Food and Drink

Smart Italian restaurants in cultural destinations are like buses: you wait ages for one and suddenly two come along at once. I recently praised Locatelli at London’s National Gallery. Returning to the city, it is the turn of Cicoria at the Royal Ballet and Opera, Covent Garden; a joint under the aegis of Angela Hartnett, well-known for her upscale restaurant Murano in Mayfair, her casual chain Cafe Murano and her frequent appearances on the box. Surprisingly few of the world’s great opera houses have given much thought to catering, although things are improving. I ate very well recently at Madrid’s Teatro Real and you can push the boat out with caviar at the Met in New York.

There’s no shortage of catastrophic predictions for New York City under Zohran Mamdani’s leadership. While we probably won’t see breadlines, the wildly expensive, exhaustingly derivative restaurants that dominate the New York 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 program, 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.

Sometimes, cooking is art. Other times, it’s science. When it comes to baking, both are involved, which is what can cause problems for those who are otherwise skilled in the kitchen. Whereas throwing together ingredients and tossing them in the slow cooker or on the grill can produce delicious results, baking demands precision. I have experienced great successes when making a host of dishes that don’t require me to get overly scientific A little too much sugar in the dough can cause cookies to flatten, caramelize or end up burned. Setting an oven to the wrong temperature – or failing to preheat – can produce bread or cakes that are unevenly cooked.

In the global poker game of cultural repatriation – otherwise known as who nicked what from whom – the Greeks seriously upped the ante with the opening of the Acropolis Museum in 2009. This lavish display of archaeological treasures in a light-filled building designed by the Swiss architect Bernard Tschumi is, alongside the recently opened Grand Egyptian Museum in Cairo, an exemplar of such a building’s mission to educate and inspire. In the tradition of polemic buildings, it is also a $200 million plea to return the Elgin Marbles from the British Museum to Greece.

I remember the day I heard my culinary hero Daniel Humm had decided to make Eleven Madison Park’s menu plant-based. It was as profound as the day Princess Diana died and as pivotal as the birth of my first child, Lily Elvis. The news tore the joy from my heart as well as all the love and respect I had for Humm. The toil, tenacity and sheer stamina it took him to earn his three Michelin stars is extraordinary. Who am I to criticize one of the greatest chefs alive today? I’m a nobody. Yes, I’ve worked at three-Michelin-starred restaurants, served Queen Elizabeth II and starred in the BBC’s Great British Menu but I’m just a cook: nothing more and nothing less.

All butter is made from carbon, but not all butter is carbon butter. This is the name being given to a new environmentally friendly, 100 percent ethical lab-made food product. There’s not an udder, churn or milkmaid in sight. Carbon butter is yet another one of those foods of the future we’re told about, with wide-eyed, breathless enthusiasm, that will transform the way we eat as well as our health, save the planet and make sure there are enough calories to go round when the world hits a population of 10 billion, at some point in the next decade or two. A few years ago, it was cockroach milk – four times more nutritious than cow’s milk, said Bloomberg, excitedly – plant-based meat and “cultured oil.” Now, it’s the turn of carbon butter.

I adore broccoli, but I despise seeing it shrink-wrapped and kidnapped in the grocery store. The sight of those slightly compressed, yellowing florets sweating under fluorescent morgue lighting is a rude tap on the shoulder from dystopia. That’s why I was in my basement in late August, cleaning out the propagation tent while everyone else was still at the beach. My goal each year is to enjoy homegrown broccoli with Christmas dinner. In this corner of the Mediterranean, that’s about as likely as a French civil servant answering the phone after lunch. But with precision timing and bloody-mindedness you can pull it off. And after years of suffering those supermarket specimens, I’m determined to.