and gold dominate like a communist Christmas, dragons loom, lanterns dangle precariously over sweet and sour pork, and that infernal waving cat by the till is working harder than the entire Board of Trade. Italian? Cue wine bottles in wicker corsets, vinyl tablecloths adorned with grapes, and a mural of "Tuscany" that was clearly painted by someone with only a passing acquaintance with clip art. Spanish tapas joints? All terracotta and faux wood beams, with plastic hams dangling like piñatas in purgatory and a flamenco soundtrack that fades in and out like someone’s fiddling with the Wi-Fi.

We accept all this unquestioningly. In fact, we demand it. In Britain, dining foreign means immersive theatre. Your korma must be consumed beneath a portrait of Gandhi, your paella accompanied by bullfighting memorabilia, and your carbonara serenaded by Nessun Dorma. It’s not enough to eat well – you must be visually assaulted by a high-street approximation of the entire nation’s cultural output, crammed into a 12-table premises in Hounslow.

But try and find a British restaurant abroad and the rules change. You might stumble across a few – usually in sunburnt colonies of expats who haven’t been home since Princess Diana was alive. They’re called things like The Royal Codpiece or Ye Olde Battered Britain and serve all-day breakfasts and gammon with pineapple under the warm, nostalgic glow of a wall-mounted Union Flag and a photo of Princess Anne meeting a minor dignitary in 1983.

Then there are the upmarket ones, in New York or Dubai, trying to convince the world that suet is not a war crime. These haute-British establishments serve things like foraged nettle risotto with an ironic scotch egg, and are designed to resemble a gentleman’s club where the clubbable were long ago evicted. The lighting is dim, the wallpaper floral, and the waiting staff...

...ah, the waiting staff. And here we hit the heart of the matter.

Because even in the finest British restaurants – temples to the noble turnip and heritage carrot – the servers are always dressed like they’ve been on loan from a Parisian bistro. Crisp white shirts, black waistcoats, long aprons, and that peculiar blend of deference and disdain that says “I know how to flambé, but I will not be doing it for you.” They’re not French, of course – they’re usually Lithuanian, Portuguese, or named Gary – but they’ve been forced into the costume of Frenchness because somewhere along the line, we decided poshness wears a cravat and answers to monsieur.

We’ve got a menu boasting potted shrimps and treacle tart, but it’s served with the same stylised flourish you’d expect with coq au vin and existential ennui. There is no British equivalent. No tweed waistcoats. No casual warmth. No waiter from Newcastle asking if you want "bread with that, pet?" Just an endless parade of faux-Gallic grace, because we seem pathologically incapable of imagining our own food delivered in our own idiom.

It’s all very telling. We insist on cultural pantomime from others – demand our Thai curry come with bamboo and pan flutes, and our Japanese sushi arrive via minimalist altar – but when it comes to presenting ourselves, we fall back on borrowed pomp. British food is forced to arrive dressed as French, as if to apologise for itself. As if roast beef and horseradish can’t be taken seriously unless it’s served with le flourish and a wine pairing no one asked for.

So the next time someone moans that "foreigners don’t integrate," remind them they won’t eat a biryani unless it’s served in a room that looks like it was designed by a Bollywood set dresser with a migraine, and that British cuisine itself is so unsure of its status, it needs to borrow a beret just to leave the kitchen.

Because in Britain, we don’t just eat out – we dress up, play make-believe, and outsource all confidence to the French.