Jessica Harper Uncanceled

You know you’re in a right-on restaurant when the menu says the chickens have access to Netflix.

“With all those woke dramas on that platform, that’s cruelty right there,” I said to my husband Brandon, who was looking hunky in a new Paul Smith suit.

We were at Les Cent Philosophes (The Hundred Philosophers), Savannah’s buzzy new eaterie. Fine dining at not-so-fine prices. Online reviews said the food was overpriced and pretentious but tasted great.

Thankfully we wouldn’t be paying a cent for it as I was reviewing it for the magazine I’m editor of, The Truvian. Well, it was one of those puff pieces where someone “reviews” it and a paid advert for the joint runs next to it.

So even if the meal stinks, you can’t say so. But on this occasion I was happy to swallow my journalistic integrity, if you’ll excuse the pun (is that even a pun?). We don’t have the money to spend at Savannah’s best restaurants usually so this was all gravy (boom, now that’s a pun).

“Spare me the bad local art,” I whispered to Brandon as I looked around. “How many photographs of seagulls on deckchairs does this place need?”

I looked at two paintings on the wall next to us. They had pricetags. Horse Looking Sad, watercolour and plasticine, $650. Horse That’s Cheered Up A Bit, $700.

We were packed in here tightly. If I got any closer to the couple next to me they’d be getting the rape alarm out.

“You don’t see swan on a menu very much, do you?” said Bran. “But there it is, an Aeroflot of Swan.”

“What do you think of these?” I said, playing with one of those wine glasses with a round base, which roll around, presumably airing the wine or whatever the term is. They were clearly made for people who are less clumsy around alcohol than I am.

There was a squeaking sound and we saw a waiter was heading across the room on a scooter. The other diners weren’t batting an eyelid; either they’d got used to it or this was de rigueur in modern restaurants.

“Bonjour,” he said, in a thick French accent that sounded rather fake.

“Allo ‘allo,” I said, and laughed at my own joke.

“And ‘ow ar yerr this eevuning?”

“We’re just fine and dandy and ready for some of that fine French cuisine,” said Brandon. He had been in the army and didn’t like messing around too much. I’d have happily played the silly accents game all night.

We ordered our starters and then he asked about the mains…

“I ricomund the Gap Year of Beef,” he said, in the tone of a KGB agent “recommending” you get into the car. A Gap Year? How pretentious was this place?

“I quite fancied the ‘Cartel of Pork’,” said Bran.

“Let me be more specific, sir: zer chef recomunds you ‘av the Gap Year of Beef. He is not a man to be trifled with.”

“Fine,” said Bran. “I’ll have the Gap Year of Beef.”

“Excellent choice, sir. Madame?”

Out of curiosity alone, I ordered “drizzled sheep”. It didn’t say what it was drizzled in and normally one would expect a sheep to be called lamb or mutton but why dress mutton up as lamb when you can call it a sheep, perhaps?

Our starters arrived 45 minutes later when we were about to eat the serviettes. I had opted for a “Wednesday of salmon” and Brandon for the “shaving of butter” because he thought is sounded interesting and couldn’t believe it was just a shaving of butter. He’s not a very curious man but once a year it can happen. Sadly he’d chosen to be curious when he was absolutely ravenous.

He was wrong: it was just two shavings of butter.

“Is this place serious or are we in some kind of pranky YouTube video joke thing?” he said, as he tried to eke it out.

“After reading their brand story I have to say they’re having us on,” I said. I read aloud from it: “Les Cent Philosophes began life in 2021 when Karl decided he didn’t want to mend electronics any more and his wife Milly’s heavy periods had cut short her career in cake decoration. Eww.” I slammed the menu. “That’s enough brand story.”

My salmon was technically inedible. It was so fresh that it had a line coming out of its mouth. But still, it would probably survive longer than this restaurant would.

The mains arrived: Brandon’s “Cartel of Pork” and my “sheep”. Le waiter had some large bottle for drizzling and I went to take it from him because I was in the mood for some drizzling but he pulled it back just enough that I couldn’t reach it, like a master boxer judging distance.

“Ner,” he said. “I der the druzzling!”

He then waited a few seconds, while maintaining eye contact, uncomfortably.

And then he drizzled.

Not much though. But he probably spent a month training in how much to drizzle, whereas I was an ignorant member of the public who knew nothing of this dark art. Drizzling? Moi?

“I ‘ear you are ‘ere to write an utticle for sum local scandal shit,” he said.

“Scandal shit?” I said. “Oh, scandal sheet…”

“Zat is correctumundo,” he said. “I must tell you our chef is an eggggspert. He has all Gordon Ramsay’s books.”

“Oh cool,” I said. “It’s not my dad, is it? He’s got all of Gordon Ramsay’s books.”

“Did your father train at the Vestibule Aux Croisette Du Palais Du Grande Conservatoire in Paris?”

“No.”

“Zen zer chef is nert your fuzzer.”

And he flounced off.

I had always suspected that Gordon Ramsay was not my fuzzer but now it had been confirmed.

The sheep was indeed a sheep. Most of a sheep, in fact. I didn’t expect bits of wool to still be on it, and certainly not in the form of a knitted hat. It was kind of offputting. Brandon tried chewing his beef and after five minutes of arduous mastication gave up and spat it into his serviette.

We made our excuses and hit The Savannah Burger Shack in nearby Broughton Street, where we tucked into cheeseburgers while maintaining regular eye contact with the waiter, which was the best bit of a very strange evening. 

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Jessica Harper Is Not Woke is published on ebook and in print.

As always, names and locations have been changed. The salmon was called Colin, however.