There’s a joint in east London that describes itself as a ‘family-run osteria’ and posts about the ‘Italian tradition of generous hospitality and simple, beautiful food’. The menu is a combination of several Italian dishes with Japanese ingredients, and I can’t think of anything more inappropriate. One of the dishes described as dolce (meaning ‘sweet’) is a cheese panna cotta with herring caviar. This restaurant has soy sauce nudging the balsamic. Is there no end to the revolting madness that is fusion food?
I can understand why young chefs – those tattooed to within an inch of their lives – think they are a cross between Anthony Bourdain and Marco Pierre White and love the idea of mixing miso and chocolate pudding. It has all gone too far.
Yes, I hear you object, but who was it that invented salted caramel? Or chilli and chocolate? If Italians had not discovered tomatoes in 1500, the red-sauce joints would not exist and where would we be without bruschetta? Yes, food evolves, and there are some great combinations and discoveries that work beautifully.
But some decidedly do not. The food of the Dongbei region of China is cooked according to the available ingredients and the climate, with maize and wheat, meat, pickled vegetables and potatoes predominating. Try fusing that with Sicilian dishes made using ingredients grown in abundance in the sunshine. It’s a culinary disaster. Some things should simply never be put together on a plate.
I know there are restaurants that don’t describe a nation or geographical location as inspiration for their menu. They might just call it ‘modern European’, which means pretty much anything from the plov (rice, grated carrots and onion) of Uzbekistan to the cheese fondue of Switzerland. But spare me the Korean-Mexican combination I happened upon in a small town in France. Pure hell.
Food from south India – for example, coconut masala dosa – should not be paired with that from Alaska, such as berries or reindeer sausage. Soul food is already a fusion of flavours from west and central Africa, western Europe and indigenous cuisine of the Americas, with its hearty flavours such as spicy chicken, black-eyed peas and sweet potato pie. It should never be put anywhere near Cantonese egg-fried rice and wonton soup.
Pan-Asian restaurants like Sexy Fish – which one reviewer likened to ‘a millionaire’s TGI Fridays’ – seem to shove anything on the menu so long as it vaguely resembles something that originated from the vast East Asian continent
However, my greatest gripe is Asian tapas. Spain is already fairly fusion in that it blends flavours and ingredients from its North African neighbours, but the idea of having some delicious smoked almonds, tortilla and pimientos de Padrón served alongside spring rolls with plum sauce is the stuff of nightmares. But it’s a nightmare that has come true in the depths of south London. I’ve avoided crossing the river for food since I found out.
Tex-Mex, with its beefy, cheesy, spicy combinations, works because it is cooking born of cultures living side by side. Other dishes originate through convenience and circumstance. Fish and chips, for example, came from Jews in 15th-century Portugal, who found a way to preserve fish by cooking it in batter the day before the Sabbath (when no cooking is allowed). It was eventually paired with chips when, as rumour has it, a young Ashkenazi (from eastern Europe) immigrant opened the first British chippy, aka fish and chip shop, in London in 1863. The point is that these two foods go brilliantly together – whereas Japanese pickled ginger on pizza does not.
Pan-Asian restaurants like Sexy Fish – which one reviewer likened to ‘a millionaire’s TGI Fridays’ – seem to shove anything on the menu so long as it vaguely resembles something that originated from the vast East Asian continent. Flavour Bastards, a London fusion gaff which thankfully closed down shortly after opening, boasted of dishes such as South Indian-style white lentil doughnuts with Spanish chorizo and Italian pecorino.
A few years back, I found myself working in Dubai and popped into the infamous Friday brunch, served in five-star hotels across the city. Seeing 18 separate food stations – from Italian to Indian and British Sunday roast – was a revelation. I noticed people balancing plates with more countries represented via the food on them than in the United Nations. Mix and match was encouraged, with chefs on each station – for example, the Cantonese dim sum counter – pointing to the Irish stew and soda bread next door, insisting it all goes together. Culinary innovation is one thing. Spaghetti with chicken tikka masala is quite another abomination. Fusion is a crime against food.
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