Spectator Life

Let me introduce you to the performative chef. The performative chef is a man. He is between 23 and 29 years of age. Both of his arms are covered in fine-line tattoos. His favourite tattoo is a quote from Philip Larkin that reads: ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do.’ His parents are in fact lovely people, but he’ll never tell you that. He sports a mullet (or buzzcut depending on the season). He rides a fixed-gear bike to work. He exclusively wears oversized clothes. He talks to every stranger that will listen about getting an eyebrow piercing. He studied classics at a Russell Group university, not that it matters; he did the degree just because it was something to do.

There are few culinary experiences like the first bite of a Domino’s pizza. The finest N25 caviar or a perfectly seared lobe of foie gras surely can’t compare to the ecstasy that comes from that mouth-cutting cornmeal that they sprinkle all over the base, or that sweet, cloying ‘cheese’, or those tart, dancing cups of pepperoni. In these moments, resistance is futile. It’s not a question of whether this is the best takeaway pizza there is, or even the best food there is. It’s a question of whether this is the best thing there is. Of course, we know how it ends. Fifteen minutes later, caked in sweat, parched, filling yourself up like a swimming pool. And then, if you’re unlucky, an awakening in the middle of the night. You wheeze against the table.

No matter how much the cost of convenience food rises, the idea that it’s still cheaper than cooking fresh food at home somehow refuses to go away. People can fool themselves as much as they like. But it’s (overpriced) pie in the sky.  To be economical, choose chicken thighs over breast; lamb shoulder over leg. Veg offcuts such as broccoli stalk (for soups) and ginger peel (to flavour Asian stock). Leftovers for egg fried rice. Stale bread for croutons. The freezer is your friend: not just for peas and berries, but spinach and an ice cube tray of leftover wine for cooking too. Oxo over refrigerated supermarket stock; Bird’s over fresh custard; lard over butter. It's handy to also use ingredients that don’t differ wildly between basic and premium versions.

You won’t find it in any of the ‘best pub’ guides that seem to appear every other week, but our local is the best pub simply because it’s, well, our local. And that is why our village has come together to save it from permanent closure. The White Horse Inn in Westleton – one of around a dozen pubs in Suffolk with that name – was put up for sale last year by the county’s foremost brewery, Adnams, as they looked to slim down their estate. It was hoped that, as with other pubs in the area, some enterprising new owners would come and take it over, tart it up and give it a new lease of life. But the longer it failed to sell, the more it seemed that it would end up, like so many others in Britain, falling into the hands of developers.

There’s no shortage of catastrophic predictions for New York under Zohran Mamdani’s leadership. While the city probably won’t see breadlines, the wildly expensive, exhaustingly derivative restaurants that dominate its food scene are likely to become more dominant. Mamdani’s big pledge on food is to ‘make halal eight bucks again’. But it’s a ‘false promise’ of street-food affordability according to Heritage Foundation economist Nicole Huyer. She says Mamdani’s economic programme, which includes higher taxes, steeper leasing regulations and a pledge to raise the minimum wage to $30 an hour by 2030, will effectively make restaurants even more expensive.

You saw Homicide: Life on the Street, right? You know, that gritty TV police drama set in Baltimore. What? Ah, no, you’re thinking of The Wire, that other gritty TV police drama set in Baltimore, the one with Idris Elba and Dominic West. Homicide predates The Wire and was filmed largely around Fells Point and along Baltimore’s historic waterfront. The former City Recreation Pier, which stood in for the police department, is now a swanky hotel, the Sagamore Pendry Baltimore, in whose comfortable embrace I have just wallowed. Baltimore doesn’t have a great reputation. Whenever I tell American friends I’ve been there they affect horror and ask what on earth I was thinking. Couldn’t I have gone to Boston, New Orleans, New York, Washington D.C.

I was recently in a café that promoted its salads as being served with ‘low-fat dressing’. I couldn’t possibly imagine what that might be: no olive oil? That stuff you spray on the pan when on some god-awful calorie-controlled diet? It turned out to be bottled – bought in from a supermarket – and contained lots of yoghurt, vegetable oil and dried herbs. I ordered a ham sandwich. The very basis of any salad dressing is a good-quality, fruity, preferably first-press or at least virgin olive oil. All the other ingredients are up for grabs, and can even be the subject of fairly robust arguments – at least in my house. My partner Harriet was first taught how to dress a salad by her father, during a holiday in Italy.

Sometimes a small detail in a news story tells you more than a months-long investigation splashed across the front page. ‘Starmer appears to realise that he needs to do more to connect with his party and has begun a new charm offensive,’ the Sunday Times reported. Some MPs have been invited for breakfast and ‘No. 10 has apparently purchased a new toaster to cater for the demand.’ There we have it, ladies and gentlemen. Keir Starmer’s secret weapon in his war against British decline: a few slices of Hovis and an awkward offer of jam. ‘Aerrr, are you planning to, um, support our Borders Bill? Oh, so sorry, we’ve got some Utterly Butterly somewhere. Morgan, would you mind looking in the kitchen?

Our economy is stagnating, our borders and our welfare state flung open to those who despise us. We once threw railway lines around the world and now struggle to build one to Birmingham. Free speech is under threat, and it’s almost impossible to get hold of a decent lettuce. I do not mean to be too gloomy. I hate those who think themselves virtuous for always looking on the glum side of life. I accept there is much to celebrate. We live longer and healthier lives. Children rarely die. People can read and books are cheap. In the veg aisle of the little Sainsbury’s Local on the new housing estate you find tarragon and pak choi and sourdough, and tomatoes raised somewhere better than Holland.

‘Live fast, die old’ ran the strapline to the David Brent: Life On The Road film a decade ago. The movie itself was a textbook example of how unwise it is to attempt to cash in on the earlier (read: much funnier) successes of your career. Not that Ricky Gervais gives a damn while residing in his Hampstead mansion, of course. As increasingly pompous as his persona now is, I’ve finally reached a place where I know I’d rather have a night out with Brent than with his creator. There would be pathos. But there would at least be lager. Although I’m certain that a 2025 London ‘big’ night out with Slough’s finest former paper salesman would almost certainly take place at the Hard Rock Café.

I don’t know how many teenagers are given a frying pan for their 18th birthday. Perhaps my friends managed to intuit my food-writing future, despite my party piece back then being an extremely tomato-heavy bolognaise. Twenty-five years on, having somehow survived university halls of residence and flatmates using – the horror – metal utensils in it, that beautifully thick-bottomed frying plan lives at the bottom of an excessively large pile of frying pans, well past its best. But even as the pile threatens to get taller than the cupboard, I can’t bear the idea of throwing it away. I’ve loved and lost too many pans to count. I had a little milk pan, perfect for a single portion of porridge, until the surface started flaking off.

My quince tree thrives – proof that nature can overcome adversity. I planted it, and I am a bad gardener. Childhood hours spent waiting for my mother to finish watching Gardeners’ World left me with fond memories of Percy Thrower, but in place of horticultural skill I inherited indolent incompetence. Our garden did not seem so big when we moved from a flat a decade ago. But for most of the second half of the 20th century, the former occupant of our house had been a keen gardener. Carefully planted beds, it turns out, need care, which I have failed to provide. Each spring I wage a blood feud with ground elder, to the point where I hallucinate its leaves.