A naked restaurant? The very idea has me shrinking in horror
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Version 0 of 1. I’m not totally convinced anyone really – truly – enjoys eating out in restaurants. I’ve tried, I’ve pretended, I’ve even occasionally fooled myself into thinking I do. But the whole process is awful. Think about it: they’re expensive. They’re full of people you haven’t personally vetted, so are probably (definitely) terrible idiots. And restaurants are awkward. God, they’re awkward. The tombic, helpless silence that descends when the waiter is pouring water. The whole “being served” thing in general – like you’re some kind of reclining Roman brothel owner. The minefield of complaining while being just nice enough so the rest of your dinner isn’t intensely diluted with chef dribble. What if I make myself look like an idiot by choosing the wrong wine? Sneeze into my soup? Get locked in the gents for 10 minutes? All of which have happened. Surely the only thing more awkward than being in restaurants is being naked. It stands to reason, then, that the only thing more awkward than being naked is being naked in restaurants. Which brings us neatly onto the Bunyadi. Being butt naked is optional. Meaning anyone who isn’t is almost certainly there to be a pervert A pop-up opening in London in June, the Bunyadi encourages visitors to dine naked. And that’s not the “oi-oi!” Jamie Oliver misappropriation of the word naked, either. This will be a restaurant where diners can strip down to their altogether. Scoff starkers. Binge in the buff. Nibble in the nip. And enjoy all the amusing sausage, bap and melon jokes are bound to arise. Even ignoring reasonable hygienic concerns, and the fact they’ve missed a huge open goal with the branding (Bon Appe-tit? The Full-English Monty?), aren’t restaurants difficult enough without the crippling supplementary shyness brought on by hairy backs, breadstick crumb-related snafus and explosively painful intimate scaldings? The restaurant will be split into naked and clothed sections, with diners stripping into gowns in changing rooms and then being given the option to remove these during their visit. So being butt-nekkid is optional. But then it sort of isn’t, because anyone who isn’t there to be naked is almost certainly there to be a pervert. Certainly, no one’s there for food, which will be impossible to enjoy while wondering if anyone is covertly studying your nipples to see if one’s bigger than its counterpart. Furniture will be “hand-carved by an axe” – no mention of sanding, though careful wood treatment must be assumed – and the room will be lit by candles, a light source almost explicitly designed to dribble molten agony on to a person’s tingly bits. And the staff will also be scantily clad. Imagine the immensity of the silence when they’re pouring the water. It will have its own gravitational pull. I’m happy to accept that not everyone hates restaurants. That cringing oneself into a human pretzel may be a personal issue. Some emerge from the womb knowing that “Ooh that’s lovely yes please!” isn’t the correct response when staff pour a shot of wine to test. They know their forks. They’ve never tripped up a step. I’m envious of them. But surely any person in their right mind loathes being naked in public. It’s cold. And coldness does unspeakable things to naked bodies. Plus, clothes allow us to forget, for a few blissful hours, how we’re basically just a head plopped on top of a pimply, disgusting, Dorian Gray-esque sack full of all the unhealthy fun we’ve ever had. I might be repressed, but I can’t be the only person who has trouble envisioning being nude, cold and self-conscious in public, and thinking “Tell you what, I am properly jonesing for an alle vongole veraci.” In 2016’s restaurant scene, nothing should really come as a surprise any more. There’s already Bunga Bunga, an eatery devoted to Silvio Berlusconi. There’s Circus, in which acrobats tumble and leap around your table to distract you from how much eating dim sum is like swallowing a tiny brain. There seems to be a new novelty pop-up opening every week, run by hip entrepreneurs with beards. The proprietor of the Bunyadi, Seb Lyall, has already opened an owl-themed and a Breaking Bad-themed bar. He’s a one-man production line of places I would rather pull out my own optic nerves than visit. The Bunyadi’s waiting list is already 3,000 strong. Clearly many people disagree. Godspeed to them, I say. But it’s not for us restaurant cringers. I’m still making a fist-claw about the time I pronounced “cochin” wrong in an Indian restaurant and the waiter guffawed into my lassi. Literally the one saving grace of that episode is that I was wearing thick corduroy trousers at the time. So enjoy the Bunyadi, you carefree, cringeless exibitionists. The rest of us will be in another restaurant, fully clothed, furiously pretending we’re having a nice time. |