Item: 2.2.12.102.4.13 #A42
Donor: Ingolmo Sovotambe/Loremistress of the School of Applied and Theoretical Gastronomy
Archivist: Grithonwen
This piece, dating back one hundred and seven years at the time of entry, is an extract transcribed and translated from a culinary magazine native to the country of Rochbendor known as 'Diner's Delight'. It was recovered by the donor during the etlocoitëgûl expedition launched on 2.2.12.100.2.68 due to the rare insight it provides into foreign culinary methods in a position of racial intersection.
- Xenoarchivist Grithonwen
For this moon's Griffon's Eye View, I travelled to Aquila. Now, many of you might be saying "Hold on a minute Salt Pinch, you've done wine reviews two moons running now; you literally just got back from that disastrous trip to Scarlet Island!" You would be right, as would my editor, but let me reassure you all with the remarkable fact that not a drop of wine was involved in this excursion.
Now, before our beloved writer-inner Runny Rennet barrages our post box with a letter, yes, there was (eventually) some cheese, Pithiviers to be exact. Cheese without wine, almost heresy in itself without the venue in mind, but mine is not to reason why, mine is but to report on the train wreck.
I swear, it's like I'm typing into a wind tunnel, sometimes.
I was in fact given a surprising invitation to visit the old Domain Royale, now the seat of the Assemblée Nationale, by my long time friend Marion Paul, who was recently elevated to the office of the Attaché de Presse (a far more pleasant counterpart to our own most 'delightful' Press Secretary) and could think of nopony better to turn the world's eye upon their brand new parliamentary restaurant. I will admit, the very prospect had me salivating!
Mademoiselle Marion meets me at the huge main doors of the grand building in the traditional Aquileian way, quite the pleasure from such a stunning mare, and leads me inside. There are the usual obnoxious security checks we've all been suffering through for the past few months of course, but with the war on back home, I'm forced to admit that a friendly government is smart to be careful.
The inside of the Domain Royale is stunning, easily a match for the palace in Canterlot. Dark blue and white wallpaper and plush maroon carpets are the order of the day, making me feel almost like I'm drowning in the Aquileian flag, though the effect is broken up by the art on display. Historical scenes, landscapes, even portraits of old kings hung on the walls. Emphasis on the 'old', I don't think there was a single Discret among the bunch.
If you think of an Aquileian, you'll probably immediately add wine, baguettes and poncy artists wearing berets, but if you dig a bit deeper, you'll find the tapestries. To the Aquileians, painting is rather foreign and exotic, they have traditionally woven their art and the experience shows.
I ask Marion about some of them as we walk, passing by smartly dressed députés and civil servants by the dozen.
"Oh, these?" She replies, sweeping a hoof toward a depiction of the sack of Vinovia almost disdainfully. "The little pickings from the king's collection. The best went to the museums of course, the ones we've found anyway, but we needed something to brighten the place up."
As we continue, the black coated mare easily leading me through this maze of a building, expanded by just about every one of Aquileia's kings, I can't help but wonder if stunning art like this is considered the 'little pickings', then how much the real masterworks were worth. Moreover, how wonderful must the dining be?
We arrive bang on time for lunch, and what greets me is far from what I imagined.
The colour scheme in this part of the building is thankfully a little less oppressive, mostly cream walls and light blue carpets with yellow fleur-de-lis patterning, but the furnishings are the first clue I get that I might have been about to get something other than I bargained for.
The room is already filling with surprisingly reluctant looking bureaucrats and politicians as we find a table and clamber onto the typically Griffon benches, each incongruously made from bakelite and obviously cheap, tarnished metal in juxtaposition to the patrons and richly panelled walls.
I had intended to begin the interview at this point with a question about the menu, and I technically stuck to my guns; "Where are the menus?" I look around, but all the nearby tables are just as bare as ours down to the eye-watering chessboard sheets.
Marion's ears perk with amusement and her speech quickens into the classic Aquileian flurry. "That's what most of the guests ask."
I ask if there's a buffet we're supposed to head to.
"No," she replies, "we wait here."
I wonder if that means the chef intends to guess our preferences, it wouldn't be entirely beyond the pail for the more 'artistic' Aquileian establishments, but a feeling of doubt is poking into me. It's either that or one of the screws holding the hard bench together anyway.
I'm proven wrong when the server arrives, the heavy-set Griffon hen practically lobbing two plates onto the table. Before I can even register the contents, let alone thank her, she's gone.
"Only the best service for the députés of the Aquileian Republic." Marion comments. I'm not sure if she's being serious (there's no denying that was quite a respectable throw), sarcastic or pulling my leg.
Looking at the steaming heap of purée de pommes de terre, avoine et pain grillé on a plate that looks right at home as part of the 'dragged in from the street' aesthetic, I wonder if this whole thing is a prank until two small bottles of milk, followed by a bottle of ketchup, almost add injury to insult by making the sort of entrance usually associated with Changeling bombs.
Apparently reading my expression, not to mention the embarrassing flinch, Marion suggests that I look around some more, whereupon I realise that this sort of scene is playing out across the noisy dining hall. I'm sure I even see Présidant Gaudreau in the chaos, animatedly talking with an aide.
"This is how the députés of the Aquileian Republic eat. What do you think?" Asks Marion, taking in scene of chaos with a foreleg.
I can't muster the words to respond for a while, there are too many competing comments, but my old friend is patient. "Cheap." I eventually manage.
She beams. "Exactly!"
I ask if it isn't just a little dangerous as a set of low flying cutlery comes within a hair's breadth of lodging itself in the back of the unfazed Présidant's head.
"We hired a troupe of acrobats. They were the cheapest going." Marion casually explains as I duck to avoid our own cutlery. "It does liven the place up, don't you think?"
I reply that that's one way to put it as I climb back onto my bench.
"It's all part of the genius. We could have had something expensive, champagne every night and all the best chefs and cooks, but aren't there better ways to spend the taxpayer's idole? This way, thousands of idoles every year can go into education. Cooking classes to be exact, it seemed the most fitting to the députés." She says with a flick of her ears.
My next question of course falls upon why they should go to the bother of having a restaurant at all, if this is the alternative.
"Députés have to eat somewhere." She says. "If there was nowhere in the building, they would have to go out into the city, or bring packed lunches from home."
Images of rows of powerful politicians eating out of lunchboxes like schoolchildren are brought to mind.
"That would eat up their time" Marion's expression tells me the pun is absolutely intended, "and therefore slow down the Assemblée. Not to mention the opportunities for exploitation! Wine and good food in the claws of industrialists can be excellent lubricants for the will of the powerful, we learnt that from the royalists. No no no, we cannot have that anymore! Since we would need to provide a food allowance anyway, the chief député of the Partie des Aquileian Travailleurs," the Aquileian communist party for those unaware, "Grand Cru, suggested this. The same price as the allowances, but on-site and benefitting humble civil servants like myself as well. The Assemblée exists to serve the people, so we eat like the people. A good look, no?"
As my previous spreads will tell you, I'm no political reporter, so I stick to what I know and ask about the possibility of hosting ambassadors and the like.
She waves a hoof casually. "There are plenty of better places to host such esteemed guests than an office building!"
Attempting to get back on track, I ask how the meals are selected.
"As I said, we eat like the people." Marion answers. "A quick survey of a few thousand lower and middle class households across the country and voilá! Simple, filling meals that aren't really all that bad."
I comment that from experience, it must be complicated for the staff to prepare for both the dominant races in Aquileia at once.
"You don't have this over in Equestria of course, but here food manufacturers are required to provide dietary compatibility information on their packaging." Marion explains. "Go to any corner shop and you can see at a glance what you can and can't eat. Fusion cuisine is notoriously difficult, as I'm sure you're aware Salt, but I never realised before just how much of the basics both Griffons and Ponies can eat. Keep the meat content low and remove the hay and you've eliminated nine tenths of the problems for simple meals like this. So really it's no bother." Then she laughs. "Actually, it gives us all an extra reason to eat healthily at home, since that takes care of the nutrition deficit!"
Finally, I ask Marion what she thinks of it all.
"It keeps the députés working." She says with a sly smile.
As you can probably tell by the length of my usually brief interview segment, the meal was not much to write home about. The cooking was adequate if rustic, but the ingredients were deathly dull and with the options of 'take it' or 'leave it', I really can't condone it with a clear conscience. Apparently the chef de cuisine chooses the dish of the day the night before and has been known to repeat the same meal three days running. The food itself, best described in plain Equestrian as 'smash on toast with some oats mixed in', was presented as a single mass that had clearly been extruded onto the plate without even a moment's forethought. I suppose I ought to be thankful I detected no phlegm on it. There is nothing to be said of the origins of the ingredients as I don't know them and even if I did, I doubt it would matter much. As for the drinks, the options are milk from local farms or if you ask very nicely, tap water. While I did not feel much in danger of my life by the time the waiters came to clear our tables, the service was abysmal and I shudder to think of the bill in broken crockery, not to mention life and limb, should they make a single mistake.
Wrapping up this moon's surprisingly political article, I'm obliged to present a restaurant review summary, but I must admit that I'm a little at a loss how to go at it. On the one side, the food was almost as awful as the service, but on the other, that was the intent. In fact given the reactions of some of the accosted députés, it might even be something of an acquired taste. That earns artistic points at least, and the price, being as close to free as you can possibly get without it actually being free, is nothing to sniff at. Take from that what you will, I suppose. In the meantime, stay safe and I urge our Griffon readership to keep sending in their ration-appropriate dish recommendations. I know you have been feeling the wartime squeeze more than most of us and some of them have been truly splendid.
Total:
You get what you pay for.Meal:
Acceptably prepared yet bland enough to drive a refined diner to tears.
Drinks:
Palatable, if you like the selection of two.
Wine: N/A
I can't review what doesn't exist.
Dining Experience:
I prefer to watch a circus from the ringside.
Price:
One cannot argue with 'free'.