Andy Richardson: So annoying when a host gets everything correct - and I don’t

I ought to rewind. My boss – who’s no longer my boss, but who was such a good boss that I still refer to him as ‘boss’ and probably always will – had invited us round to dinner. Nice. No washing up. No need to shop. I’d bought him a bottle of bubbles. And in a moment of inspiration at the supermarket I’d also bought a keg of beer; after all, everyone likes a keg of beer with a curry, don’t they.

I’d decided to play a trick and so before leaving our home we’d cunningly removed the socks from a stripy Paul Smith box and put a jar of cook-in-sauce in there instead, before wrapping it back up – surpriseeeeee. He was unruffled, as he always is. Damn him for being cooler than cool.

I’d rehearsed my lines, too. I’d decided that when he asked – as he inevitably would – whether I liked the chicken, I’d say: “Well, it might have been cooked in a hotter pan, so that the outside of chicken caramelised a little more. Everyone loves the Malliard Reaction. The seasoning’s awry and the spices aren’t quite balanced the way they might be. But apart from that…..”

But I didn’t get the chance to say it. Instead, we sat there, six of us, stupefied into silence by an exceptional dinner. That’s what happens when food’s really good. It’s the ultimate conversation killer. There’s no need for words, no need for discussion; good food trumps everything.

I’m sure, in the back of his mind, he was reflecting on the wisdom of inviting to dinner a man who makes a living critiquing food. “Tough crowd,” he’d have been thinking. But even the toughest crowd can be conquered if you’re really, really good in the kitchen. And he was.

He didn’t escape scot-free, of course. And when the popadoms were delivered there were such knowing questions as: “Oh, are these straight out of the fryer?”

“No,” said another guest, “straight out of the packet.” When the mango chutney arrived on the table, another guest asked where he’d bought the mangoes from? “Ask Sharwood’s,” said another. And we laughed and laughed and laughed.

And when the naan arrived, we asked how long he’d owned a tandoor.

He smiled at each of the barbs, playing the perfect host. The hospitality was just as good as the food. Damn, damn, damn.

I knew how he felt, of course. On one occasion, I’d foolishly agreed to invite to dinner two friends who’d run a Michelin-starred restaurant for the best part of 20 years. And they’d cunningly decided to review me, right here in the pages of this newspaper. The then-editor had thought it a brilliant idea.

So I’d slaved for a full-day, preparing a five-course dinner that had been mostly extremely good. Until I fell at the final hurdle. A course of slow-cooked beef fillet with a small beef pie, a swish of morel cream and fondant potatoes had been ready to see the plate – when I realised I hadn’t heated the plates. In the absence of warming pass lights, I’d been faced with an unpalatable decision. Should I serve it on cold plates, so that it would quickly lose its latent heat, or should I warm the plates, thereby rendering the food either over-cooked or tepid?

They’d scored me out of 10, remarking that the coffee tasted like something that had passed through a cat, eulogising the tenderness of the beef, the cleverness of my combinations and the precision in my cooking. And then they’d wondered why I’d got all the hard stuff right and made a rookie error by not heating the plates. An offer of a sous chef’s job was not forthcoming.

There were no such gaffes at the gaffer’s place, a delightful jalfrezi that had more sparkle than a vintage bottle of Dom Perignon and more trimmings than a tree surgeon’s van. We stayed late into the night; the excellence of his hospitality matching the brilliance of his food.

Still, we shall have our moment. Next time, it’s another mate’s turn to host us. He’s not what you might call handy in the kitchen. By his own admission, he still hasn’t worked out why Captain Bird’s Eye can sell fish fingers when fish don’t even have fingers.