Spectator Life

Once a staple of clubs and bars, the whisky and soda spent the latter-half of the 20th century on the wrong side of fashion. The popularity of clear spirits coupled with a curious belief that mixing whisky is a near-criminal act saw the serve relegated to the back bench. At least that was the case in Britain – in Japan, the humble highball became a religion. The bracing combination of fruity, flavoursome whisky combined with lots of ice and freezing cold soda water is served up and down the country. It’s meticulously assembled by bartenders in high-end cocktail bars, it’s served on draught in rowdy Izakaya, and sold in vending machines in train stations.

There are few things as good as soup for comfort and warmth. Though, with the very notable exception of Heinz tomato, I find ready-made soups invariably dull. The fresh counter ones are even worse than the tinned: bland, gloopy, surprisingly calorific and expensive for what is, after all, liquid food. When it comes to soup, I go for one of two approaches. When I need instant warmth and salty satisfaction I’ll have a mug of broth— Bovril beef tea, miso soup from a sachet, or even just a crumbled veggie stock cube in boiling water. And when I want a real meal, something nutritious and filling, I’ll make a proper blended soup.

Getting a takeaway doesn’t quite mean what it used to. The choice used to be between a pizza, ‘an Indian’ or ‘a Chinese’, and was reserved as a Friday night treat, to be eaten out the box while flopped on the sofa watching Cilla Black’s Blind Date. Nowadays one is as likely to order a truffle risotto as a Pizza Hut combo deal. Furthermore, many millennials and Gen Z-ers seem to have no qualms ordering takeaway several times a week, carefully transposing the slow-cooked beef Massaman curry onto bone china so they can pretend (to themselves or their Instagram followers) that it’s home-cooked – honest. But all these new trends give the old-school takeaway options a somewhat nostalgic appeal.

It’s not terribly surprising that the apple Charlotte is often mistakenly attributed to French chef Marie Antoine Carême; the so-called first celebrity chef is credited with inventing everything from the chef’s tall toque hat to the taxonomic arrangement of sauces, via creating an entirely new system of dining and service. Some of these have more credence than others; the Charlotte, however, does not have Carême to thank. The first recipe for an apple Charlotte appears in 1802 in at a time when Carême was still an apprentice, in The Art of Cookery Made Easy and Refined by John Mollard. In fact, the apple charlotte comes from British shores, and it was likely named after George III’s wife, Charlotte.

I have always been a bit of a stew-pusher; it tends to be my answer to any of life’s dilemmas, culinary or otherwise. Friends coming round? Stew. Cold and dark outside? Stew. Feeling sad? Stew. To be honest, it doesn’t matter whether or not the weather demands it, I am always in the mood for stew. I’d eat mince and dumplings in June, a slow-cooked sticky oxtail ragu in high Summer. But once Autumn arrives, and my obsession is legitimised by the cold and the dark evenings, there’s no stopping me. In our household, it’s casseroles from now until Spring. I struggle to think of something more comforting and cosy than a big, generous dish of braised meat, tender vegetables and a beautiful sauce arriving at the table.

African politicians often have a playful turn of phrase. The former president of Zambia, Levy Mwanawasa, was dubbed 'the cabbage' by his political opponents. There is nothing to suggest that the founding president of Malawi, Hastings Banda, was called 'the kidney bean' by the political opposition but he could’ve been. For banda/bhanda is the word for the kidney bean in the Malawian language of chichewa. Many culinary cultures vaunt their prowess with the kidney bean; it is of course a prized ingredient in Mexican and Cajun cuisine too. But prepared in the Indian-African manner, as a spicy curry-like stew and served with basmati rice ('bhat', in the Gujarati language of western India), it is wonderful: as warming and satisfying as a chilli, and perfect autumnal food.

When I was young, I watched a television show about a man who, possessed of the spirit of greed, ate gold and died. I recognised hubris then, and I recognise it now. In a country filled with foodbanks people are hungry to eat gold, which is, in food standard circles at least, called something less miraculous: E-175. E-175 usually comes in flakes, leaves or powder. It has no nutritional value. It passes through you, though of that there is no evidence on Instagram, which is a shame. They should really follow through. E-175 is big on Instagram, which is the engine of the fashion for eating gold. It is an entirely visual thing.

‘Casseroles,’ Julia Child wrote to her long-term penpal Avi DeVotos, ‘I even hate the name, as it always implies to me some god awful mess.’ On this, Julia and I are in full agreement: I have a real problem with the word ‘casserole’. And ‘stew’ for that matter. Both of them sound so unappetising, so school dinners. But Child and I are also aligned in our hypocrisy, because actually, deep down, I love a casserole, as long as you call it anything else. Like me, despite her vocal opposition to the casserole, Child loved bourguignons and carbonnades, coq au vin and poulet poele à l'estragon, and wrote about them with enthusiasm and appetite. Of course, all of these are casseroles, just with fancy (or specific) names.

Hackney’s rise in the 2000s from dangerous and affordable to cool, cooler and coolest eventually made it a kind of Chelsea of east London, with the expensive housing – house prices have grown 281 per cent between 2001 – and glamorous dining establishments to match. It may have become a magnet for Fullham exiles but Hackney never quite lost its aura of cool, and its transformation into one of the priciest areas of London has come not with a dumbing down but with the refinement of a distinctive, creative dazzle. The payoff? A proliferation of yummy, interesting restaurants.

There are some fruits which, while lovely cooked, are probably at their best fresh: nectarines and peaches, raspberries, mango. But blackberries, as delightful as they are eaten fresh from the bush mid-forage, come alive when cooked. As you heat blackberries, and they break down and give up their juices, begin to smell like violets and wine. They become more complex, perfumed; their sweet-sour flavour is softened into something more elegant, even more irresistible than when fresh. Normally in a pie, those beautiful juices are a cause for concern. They’re a one-way ticket to a soggy bottom, something we try to avoid with careful blind-baking, or pre-cooking, or layering the base with something like ground almonds to soak up any liquid.

The UK has something of a reputation for butchering those classic European dishes on which entire cultures seem to be founded. Think spaghetti carbonara creamy enough to make an Italian weep or the kind of rubbery, watery beef bourguignon that is the culinary equivalent of our grizzly, grey weather to any self-respecting Frenchman or woman. But perhaps no dish is more maligned or widely miscooked than Paella. Certainly, we’re not helped in this respect by our celebrity chefs. And the usual suspects are at it again – Jamie Oliver reportedly received death threats for adding chorizo to his version and Gordon Ramsay followed suit, eliciting a similar reaction.

A funny thing happened in lockdown. Bars shut but they seeded a growing crop of bottle shops that, since freedom has been declared have either turned back into, or become, bars in their own right. And now that we can, there is pure pleasure in twisting bottles around in the light, mulling labels and wine lists first hand instead of squinting at them online. There is also a comforting intimacy to wine bars that sits at odds with the clatter of a pub: an air of sophistication, even if you have no idea what the sommelier is talking about.

More than new pencil cases, name tapes, and the smell of school halls, back to school season always makes me think of proper puddings. There’s a category of pudding that seems reserved for properly old cookbooks, a handful of old-fashioned pubs, and dinner ladies. Spotted dick, cornflake tart, and jam roly poly. Perhaps its ubiquity at school lunches accounts for its ghoulish alias: dead man’s leg or dead man’s arm. School children have a taste for the macabre, but to be fair to them when the pudding is unwrapped and before it is sliced, it does look fairly uninspiring, and not a hundred miles away from a pallid limb. This probably wasn’t helped by the fact that, before baking parchment and foil were widespread, the pudding would be steamed in a shirtsleeve.

Any avid gin drinker will know that botanicals are all the rage at the moment. From juniper to orange peel to lavender, the ingredients list on the backs of bottles are getting more elaborate by the day, and seemingly more exotic. But what may come as a surprise is the growing number of distillers who are sourcing all of their ingredients in Britain. Tom Warner was one of the first distillers to incorporate homegrown botanicals into gin - a craze that has now taken off across the market.

What do you picture when you hear the term Art Deco? Fantastical ideas of Baz Lehrman’s Great Gatsby, gilded brasseries and de facto extravagance  fail to capture the pastiche of styles making up this early 20thcentury movement. Somehow, what was once a collective word for the artistic expressions that followed Art Nouveau has morphed into a dizzying, dancing circus troupe of hairbands, flapper dresses and sidecars. In Britain, the lasting legacy of the movement has been in our architecture.

I’m not sure that many people would choose the unassuming garibaldi as their favourite biscuit. Garibaldis aren’t flashy: there’s no luxury chocolate, no pretty, brightly-coloured icing, no fancy-pants shapes. They aren’t squidgy, trendy cookies, or wholesome buttery shortbread. In fact, they’re often called squashed-fly biscuits because the currants baked into the dough resemble, well, squashed flies. And yet, they persist. Garibaldi biscuits have stuck around for 150 years, outseeing fads and fickle consumers, keeping their place on supermarket shelves for longer than almost any other biscuit. The biscuits have an unlikely namesake: Giuseppe Garibaldi, an Italian General, who fought for Italian unification.