When striving for perfection leads to a mess
We’ve all been there. A good idea we think is worth pursuing. We work on it. It’s ready for sharing and we have overcome the fear of presenting our work. The fear has gone because we’re sure it is a good and wonderful thing.
Then, at the last moment, we add one more touch or tweak. For some reason, we find a flaw that nobody else can spot — they can’t because they don’t know yet what the final thing should look like or taste like or do — but we know: this is the vital thing that will take what we’re doing to a new level. It is, quite literally we think, the missing ingredient.
And what happens, almost inevitably? This last thing we added — that final tweak — is the very thing that undermines the value of the original concept. It could be the addition of a throwaway joke in a scene written for two lovers that turns nerve-shredding emotion to mawkishness. It could be an unnecessary ingredient in a simple, so-nearly-perfect dish that overwhelms the subtle combinations of flavour. In both cases — and many similar cases — these additions come from a lack of confidence, a sudden backing away from the original concept and a belief that by adding more we show our expertise or our sophistication or we want to reveal a knowingness about what we’re trying to do.
This is the curse of the amateur or the beginner or the neophyte who remains unconvinced that the phrase less is more applies to his or her work in his or her situation.
I was reminded of this tonight. My wife and I have driven north and are staying in a cosy pub/hotel in a village in Cheshire. We decided to eat dinner at the pub. The menu looked good and the main courses were excellent. I chose a dessert, too — Eton Mess. It’s a dessert usually served as a mixed up combination — a mess — of cream, meringue, and strawberries. It often comes served in a glass dish rather like those used for a sundae.
The Swan Hotel’s version, however, was served in the mode made popular by MasterChef. It was deconstructed. In other words, the elements were served, not as one great clump in a glass, but in small groups spread across a wooden board. On the plate — the board — it looked rather tempting. Small dollops of cream were topped with jagged crests of meringue and ringed with well trimmed strawberries. Crushed meringue added further texture scattered across the surface. And there was a single scoop of vanilla ice cream to add a further taste of sweet luxury to a dish that is already high in the sweet tooth stakes. Other frills only added to the appearance. I was not, let’s be honest, put off by the presentation.
I started to eat it with enthusiasm. I shared none of it with my wife. As I ate more, though, and as I dug further into the scoop of vanilla, I discovered a problem. Wood. The flavour of wood. It was out of place and as soon as I noticed it, the flavour began to dominate all the other flavours, which were not exactly subtle to start with. The board on which the dish was served was wrong for this set of flavours. Perhaps a big bold steak or something served with chipotle would have survived the backdrop of wood. Ice cream and meringue and cream and strawberries could not.
It must have seemed a clever idea. The deconstruction was witty and the execution excellent. But that final touch — to serve it on the polished segment of a plank — was too much. Perhaps the pastry cook had never tasted it after serving. Self sabotage takes many forms.
