Joris Minne

When the doors finally closed on A Peculiar Tea it was the end of an era. Sorry. I’ll read that again. It was the start of an Era.

If there was a Richter scale for restaurants, and by that I mean a grading by which you might measure the whole trembling package including service, food, comfort and that elusive one, mood, then I would start with high marks in Belfast for the likes of Stereo, Ox, Stock Kitchen, mrDeane’s, Howard Street, Waterman, Stove, Macau, Shimla, John Long’s, Muddler’s Club and two or three more.

Some cities are blessed with good looks. I’m just back from a few days with the advisor in Bordeaux and still reeling from the lived-in Frenchness of its golden limestone-and-shutters streets and the Versailles grandeur of its river frontage. Dublin is attractive in a similarly effortless way, as are Edinburgh, Leeds, Marseille and Malaga.

It feels like about ten minutes ago when I first visited Madame Pho on Botanic Avenue. This little corner of Ho Chi Minh City had it all. The smiling staff, the warmth of cheap wood panelling, faux faded window shutters, and vast bowls of steaming broth being delivered to rickety tables captured our hearts the moment we walked in.

It feels like about ten minutes ago when I first visited Madame Pho on Botanic Avenue. This little corner of Ho Chi Minh City had it all. The smiling staff, the warmth of cheap wood panelling, faux faded window shutters, and vast bowls of steaming broth being delivered to rickety tables captured our hearts the moment we walked in.

Emily in Paris annoys millions of French people. The character who lives in a picture postcard Paris generates fantasy visions of the city rooted in an unlikely coupling of Edith Piaf and Walt Disney. If it was Emily in Ulster we’d be annoyed too. Think of Kenneth Branagh’s Belfast. Kitsch works.

In the olden days, eating out meant you were going to a hotel, a wedding or a funeral. Weddings and funerals were always good craic because family tensions would rise to the surface and rows would break out — in vino veritas, as Pliny the Elder said 2,000 years ago.

The politics of food and its impact on our mental and physical health cannot be underestimated. Everywhere you turn there are warnings and alerts about ultra processed foods and what they are doing to us, survey results which show that butter is good and bad for you, that red meat, red wine and red velvet cake are killing the planet and our livers.

If you’ve been to Cordoba you’ll know all about shape-shifting. The phenomenon by which something you love and cherish suddenly and inexplicably becomes something else entirely is probably best viewed in the city’s spectacular Mosque Cathedral. It is unimaginably beautiful and profoundly surprising because it is both Islamic and Christian. There comes a point when you’re walking through the forest of ancient and elegant Arabic pillars and arches and enter, almost imperceptibly, a Gothic, Christian interior where you’ll find a proper transept, altar and pulpit. This shift from one heavenly expression of faith to the other is spellbinding.

Beer and dinner? The very thought of it has me clutching my bloating belly. Some people swear by a cold lager with their chicken tikka masala, a hot dog, pizza or even a steaming bowl of sauerkraut. But frankly, my gut can’t take two bloat-inducers at the same time.