I recently experienced the singular displeasure of dining at the famed Cortess owned Peaks restaurant, noted for its rather bold location and boasting of exquisite panoramic views of the ranges that frame the Castle Lands. While the trip up to the mountain peak upon which the restaurant was constructed may be enjoyed as some sort of carnival grade novelty, it must be noted that the view is nothing that can’t be enjoyed from the back of a thranta and any picnic lunch one might choose to bring along is certainly going to prove a more satisfying dining experience. However, to give credit where credit is due, the location is not abhorrent, even if that is the only positive commentary I have to offer.
Much like its mountaintop location, the food offered at The Peaks is all spectacle and no substance. If you wish to read no further, allow me to summarise my experience by simply urging you, dear readers, to save the small fortune of credits necessary to secure a table and spend them literally anywhere else.
In the same way that the typical trends of Alderaanian fashion are an attempt to disguise bland and unpleasant people in exciting and luxurious designs, so too are the meals served at The Peaks dressed up to make them appear something which they are not. There can be no doubt that the chefs have been well schooled in presentation, but when I wish to look at works of art, I visit an art gallery. When I visit a restaurant, the very least I expect is to have an enjoyable meal. The choice of appetisers appeared broad, but overly reliant on garlic and totamo fruit. I was grateful to have steered clear of these options once I learned later how heavy handed the chefs are with spices, however it limited my choice rather considerably. You can imagine my dismay when my Ryl crostini arrived smothered in grated shaak cheese. Shaak! They’d have done better just to use common highland nerf than assaulting my palate so early in the evening with shaak, and it’s not like there’s any shortage of nerf in supply, having just seen several hundred on my trip up to the blasted restaurant to begin with!
Course after course, I gave ample opportunity for the chefs to redeem themselves, only to find my opinion of the establishment sinking ever lower. The house salad was a poor marriage of leaf and garnish, with the addition of purple calfsfoot completely upsetting the delicate citra vinaigrette; an appalling waste of ingredients on all fronts. The ‘light’ seasoning of my steak was anything but, when a properly cooked taun ribeye should stand on its own merit and not depend on dressings to make it palatable. There aren’t enough decoratively carved vegetables in all the galaxy to make up for the crime of an overdone steak. Taun crackling is neophyte level cooking, and yet I can’t help but wonder if they thought they could hide the harsh yellow rind they served me beneath a slathering of papriik and ojomian rosettes, and assume I somehow wouldn’t notice that they had in fact handed me a five star travesty?
The delighted cooing I heard from tables all around me as other patrons’ meals were set down has led me to conclude that this in fact their modus operandi.
I cannot even begin to describe my heartbreak over the disgraceful treatment of my dessert. Tarisian mousse is supposed to melt in the mouth with every layer. There should be no major difference in texture between the crema or the cake or the brittlescotch lattice, and the delight comes from this very fact. The crystalline lattice should dissolve on the tongue, discernable by flavour alone; true Tarisian mousse is a delicacy, and the swill I was offered was not fit to treat a salky. The cake was dry. The crema was watery. And the brittlescotch was a garish, tooth cracking nightmare reminiscent of cheap All Hallow’s Eve candy. When I asked the waitstaff what variety of honey was used in its preparation, I was met only with blank stares.
In the same fashion as the meal they served me, they were pleasant to look at but with nothing of value on the inside. A rather perfect summary of what one can expect from a dining experience at The Peaks.
I shan’t be back.
Imperial Life’s top food critic, Alaric Faro is a name both respected and feared by culinary establishments throughout the Seat of the Empire. Astute and enigmatic, his tongue is as refined as it is sharp, honed to appreciate the most exquisite of dining experiences and to thoroughly dismantle anything that falls short. Originally a columnist for a variety of holozines but now writing exclusively for Imperial Life, he considers it his life’s mission to ‘educate the palate of all Imperial citizens’.
