I was feeling peckish the other day, so I popped into my local chippy to grab a bite to eat.
Hornsey Road is a long slice of nowhere between Islington and Crouch End, two of North London’s more fashionable enclaves. In recent years, the area has become what is known in estate agent speak as ‘upwardly mobile’, in other words a home for young professionals wanting a prestigious postcode beyond their modest means. As a result, the traditional rows of run down shops are peppered with a smattering of glitzy frontages as café latte outlets and delicatessens spring up amongst the Greasy Spoons.
I was disappointed but not surprised to find the take-away under new management. A shiny new menu hung behind the counter. Gone were Cod and Chips, Baked Beans and Mushy Peas and in their place was a range of delicacies I’d never heard of and couldn’t afford. Except… lurking at the bottom of the list was something that would fill my empty tummy nicely. What’s more, it cost less than a tenner.
‘Let me have a cheese and onion pasty, please.’
‘An excellent choice if I may say so.’ The proprietor was smartly dressed – pin-striped apron and a silly boater hat. ‘And what kind of cheese would you prefer?’
‘Eh? Er…well, I want a cheese and onion pasty. So, whatever cheese comes with it.’
He broke into a condescending smile. ‘Our pasties are handmade on the premises. We pride ourselves on the variety of fillings. Our chef is quite a cheese aficionado. We offer lots of choice.’
‘OK, so what are the options?’
In a scene reminiscent of Monty Python, he reeled off a list. ‘Well, you can have Appledore or Brie, Caerphilly, Cheddar, Cheshire, Chevington, Coverday, Double Gloucester, Dorstone, Farleigh Wallop, Harlech, Hereford Hop, Ilchester, Lancashire, Red Leicester…’
‘I’ll have Cheddar.’
‘And would that be Farmhouse or regular? Mild, medium, strong, extra strong or…?’
I glanced at my watch. This was ridiculous. ‘Look, just give me a bog standard, common or garden cheese and onion pasty. With whatever cheese you recommend.’
‘Coming up…’ The shopkeeper removed something from his racks and started to wrap it in a sheet of virginal white paper. Whatever happened to recycled newspapers? I reflected ruefully. The only time I read The Mirror or The Sun was when I chomped my way through fish and chips. But… ‘Just a moment. What’s that?’
‘It’s your cordon bleu Cheddar cheese and onion pasty, of course.’
‘No it’s not.’ I prodded the take-away suspiciously. ‘It’s a lump of cheese wrapped in a slice of bread with a pickled onion.’
‘Ah, but what cheese. It’s blended with blueberries and spiced with turmeric.’ He cleared his throat nervously. ‘I will admit, though, that chef has a bit of a blind spot when it comes to food. He’s obsessed with cheese, you see. He seems to believe that as long as he has fifty flavours of cheese on the menu, nothing else matters.’
A suspicious bell rang at the back of my head. ‘ This chef of yours…he wouldn’t also be a recording engineer, would he?’
‘How did you guess?’ The shopkeeper’s chest puffed with pride. ‘Unfortunately, he doesn’t have much success, but you should see his collection of mic preamps. Dozens, he’s got – scores.’
‘Fifty?’
‘How did you know?’
‘Just a hunch. Including Blueberry spiced with turmeric, no doubt.’
‘Why yes. Great big meters, it has, and lots of flashing leds. The red ones tell you when it sounds OK and the blue ones let you know it’s working properly. He hasn’t worked out what the yellow ones are for yet. The writing underneath says something in German.’
‘So he has fifty preamps. And lots of mics, I assume.’
‘No. Just one. A Chinese copy of a U87.’
‘What does he record onto?’
‘Oh, anything that comes to hand. Cassette, maybe, or hard disc.’
‘Who does he record?’
‘Largely his own stuff. Well, all his own stuff actually. Clients get pissed off that he spends all day experimenting with different mic pres. He’s never happy with the sound he gets.’
I leant against the counter and crossed my arms. ‘Let me give you a tip. As a longstanding local resident, I can assure you that folks round here aren’t that fussed what ingredients you use as long as the food tastes good. I’ve been eating pasties all my life and never bothered to ask what kind of cheese they contained. It’s the result that counts. Mic preamps are much the same. There are good ones and bad ones. I don’t particularly care what flavour mic pre an engineer uses as long as it’s up to the job and he knows how to use it.
In many ways, preamps are like cheese. They should be an invisible ingredient, designed to capture the nuances of a performance and allow the listener to hear what’s happening. Most great records were made using whatever preamps were in the console. It was the musicians, the room, the mics, the performance and the skill of the engineer that made the tracks sound great. So might I respectfully suggest that your chef looks for a new gig in a cheese shop, or maybe selling fancy mic preamps to confused wannabe pop stars?’ I pushed my snack away. My appetite had gone. ‘Please throw this pile of crap in the bin. And while you’re at it, chuck that stupid hat away.’
Progress, eh? One step sideways and two steps back.
Eccentric
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