TOM JACKSON108 The Times Magazine
restaurant by Endo Kazutoshi, but at arm’s
length, where tables are pretty freely available
(rather than bookable only months in
advance), and you have to put the food in
your mouth yourself, like some sort of fool?
Obviously, it would not be perfect. But
how not perfect would it be? Would it be
a “9” or an “8” or a “7”? And would one
of these perfectly excellent scores be seen,
somehow, as an insult?
This would be, I supposed, the diffusion
line to the haute couture of the Rotunda.
You know, you’ve seen Endo’s pieces on
the runway, now snaffle something similar
but much more affordable at H&M... So
if I grumble, and I plan to, it will not be
because I did not like Sumi. It will just be
that I couldn’t help comparing.
And, of course, Sumi is not perfect. At
first glance, you think it might be. The light
in there on a sunny day is gloriously absorbed
and rationed out in amber doses by the pale
wooden, slatted, backlit wall mountings, the
wooden tables and rattan banquettes with
their beige upholstery. But – oh no! – the floor
is a dreary, off-white vinyl.
At the small table by the window, two
young Japanese women in Chanel, poring
over perfect-looking nigiri, tell you this is very
much the place. But... why does that look like
the only decent table in the house?
As we stand there in the middle of the busy
floor, waiting quite a long time to be seated, orEating out
Giles Coren
couple of years ago I had dinner
at Endo at the Rotunda and gave
it a score of 10/10 which, I suppose,
means I thought it was perfect. I was
reviewing it, obviously. I’m not the
sort of monstrous knob who scores
his meals out of ten in real life. But
when I started this job 20 years ago
they said I had to give scores, so I devised this
thing where I give three separate ratings for
arbitrary categories and then divide them
by three, so that you mostly get numbers like
“7.67” and “6.33”, which ought, I hope, to show
you that I consider these numbers ridiculous.
But when I gave Endo “10”, I meant it.
The meal was perfect. The view, the food, the
smoothness of the zigzagging cypress table,
the humour and soul of the guy putting into
my hands the things he had made, and his
promise to be there every night, doing the
same thing, and if he couldn’t be there, then
not opening at all. People wrote in to say,
“Nothing is perfect – this score is a sham!” and
they were right, in a way. But I’ll wager they
were those exact knobs I mentioned above,
who score things out of ten in real life.
But what kind of score was I going to
give when I went along to Sumi, anotherA
‘When I started out
in this job, they said
I had to give scores,
but I consider these
numbers ridiculous’
Sumi