Would you trust the public with a knife and fork?

I went to a restaurant in Middlesbrough back in the spring. It’s called the Brasserie Hudson Quay and occupies a rather beautiful and defiantly urban space between the football ground and the river Tees, with views over the various mystifying riparian sculptures you southerners have kindly paid for out of your taxes, I would guess, to cheer up the locals. We were off to see the Boro play a midweek night game, so the location of the restaurant was very handy.

But that was not the main reason we went. Me and the missus had been on TripAdvisor to choose a meal for the evening and settled on the Brasserie Hudson Quay because of the response of someone called ‘Pete’, presumably the duty manager of the place, to every negative review. One diner who called the place a ‘disgrace’ received a tirade which started: ‘Quite agree with you. You were an absolute disgrace and I’m sure your family have told you. You must have ruined the day for everyone.’ Another was deemed ‘patronising’ and ‘poorly informed’, and someone who suggested the menu was a bit limited was asked: ‘Well how extensive a menu do you want?’

I very much wanted to meet Pete, because he sounded borderline psychotic. Or if not meet him, then maybe to post a negative review myself and have him lay into me. Trouble is, the meal and venue were superb, so I couldn’t in all conscience slag the place off. The food was easily as good as most I’ve had in horrible London, even though it was match day and the brasserie felt compelled, as a consequence, to bung on the menu the Teessider’s favourite dish (since about 1986) — chicken parmo, which only a madman or a drunk would eat.