Food

So far this summer we’ve had the blackouts in Portugal and Spain, that rather astonishing Heathrow fire, yet more sabre-rattling between Russia and America and the former head of the Army warning that Britain must be ready for the ‘realistic possibility’ of war within five years. Then there was an old general on the radio telling civilians to prepare themselves for the struggle both mentally and practically – by stocking up on foodstuffs, loo roll, an FM radio and cash. Normally I don’t do what the radio tells me, but he got me thinking. And it turned out my wife – who is an actuary and is to risk what the Wicked Witch of the West is to tap water – had been pondering something similar. So we’ve begun ‘prepping’.

There’s something about motorway service stations that seems to encourage the very worst in human behaviour. They’re places where no doubt usually responsible members of society have long decided that it’s permissible to drop semi-industrial amounts of litter on to the verges, urinate all over the toilet floor and belch with impunity while queuing up for a Whopper at Burger King. For me, it was the full-to-the-brim child’s nappy that someone had left on a chair in the revolting ‘sit down café’ at a services near Preston that made me decide that I would never set foot in a Welcome Break, Moto or Roadchef ever again. I’m lucky; I have a bladder that can tolerate journeys of four or five hours by car. My fiancée, however, is not equipped with such sturdiness.

At a time when Britain feels increasingly unstitched – with families queuing at food banks and sewage drifting from rivers to seas – it’s almost impressive that anyone has the emotional energy to be annoyed by vegans. Yet we continue to provoke strong feelings, and Katie Glass gave strong voice to them in these pages last week. So allow me to be annoying again, and disagree. Katie says veganism is becoming an ‘extremist’ lifestyle. But to be vegan is, quite simply, to opt out. We choose, as consistently as possible, not to hurt, kill or exploit animals – nor to induce others to do it on our behalf. That’s it. What’s truly extreme is the cruelty that vegans refuse to be part of. More than 92 billion land animals are slaughtered for food each year.

As I sit under the sole tree on a Spanish beach, watching my fellow Brits shudder at the writhing horror show contained in the restaurant’s seafood display, it strikes me the middle classes don’t actually much like the dead-eyed edibles under the waves – we’re just conditioned to pretend to because eating them is supposedly chic. Sure, we extol fish as a sustainable and sophisticated source of high-quality protein, vitamin D and what sounds like K-pop’s next girlband, omega-3. It’s the well-informed, thinking man’s dinner, akin to choosing a Tesla before Elon Musk’s meltdown phase. But let’s be honest: the glassy stare (I’m still talking about the fish), the slimy skin (still fish) and the teeth that could make a dentist cry (fish) do not scream yum.

Rummage through any middle-class pantry or browse the shelves of an artisanal deli and you’ll spot a constellation of stars. One star denotes ‘simply delicious’. Two suggests ‘outstanding’. Three? ‘Exquisite.’ The stars are handed out by the Great Taste Awards, run by the Guild of Fine Food, which was founded by Bob Farrand in 1992. This year’s 14,340 hopefuls will hear how they fared today, with judging having closed earlier this month after 110 days of tasting across seven locations. Only 787 products currently hold the top rating.

This week Billie Eilish served up a reminder of the irritations of veganism. She forced the O2 to go fully plant-based during her six-night run of shows – and the Daily Mail reported that fans, who’d paid £70+ for a ticket to see her, were not happy about the food on offer at the arena. One said: ‘Punters were less than impressed with the vegan options – a mixture of pizzas, cauliflower bits and loaded fries – with more than one asking “Did they run out of meat or something?”.’ But I expect their real irritation had little to do with the food itself – and everything to do with having vegan-only options shoved down their throats. So, what exactly is it that’s so annoying about veganism? In part, perhaps it’s how fashionable it’s become.

I love dogs. I love lunching. I love seeing dogs in restaurants where I’m lunching. But one thing I don’t love one bit is a dog being brought to a luncheon which I’m participating in – and, most likely, paying for. Luncheons are for humans – not for our furry friends. Let’s face it, it’s not like they’re particularly thrilled to be indoors while their owners indulge in a little light character assassination. They’d be having far more fun running around outside eating vomit and sniffing each other’s bums. They can be big dogs, like the one belonging to my friend K. His gentle nature is swamped by the physical reality of him being the size of a small horse and taking up enough room for two people in a snug bistro.

You will be familiar with the 1930s line, “Whenever I hear the word culture, I reach for my gun.” Whenever I hear the word culture I reach for the nearest restaurant. Culture makes me hungry and there is no better place to post-mortemize the latest exhibition or concert than from a comfortable seat in a local joint. For 19th-century progressives, railway stations were the most in-your-face examples of a new and better world. “The railway station is the highest monumental and artistic expression of the industrial and commercial genius which so specially characterizes the era in which we live,” César Daly proclaimed in 1861.

In the depths of winter last year, an ice cream and wine bar opened in Islington. The Dreamery serves ice creams and sorbets in silver goblets with tiny vintage spoons. On the ceiling is a glowing mural of happy cows and a sun with a face, resembling a child’s finger-painting (the artist is Lucy Stein, daughter of Rick). Outside, neighbours whisper about a recent Dua Lipa spotting. The Dreamery is inspired by the Parisian ice cream and wine bar Folderol, and makes fairly sophisticated flavours such as salted ricotta blueberry and Greek mountain tea. It is TikTok chic – a gamble, after Folderol unwillingly became a viral sensation and ended up sticking up signs saying: ‘No TikTok. Be here to have fun, not to take pictures.

Chet Sharma – physicist, DJ and award-winning chef – only needs to sleep for four hours a night. “I inherited [this gift] from my mother,” shrugs the Londoner when we talk one morning before lunchtime service at his restaurant, BiBi. “She has unlimited energy!” Raised in Berkshire, England, to parents with Indian heritage, Sharma has a master’s degree in clinical and experimental medicine from University College London, as well as a master’s in physics and a PhD in condensed-matter physics from the University of Oxford. It was during those seven years studying that he also moonlighted as a cook and a DJ. “I’d do university in the morning, dinner service at a restaurant [at night], and at 11 p.m.

The Lake District isn’t really meant to be about eating. It’s about walking and climbing and gawping. The guide one carries is not that by Michelin but Alfred Wainwright, whose seven-volume Pictorial Guide to the Lakeland Fells turns 70 this year. Food is mainly to be consumed from a Thermos rather than a bowl, and eaten atop a precariously balanced upturned log rather than a restaurant table. The culinary highlight should be Kendal mint cake, gratefully retrieved from the pocket of your cagoule. And so I was as surprised as anyone to find real gastronomic delights on a recent trip. Not from Little Chef, though that was where Wainwright religiously went for his favourite meal: fish and chips, a gooseberry pancake and cup of tea.