Openings: Why processed politics leaves a bad taste

A couple of years ago, my wife and I dined at Gastrologik in Stockholm, a restaurant highly recommended to us by friends. I looked up its website to find out what we might expect to eat, only to find a menu titled "Let the Producer Decide". There were no further details. Cute touch.

As we took our places at the table, we were finally handed the menu. It was blank. The producer, it seems, had not decided yet. Cuter still. The restaurant was, of course, making a point. Our waiter explained that what we would eat that evening was determined by supply, not demand. It would be a surprise. We would have to take a risk. The only certainty was that the food would be seasonal, sustainably sourced, and strikingly fresh.

It was all of those things. Out of nostalgia, I looked at its website earlier this week. "A sure sign of spring is when Frida from Skilleby garden calls, and announces that the garlic is ready for harvest," it enthused winningly. It was a charming thought. I also learnt that Gastrologik had, unsurprisingly, been awarded its first Michelin star.

I loved everything about this experience: the air of commitment, the ingenuousness, the confidence that what the producer decided would be happily accepted by the consumer. The fashion for impeccably sourced, simple food is indicative of a more general revolt against pretension and hype. It declares war on florid adjectives and bombast. It says that we value innocence and that we love nothing better than to be pleasantly surprised by something plain, yet possessing of outstanding quality.

Which brings me to the general election. Last month, in an article titled "American Politics: Why the Thrill is Gone", the New Yorker's estimable political writer George Packer mourned the loss of his passion for politics. He derided the "stuckness" of his country as its leaders repeated themselves over and over again, without ever achieving very much. "Beneath the surface froth and churn, we are paralysed," he said with sadness.

Anyone following the UK election campaign can sympathise. Outside the world of political junkiedom, most people I meet cannot quite believe that there is a campaign under way at all. The age of social media has produced a paradox: we have more noise than ever, but less heat. Commentary is plentiful. But it has, for the most part, become meta-political, focusing on tactics, strategy, style. To wonder whether Ed Miliband was right to "hang out" with Russell Brand became a more important issue than what they discussed. Did the Labour leader lose control of his glottal stops? Will David Cameron's repeated use of the world "lively" make him lively?

The result of these postmodern exercises is that there is, in most of the media, a simulacrum of political debate that overshadows the real thing. This is tragically summarised in the froth and churn of the "spin room" immediately following any televised debate between party leaders. If you want to research the causes of voter apathy, and watch it turn to antipathy, just tune into these deeply cynical horror shows for a couple of minutes, and weep.

The triumph of process over substance is a familiar theme elsewhere, too. It is one of the most bizarre legacies of Britain's outstanding popular music tradition that, of all its attributes, it is the workings of celebrity-creation in which we appear to be most interested today. We know everything there is to know about how to groom a promising singer towards stardom; but nothing of the hours of dedication required to write a great song. We understand perfectly what it takes to steer political leaders into the gaffe-averse safety zone of fixed smiles and tentative promises; but rarely feel the warmth of personal conviction.

As we have decided to turn against processed food, so we need to get rid of processed politics and processed culture. The cynicism and control-freakery behind them threatens to make us inert and uncaring. There is too much expertise in the dark arts of king-making, and not enough white magic in the air. What we want is something plain and fresh, that comes from a good home. It is too much to ask?

Peter Aspden is the FT's arts writer

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