Are small plates a scam?

I can’t help but wonder whether London’s most fashionable way to eat is leaving us full of regret and not much else.

In London’s ever-expanding constellation of small plates restaurants, you’re not really here to eat. You’re here to experience. To share. To marvel at the micro greens. To spend £48 on what amounts, practically speaking, to a deconstructed sandwich served on artisan crockery.

The rise of small plates in London — and in just about every other city that thinks a filament bulb counts as interior design — has quietly transformed how we dine. What was once the domain of tapas joints and izakayas has been rebranded as something sexier: progressive, convivial, culinary foreplay.

Sharing is caring, we’re told. And yet, somehow, it always ends with someone stabbing the last anchovy fritter while you contemplate a post-meal kebab.

You’re often handed a minimalist menu printed in a font that costs more than your starter. The waiter advises ordering “three to five plates per person, depending on how hungry you are.” (translation: six plates per person if you’re remotely peckish and north of £100 if you want to make it to dessert), and when the food arrives, each item is so modest in portion that your dinner companions begin the ritualistic…