I don’t know what millefeuille is. Or veloute. Or charcroute. This tells you how much I know about fancy cooking. I wouldn’t go out of my way to eat that weird food that’s made by chemistry - foams and dry ice and vacuum sealing and the like don’t interest me, not enough to pay for them, that’s for sure. But I love to cook and, as the scale will confirm, I also love to eat. So it was with a hefty portion of envy that I digested Jay Rayner’s new book The Man Who Ate the World: In Search of the Perfect Dinner

I think I’d like Jay Rayner. Like Anthony Bourdain, he’s acutely aware of the good fortune he has in his line of work. He eats dinner and gets paid to do so. But he’s got none of Bourdain’s macho edge. There’s a funny scene in the book where Rayner and Bourdain are both at  Tokyo’s infamous fish market, and Rayner makes Bourdain’s crew out for something closely resembling a motorcycle gang. But that’s not what the book is about.

The Man Who Ate the World is about Rayner’s quest for the perfect meal. He seeks the Olympus of dinners in high end restaurants around the world - Vegas, Moscow, Dubai, Tokyo, New York, London, and Paris. On the way he experiences opulence, gets lost, gets sick, eats some stuff that’s just plain nasty, and, perhaps most shocking of all, finds he is not hungry.

Reading straight descriptions of food isn’t all that interesting to me but reading Rayner’s reaction to the places is. He writes this bit about a restaurant in Moscow where the food is okay, if a little tame, But the environment? Out of control.

If I were told there were orgies going on in the various anterooms ringing the rotunda,  that the diners were first eating dinner and then one another, perhaps while snorting arm-lengths of cocaine off silver platters proffered by bare chested dwarfs wearing brightly colored turbans, it would all be totally of a piece, and not just because I have a sordid imagination.