“Perfection is attained by slow degrees; it requires the hand of time.”
— Voltaire
The truth is, we are unoriginal.
Centuries before Supper Club, there were Txokos, where Basque men secretly gathered to consummate their gluttony without remorse. They spent their days scrutinising the quality of all things—a Basque obsession. They spent their evenings with Galician Blondes.
When confronted by their wives, they sighed at the unthinkable: life was about to change.
On their first Txoko visit, the women were struck by the fact that the beef truly was golden: the fat, which seemed attached to a network of solar roots, glowed warmly in flecks throughout the grain. It had not youth’s lustre, but age’s burnish. Which is to say. . . it had a sensational personality.
The reputation of ex-dairy beef has grown in recent years—that of Galician Blonde cows being its finest. To the connoisseur, its matchless flavour and honest texture, achieved through exceptionally long life, have elevated it above even Wagyu, and the ritual of its preparation must never change—
dense holm oak charcoal, burned white; rough fistfuls of salt; the tuneful clatter of the grill.
Time renders the inessential, disclosing only perfection.
Our fourth supper reunites us with our spiritual ancestors, those Spanish giants of disrepute, at Sagardi in Shoreditch.