Please note that since writing this blog post, A La Plancha has closed down
On Wednesday night, I went out for tapas with Jacques Derrida. No, seriously, I did. You all thought he died in 2004 at the age of 74, but you’d be wrong. He’s alive and kicking at just 35 years old, and he’s tweeting away (in appropriately deconstructive fashion) on assorted social media.
In fact, that’s how he found me: on Twitter. Even post-structuralists need to eat, so he follows me for restaurant reviews. And then he direct-tweeted me that he knew the best kept tapas secret in Amsterdam (he’s very 2011, you know). My friends were sceptical: didn’t he know who he was talking to? Surely it was rash to raise the expectation bar so high? But if you’ve written Of Grammatology, I doubt you’re scared of a little foodie who doesn’t have two English Lit degrees to rub together… After all, this from the man who has a visual representation of Baudrillard’s simulacrum tattooed on his arm. Pretty hardcore, eh?
So there we were, at A La Plancha (which is now no longer a secret), meeting for the first time over a ginormous leg of jamón, a bottle of red wine and some rather intellectual conversation. The portly (in a jolly, Dickensian sort of way) Spanish gentleman owner brought us some kind of cold seafood salad to start – seemingly on the house. He didn’t appear to speak either Dutch or English, but well – we both spoke the language of food. So that was ok.
Then Derrida ordered some manchego, which was very flavourful (I’m using that word because I know he hates it as an adjective), not that I’m an expert on manchego, followed by some bread with aioli. Now, this disturbed me somewhat. The taste was pretty good, but I’d have preferred to eat it with my eyes closed: the visual texture of the stuff reminded me of a certain combination of bodily fluids. (I apologise for putting that image in your head, but I couldn’t get it out of mine.)
I was ready for some meat by this point (err-hem), and had been eyeing the huge leg of air-dried pork that had been propped on the bar in front of me all evening. The ham was indeed stand-out stuff. The meat had a satisfying, grainy bite to it, and the fat was memorably melting. I’d go back for that alone.
The other meat dish we chose was hot, stewed, and had a rich wine-y sauce. Given that I wasn’t entirely sure what it was supposed to be in the first place, it’s hard to judge its success in achieving it, but I’m fairly confident I ate the lion’s share of the dish.
We drank the house red, which I assume was Spanish. It was a little over-warm, but in all other respects very drinkable. Our friendly host wandered smilingly round his bar, occasionally breaking into song and taking his sweet time. Which was absolutely fine by us.
I don’t know how much our tapas secret cost because Derrida paid. That didn’t strike me as particularly in keeping with the ultra-progressive conversations we’d been having all evening, but maybe we can put it down to post-feminism?
