E is for Expectation
High and Low
I am a big believer in everything happening for a reason, it is my golden rule and my steadfast rudder. So far in my life, there are more instances than I can remember where a small moment of coincidence, annoyance, or haphazardry has led to an important distraction or decision. Two separate, random encounters in shops led to two of my favourite writing jobs that I have still to this day, a global crisis led to my eventual anchoring in France, and one out of the blue restaurant closure led to me being here in Biarritz for 3 and a half months.
This attitude, I am aware, can lead to a certain romanticisation of less than positive experiences, or an overly inflated expectation of what life has in store for me. Expectation is a deadly sin, a greedy prediction of the unknown, but is the keeping of low hopes generally healthier than raising the bar too high to ever attain? My expectations for this summer were wildly romanticised through all fault of my own, I expected the sun, I expected to surf, I expected a summer fling, a Wiz Khalifa moment. Despite that not being in my blood at all, I believed that this change of air would awaken a novel worthy story of energetic youth, or at least a brief chapter. Alas, the sun doesn’t shine so much on the Atlantic coast, the weather is as wild and unruly as the rugged coastline. Surfing is fun but achingly exhausting and I don’t think my weak arms are cut out for it, and when it comes to men who surf (the only breed that exists here), their brains are full of salt water.
Having expectations can be like putting on your armour, preparing yourself for battle, so as not to arrive naked and unprepared. It also acts as an aphrodisiac, if the expectation is half of the pleasure, the foreplay of a good meal, then the reaching of this expectation can only ever be sweeter. There is, I think, no better feeling than having a high expectation for a restaurant, and the result being above and beyond what you could have dreamt. The range of emotions that you allow yourself to be open to when you have high expectations is automatically larger than when you arrive not expecting a thing. The risk is greater, there is more to lose, but in that then so much more to gain. I am sure there is a graph to be drawn here, or a formula to be written but I don’t trust my mathematic skills, but maybe it would look something like this:
Enjoyment of a meal = (epicurean pleasure) + (service and environment) X (range of expectation) ÷ (price/quality ratio)
Of course, a surprisingly good meal is a satisfying moment, a wild card, but without the titillation, the pre-dinner scroll of the menu and the photos, the possible months waiting for a table, the climax reached will not be as high.
I’ve come to see the other side of expectation this summer, where the bar is set so impossibly high in the restaurant where I am working, thanks to Instagram and mega marketing, that our legs are paddling at a hundred miles an hour beneath the water to keep the gracious swan afloat. The beast of Social Media is a vicious one, especially so when prices are high and the clientele are particular. We’ve had a client show our server a photo of roast chicken from a two year old Instagram post and ask if he can order that for his dinner, bear in mind, we have a set menu each night and a disdain for Instagram related food intolerances. (We made the chicken and he didn’t leave a tip, just sayin.) Someone commented on a post saying “my meal didn’t look like that last night”, when the menu had since been changed, therefore her lemon sole didn’t resemble a Basque seafood stew. We have to laugh, so that we don’t cry.
Clients have grumbled that the place is an Insta-trap, yet we can see from their booking that they reserved through Instagram, so really, we ask, what did you expect? We are warned not to judge a book by its cover, yet we await a fantasy after seeing an Instagram post.
I, sadly, don’t have a solution to this incessant conundrum and we will continue to paddle our legs and peddle our wares until the end of the season, debriefing over a Campari and orange at the end of a Sunday service.
Shopping list for you
Breasts and Eggs by Mieko Kawakami
Arket linen trousers for every occasion, surprisingly good kitchen wear
Chappell Roan on repeat
Deux Lunes coffee shop in Bayonne
Since No One Asked newsletter has been like reading a postcard from a friend this summer