If there were any justice in the world (there isn't), Jonathan Meades would be more famous for his toxic, tastleless fictions than the restaurant criticism handsomely collected here. But even if this is not his finest work, the standard of writing - and by extension thinking - about what we eat, where we eat and what it says about us is sufficiently high to place it well above the traditionally cobbled collection of journalism. Meades' strengths are his polyglot way with obscure facts, his Europhile conviction that food, archetecture and, come to that, all other forms of culture are inextricable and a line in off colour jokes and venomous put-downs that'll make you laugh aloud. My sole criticism is that, though devestating when putting the boot in, Meades simpers and fawns on those rare occasions he finds cause to praise.