Julie Bindel

Honey enjoys almost superpower status. It is credited with healing viral infections, cuts, hay fever and insomnia, to name but a few of honey-curing maladies. On a regular basis, a particular honey is discovered that bodybuilders swear by, or religious leaders have considered akin to holiness. I had never been keen, considering it an overly sweet inconvenience of a food: however fancy the spoon used to dispense it, it somehow always ends up on my hands (and my hair) before it reaches the yoghurt. I have tended to stick with a very good quality dark brown sugar when in need of something to take the bitter edge off English strawberries.

I will never forget the horror of walking into the breakfast room, jet-lagged to hell, in a hotel in Chicago, looking for coffee and a sugar hit to wake me up. I was hit with the stench of barbecue, in waves. It was being deliberately wafted through the ventilation system. Apparently this is to help get the appetite going, but it had the opposite effect on me. As I discovered during that trip, barbecue can be a beautiful thing; Chicago is known for its great smokehouses and rib tips. The fake smell, manufactured especially for hotels and the kind of smokehouses that buy their ribs in, bore no relation to the real thing.

I love having friends over for dinner, and like to think I’m rather good at hosting. And while I always strive for a relaxed atmosphere and dislike formality, there are a few hard rules that my guests should adhere to if they want a repeat invitation. Let’s start at the beginning. When checking on any foods you don’t eat, I am asking if you are vegetarian or coeliac, or if you have an actual allergy; what I don’t want is a list of your preferences. One person I invited replied telling me all about how, although she quite likes fresh tomatoes, she can’t eat them cooked, adding that she’d rather the food wasn’t flavoured with cumin or oregano. I felt like telling her to stay home and order from Deliveroo.

There’s a joint in east London that describes itself as a ‘family-run osteria’ and posts about the ‘Italian tradition of generous hospitality and simple, beautiful food’. The menu is a combination of several Italian dishes with Japanese ingredients, and I can’t think of anything more inappropriate. One of the dishes described as dolce (meaning ‘sweet’) is a cheese panna cotta with herring caviar. This restaurant has soy sauce nudging the balsamic. Is there no end to the revolting madness that is fusion food? I can understand why young chefs – those tattooed to within an inch of their lives – think they are a cross between Anthony Bourdain and Marco Pierre White and love the idea of mixing miso and chocolate pudding. It has all gone too far.

A colleague took me out to dinner recently, repaying a favour. Ben likes his steak and we ended up at some high-end joint in Mayfair. Unsure what to order, I left it to him and was served Wagyu beef, which literally translates as ‘Japanese cow’. When it came, it was pale in colour with lines of fat running all the way through. It didn’t look like steak. Nor did it cut like one – I probably could have used a spoon. Worst of all, it didn’t taste like one. It was a bit like eating solidified grease that required no chewing and left a funny kind of aftertaste. More foie gras than steak – not just in terms of flavour and texture, but also in terms of force feeding.

Fancy a slappy? It’s not what you think – unless you’re from Wigan, in which case you’ll know exactly what I’m offering. A slappy, otherwise known as a ‘Wigan Kebab’, is a whole pie served inside a sliced barm cake (not cake, but a soft, sweetish bread roll). Wiganers are known as ‘pie eaters’. I don’t mind a slice of mince and onion or chicken and leek every now and again, preferably in winter – but I certainly couldn’t imagine indulging on a regular basis. But if I am to eat pie, it should be in Wigan. Don’t get me wrong, there is absolutely no way I would travel to Wigan especially, because – and I mean no offence to its inhabitants – there isn’t an awful lot else going for it. I can say this because I’m from Darlington.

Attempting to make lunch for a friend today, I discovered I had run out of anchovies – even though I always have some in stock: tins and jars of the salted variety in oil, tubs of boquerones in vinegar, and, lurking in the back of the fridge, a tube of anchovy paste. I was bordering on hysterical as I made my way to the local supermarket, only to find they too had run out. I instantly went online and ordered a massive tray of the salted ones that last forever to ensure this never happens again – though I know it will, because I use them all the time. One of the numerous uses for anchovies is as an integral part of a dressing for Caesar salad. Without it, the entire salad is a flop.

The drift began with the Anglicised version of tapas – a word meaning ‘to cover’, or ‘lid’, that originally described the small pieces of food used to cover and protect drinks. But ‘small plates’, now a mainstay of those fashionable, overpriced restaurants that pride themselves on being the antidote to stuffy and formal, have dominated the restaurant world for more than two decades. In Venice once, in the early 1990s, I ended up in a backstreet bacari, which is a booze and snack joint, as I couldn’t afford the restaurants in the centre. It was full of working men, and cheap as chips. Huge platters of cold mussels, cured ham, anchovies and crispy gnocchi sat behind a glass counter. Perched above the bar were a barrel of red, and one of white.

How’s this for a bargain? A Pizza Express margherita for only 33p, if you dine in and order between 5 and 6 p.m. tomorrow, to celebrate 60 years of the chain. ‘In 1965 we brought proper pizza to the UK, and what better way to mark those 60 years than with 60 minutes of our original pizzas at their original prices,’ reads the promotion. I love Pizza Express. I don’t often go there, but I’ve never had a bad time in the place. I almost always choose the American, which has been on the menu since it opened, and the service and food is always consistent. I have no expectation beyond my pizza being fresh out of the oven, and everybody being served at the same time, however big the table. That’s not, by any means, to say the menu is perfect.

When a press release for solar-powered sex toys popped into my inbox on 3 January, it dawned on me it could only mean one thing: we were already in the build-up to Valentine’s Day. A few days later, it was followed by the new aphrodisiac version of the Knorr stock cube, Knorrplay, and a set of champagne glasses adorned with red hearts. A couple of years ago I found myself overnight in Newcastle, with a male colleague. We were working hard on a harrowing story and decided a nice meal out would cheer us up. Not a chance in hell: neither of us had realised that the dreaded Valentine’s Day was upon us. Every single restaurant, from low-rent kebab joints right up to Michelin-starred gaffs, was full to the rafters with courting couples.

I love Italian food, and I love food writing and TV shows, so you might think I’d love Stanley Tucci. And yet I find him creepy and his recipes are rubbish. I can’t be the only one. The actor, who I first saw in the brilliant film Big Night, about a Jersey Shore Italian-American restaurant, is probably best known for The Devil Wears Prada, a film I adore. His character in that film did wind me up, but it took a while before Tucci himself got on my nerves. I suppose it began with him coming over all chef, like he’s the new Anthony Bourdain. I kept being told to watch his TV series where he travels around Italy, but the sight of his smug face on my screen turned out to be more than I could bear.

I love Italian food, and I love food writing and TV programmes, so you might think I’d love Stanley Tucci. And yet I find him creepy and his recipes are rubbish. I can’t be the only one. The actor, who I first saw in the brilliant film Big Night, about a Jersey Shore Italian-American restaurant, is probably best known for The Devil Wears Prada, a film I adore. His character in that film did wind me up, but it took a while before Tucci himself got on my nerves. I suppose it began with him coming over all cheffy, like he’s the new Anthony Bourdain. Who cares what Colin Firth eats when he’s round at the Tucci gaff? I kept being told to watch his TV series where he travels around Italy, but the sight of his smug face on my screen turned out to be more than I could bear.