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I am sick of half-hearted desserts. Bring me a proper pudding

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British restaurant desserts are in a death spiral. Who’s to blame?

For too long I have kept silent, in the hope that I was exaggerating the gravity of the situation. But recent experiences have convinced me something serious is going on and somebody must sound the alarm. That somebody is me. Brace yourselves: British restaurant desserts are in a death spiral right now due to a collapse in skill and chefs’ appetites.

Oh sure, restaurants appear to offer desserts. But where once it would have been a list of tarts and mille-feuille, of savarins and delices, of things requiring proper pastry work, now there are just unstable creamy things on a plate. It’s an endless parade of panna cottas and half-arsed mousses. The kitchen will throw on a bit of granola or a fragment of meringue to make it look like a dessert, but that doesn’t alter the fact. It’s not. It’s a squirt from an udder, set to a wobble courtesy of a boiled down cow’s foot. It’s a failure of ambition.

Dessert is an indulgence that is at risk of being forgotten

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