Depending on who you ask, Richard Branson is either a genius entrepreneur with an unerring eye for the zeitgeist or a beardy arse who slaps his self-aggrandising mug over anything that might be an innocent joy to humans, holds down any pleasure from books and music to holidays, and screws it for profit 'til it squeals.
Me, I'm on the fence; but it did rather worry me to learn, from this recent piece in the NYT, that Slick Dick is to turn his attention to our patch. He's going after the foodies.
According to the NYT's blogpost, Branson is planning to open a resort next week in the culinary hotspot that is New Jersey. The estate, or 'epicurean oasis' as it shall henceforth be known, is called Natirar - the name of the local Raritan river, cleverly reversed - and is clearly designed as a cross between Xanadu and Disneyworld for the discerning and well-heeled glutton.
The 492-acre private estate will feature a working farm (do take the time to scour the rather terrifying website for fetching pictures of Sir Rich playing on his very own red tractor), public restaurant, a cooking school sponsored by Viking - manufacturers of the must-have bloated giganto-ranges favoured by American home cooks - a 'wine school' and a spa.
Maybe I have an overactive imagination but it all summons up a horrible vision of overstuffed bodies being oiled, pummelled, scented and centred in the spa before being transported back to the restaurant in reinforced golf buggies to be reinflated.
We're the market. So what do we food lovers make of Branson's foray into epicureanism? I'm not too sure about the name myself. Maybe he should consider reversing another of those oft-used native phrase - Gnikcuf Yltsahg.
