Spectator Life

What gift is good enough for the Queen? A crop of French Perigord black truffles (worth £150-£200 per 100g) is no bad choice – as Prince Philip discovered after 12 years of fruitless attempts to coax the mushroom into growing on the Queen's Sandringham estate. Aside from making the Duke of Edinburgh reportedly the first person to cultivate black truffles from English soil, the success also fulfilled a decades-long obsession he had developed with the elusive fungi. His love affair with these 'black diamonds' is said to have begun in the 60s after the Duke was taken on a truffle-hunting excursion in Italy by his uncle, Earl Mountbatten of Burma. 'We were never allowed to buy fresh truffles at the palace.

There's an air of familiarity about the former head chef of Claridge's penchant for plant-based food. It was reported this weekend that he has left his role after the hotel passed on his plans for an entirely plant-based menu. All credit to Claridge's who are one of the few institutions not to have swallowed this particular culinary cool aid. And yet these sorts of gastro-themed spats are becoming all too common. The all-or-nothing attitude of many plant-based devotees has made dining out an increasingly divisive experience. Remember when the 'vegetarian option' meant making do with a cheese omelette and ethical eating involved skipping the prawn cocktail starter and going straight for the steak and chips?

There are some dishes on which I am well aware I hold strong opinions: toast (well done but not burnt, real butter, generously spread; must be eaten hot), crumble (crunchy, not soggy, lots of it; simply must be served with custard, ideally cold), roast chicken (cooked hot and fast, with more butter than is sensible, until the skin crackles; the chicken oysters are always cook’s perks). But some catch me unawares. I don’t realise that I feel strongly about a particular recipe of foodstuff until I’m staring down the barrel of a recipe, or contemplating something that doesn’t meet my surprisingly exacting standards. I’ll find myself holding forth on the correct way to make an egg mayonnaise sandwich, or the one true way of cooking porridge.

At this time of year, nothing beats a cosy tavern with steamed up windows, a roaring fire and hearty food. ‘Gastropubs’ have come under some justified criticism over the years: trying too hard to be restaurants and with prices to match, pricing out their former loyal clientele. Too many regular pubs meanwhile are happy to serve microwaved food or, as is the fashion nowadays, mediocre Thai cuisine. Pub or gastropub, the most successful food offerings at a good watering hole are often the pies. With any luck there will be options: picnic pies with hot water crust pastry (Crystelle from Bake Off recently produced a good-looking curried chicken and potato terrine pie) and the likes of shepherd’s pie topped with buttery mash.

Marble cakes are a simple concept, but such a satisfying bake, with that delightful reveal when you cut into the cake and expose the hidden pattern. They are made by dividing the base cake batter, and adding colouring or flavouring to one part of it, and then mottled by dolloping light and dark batter alternately into the same cake tin. They were a feature of my childhood, but feel a little passé now, which is a shame, as they’re well worth your baking energies. I think it’s time to bring them back. Now, many marble cake recipes will simply use a basic pound cake recipe, and introduce a couple of tablespoons of cocoa powder to half of the batter.

There’s never been a better year to celebrate Bonfire Night. Late night, outdoor, responsible fun to enjoy now that there’s precious little else to do after 10 p.m. Plus it’s surely therapeutic to remind ourselves that while things are currently a little tough going and hosting a dinner party in your home is an act of high treason, the country had its fair share of problems in 1605 too. Round-the-fire cooking isn’t the same as barbeque cooking: utensils are at a minimum; heat control is down to a wing and a prayer. This is ‘chuck it near the heat and pray the kids won’t go hungry’ cooking. So here are six things to try on 5th November, when you can’t face another toasted marshmallow.

If you’re bracing for a bleak winter by lining up a box-set binge, then at least there’s a glut of options on the gogglebox right now. And as you settle on the sofa, the moment will be capped if you find the most appropriate drink to sip as you get square eyes. Here then, are some perfect pairs. Succession, with Old Fashioned Sky Atlantic/HBO’s Succession revels in a luxurious backdrop of deal-making private helicopter drops and tête-à-tête tension on over-sized yachts, along with impossibly expensive tailoring, timepieces and indeed discerning drinks.

I must have written thousands of words about my love of stews, braises, and slow-cooked dishes, but osso bucco must be one of my longtime, unchanging favourites. Osso bucco comes from the Northern Italian region of Lombardy, and is made from braised veal shanks. It’s a cut that not only benefits from, but really needs, a low slow cook, bathing in stock and booze, until the meat is tender enough to be broken apart with the edge of a fork. The dish name literally translates as ‘hole in the bone’, which quietly points to the magic of the dish (or, you could argue, misses it entirely).

Well done, Joanna Lumley. The 75-year-old actress has solved the climate crisis. She proposes a return to wartime rationing when shoppers had to surrender government coupons whenever they bought meat, sugar, petrol, bread and even soap. ‘You’re given a certain amount of points,’ she told the Radio Times, ‘and it’s up to you how to spend them, whether it’s on a bottle of whisky or flying in an aeroplane.’ The rarer the pleasure, the greater the relish. It sounds ideal. We can defeat the climate crisis by tightening our belts and agreeing to a common set of rules. And on Thursday evenings we’ll stand on our doorsteps flapping our ration-books and cheering like maniacs. However, it's likely that double standards will emerge.

There was a nifty about-turn last week when the so-called Nudge Unit, the government’s behavioural policy advisory body, abandoned its proposals to get us to shift towards a plant-based diet and away from eating meat. Among other exciting intiatives it suggested 'building support for a bold policy' such as a tax on producers of mutton and beef. It pointed out that the government could get people used to a vegetarian diet through its spending in hospitals, schools, prisons, courts and military facilities – you can just imagine how that would go down with soldiers, prisoners and patients – and declared that a 'timely moment to intervene' would be when people are at university. But it also acknowledged that an 'unsophisticated meat tax would be highly regressive'.

Chocolate cake comes in many different guises: from the dark and rich, to the sweet and simple. For me, it’s not like the ultimate cookie, or the perfect brownie: I don’t believe that there is one, definitive chocolate cake. I do not spend my days searching for the platonic version; trying to rank a chocolate fudge cake above or below a a cream-filled Yule log or a chocolate chunk-studded, plain loaf cake is like comparing apples and oranges. I think, instead, that there is a perfect chocolate cake for every mood. For a party, I want something crowd-pleasing, sweet and tender, with old-fashioned milk chocolate icing; it must cut cleanly, and not crumble.

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.