Spectator Life

My brother went to Japan recently, and I asked him to buy me a knife. As anyone who has entered the bowels of a restaurant knows, Japanese blades are highly sought after. I had to decide between an 18cm utility knife or a metre-long Maguro bōchō. The carbon steel of the latter can fillet a 500-pound tuna in a single cut. In Japan, it is wielded by two highly skilled fish butchers, and it usually comes with a wooden scabbard as protection for the blade – and anyone standing near it. The Maguro bōchō was created purely in a culinary capacity, not as a weapon of war Boringly, I opted for the utility knife. I reasoned that I could always buy a razor-sharp, 24-inch blade online at a later date. However, my hopes have been dashed.

You could say the British were to blame. The dramatic rise and subsequent fall of Beaujolais has its roots in the early 1970s, when Sunday Times wine correspondent Allan Hall laid down a challenge for his readers. The first to go to Beaujolais, in eastern France, and bring him back a bottle of that year’s just-pressed wine (known as Beaujolais nouveau) would win a bottle of champagne.  Readers rose to the challenge, enlisting cars, trucks, private jets and even parachutes and an elephant as they rushed to be first. The Beaujolais Run became an annual institution, and local vignerons frantically planted new vines to meet demand.

Ikea has opened its first high-street restaurant in the UK. There's not a flat-pack in sight – but a hotdog is 85p and a children’s pasta dish with tomato sauce (plus soft drink and piece of fruit) is 95p. A nine-piece full English will set you back £3.75, while a serving of their famous meatballs (with mash, peas, cream sauce and lingonberry jam) is £5.50. Vegetarians are amply catered for. It’s open 12 hours a day (and that may be extended further to enable dinner). There’s free wifi and somewhere to charge your phone. Even better, there is no music. It’s not pretending to be anything it isn’t.

The first time I tried the well-known Hungarian wine Tokaj, which I bought from an eastern European delicatessen in London, I was so taken with it that it quickly became a verb – and the expression ‘I was a bit Tokaj’d last night’ stuck. But I soon realised that there are so many wonderful versions of this wine that you will find one to suit every occasion, and a match for pretty much anything you eat. Options include bone dry, light as a feather, sweet, robust, and tannin-rich red. And I’m lucky enough to be drinking the dry variety here in Budapest. It has just a hint of honey, making it perfect with the dishes made with cheese and paprika sauces that are so popular across this landlocked nation.

We can thank Herbert ‘Herb’ Cobb McDonald for the modern-day all-you-can-eat buffet. Herb first introduced Las Vegas – and later the world – to this gastronomical abomination in 1946. The Buckaroo Buffet cost one dollar and promised ‘every possible variety of hot and cold entrees to appease the howling coyote in your innards’. The coyote of my innards has never been appeased by an all-you-can-eat buffet. On my last visit it was starved. Back at the table, the food smelt grey. I thought about all of the nice places I could have visited with £23 If John Hick can find God on a double-decker bus in Hull, I can find the answers to life’s biggest questions at the back of an all-you-can-eat global buffet.

I remember, vividly, when working at Raymond Blanc’s Michelin-starred Le Manoir, the moment the truffles were delivered. A frisson went round the kitchen staff as the napkin covering the precious morsels was dramatically whipped off. Physically inspecting the gnarled, knobbly nuggets was a right reserved for head chef alone. As a lowly pot-washer, I was confined to the back, neck craned for a glimpse. So I am not blind to the excitement and sheer theatre of the treasured truffle. I even like them. But why on earth have they taken over every restaurant menu, as plentiful as lashings of ‘EV’ olive oil and flaky sea salt? 2018-19 was when the truffle takeover first got going on the London restaurant scene. Then the rot quickly set in.

As Sober October comes to an end and we turn our attention to two months of forced festivities, it might be time to ask ourselves if these month-long periods of sobriety actually do anything. In short, I’ve found the answer is that they do. This year, I attempted Dry January. Why? For one simple reason: shame. There are few emotions in life more powerful and more potent than shame. And what is a hangover if not chemically-induced shame? The first time I got really drunk was at a house party. I was 15. My friend and I were new to alcohol and so we thought it clever to buy a litre of Disaronno Originale and eight pints of Kronenbourg. ‘Is that going to be enough?’ I asked. ‘Probably not,’ my friend said, ‘but we can always steal some more at the party.

It’s a bright autumn morning and I’m first through the doors. There are only two shops that can inspire such a disregard for my finances, and the other is Swedish. Today I find myself in Nisbets, and the first rule of Nisbets is not to bring a shopping list. If you’ve not heard of it, Nisbets is a catering supply shop, with outlets all across country. Every professional chef that has ever cooked for you will have spent a small fortune in Nisbets, some of it on their restaurant’s business card and likely even more from their own dwindling debit account. What is a hobby if not a means of spending all of your disposable income in ways that only make sense to a handful of other weirdos? Unlike online stores, buyers can go and fondle the utensils in one of their 26 shops.

Across vineyards in England and Wales, secateurs are being sharpened and buckets are at the ready as owners prepare for harvest. October is usually the month commercial vines give up their fruit before being whisked away to the winemaker–cum–alchemist who turns the juice into wine. As a former vineyard owner (I sold up in January) harvest was always a nervy time of year, enough to drive you to drink. It represents nine months of pruning, de-leafing, weeding, replacing vines, and chemical spraying (yes, pesticides), all assisted by the right amount of rain and sun at the right times. By October, the grapes have, hopefully, the optimum balance of acid and sugar to allow the winemaker to make a balanced, palatable wine with good body.