Julie Bindel

During the Covid lockdowns, I accrued a number of kitchen implements I used only once or twice before confining them to the back of the cupboard. One item that lurks among the mismatched Tupperware is a rather expensive chip pan, namely a deep fat fryer with a whacking three litre capacity, in stainless steel, with a viewing window. I live with one other person, not in a lesbian commune, so why I thought I needed one as big I cannot fathom. In fact, why I needed one at all I have no idea. Stuck at the back of my cupboards is a soda stream, coffee percolator, and an electric carving knife Then there is the pasta maker I could not resist buying, along with supplementary gadgets including a ravioli tablet; drying rack; and roller and cutter set.

My grannie, a proud working-class woman, had a fake crystal decanter on display in a glass cabinet, filled with weak tea. We all assumed it was sherry, and she didn’t disabuse us. I discovered the truth when I opened the lock with a hairgrip and took a swift glug. My face must have been a picture. Grannie worked in service, cleaning the house of a well-to-do family on the other side of the tracks. I reckon they had a proper decanter filled with the real McCoy, and she would have had the odd swig of it to help her get through scrubbing the fire grates. My relationship with sherry had a terrible beginning.

We’ve all been there, dragged along to the office/company/feminist protest group/a cappella throat-singing-society Christmas meal out. The idea of sitting around a huge table eating bad food with a group of people who either bore you rigid or who you actively dislike doesn’t seem particularly appealing. Why will the food inevitably be terrible, wherever you go? Because ‘tis the season to be scamming – restaurants make a large share of their annual income around Christmas and New Year and the general idea is to part you from as much of your dosh as humanly possible while serving you food that would normally be rejected as staff gruel.

Balsamic vinegar, according to a recent poll, is now considered an essential store cupboard ingredient by a quarter of all Brits. I detest it. This dark, syrupy fermented grape juice is like Marmite – you love it or hate it. Partly because it is overused, and also the numerous versions produced, I find myself flinching when I see it on a kitchen or dining room table. The Italians still behave, at least on the culinary front, as though they are a series of different countries When I first started travelling to Italy in the 1980s, I was given invaluable lessons in food crime: one, never, ever, under any circumstances, order a cappuccino after 10 a.m.

One of my favourite restaurants of all time serves mediocre food, has a limited menu, and occasionally brings a dish containing none of the advertised ingredients.  Why do I love it so? Because the service and the ambience are both a delight. The warm greeting from the proprietor who always remembers his customers’ names; the attentive (but not fawning) waiter who immediately produces menus and water without being asked; and the sommelier who recommends a perfect aperitif before talking us through the wines in a matter-of-fact way that belies the usual ‘You can really taste the terroir,’ and ‘This one is like a summer’s day in Provence.

It was September 2001 and I was in Zagreb, Croatia, at the end of two weeks in the Balkans. I was there to train law enforcers in counter-trafficking initiatives: the importation of women from that region into Western European sex markets was rife following the war in the 1990s. Police in the UK had disrupted several trafficking rings originating in the Balkans, and stories were emerging as to the horror their victims had endured. Well into our second bottle, I spotted a group of leather-jacketed men leading several women, each tottering on spike heels, through to the ballroom To put this trip in context, I had been sitting and talking with men in windowless rooms in Kosovo, Moldova, Albania and Macedonia for up to ten hours a day while they smoked and drank white spirits (from 8 a.

I was invited to speak at a conference in Barcelona in the late 1990s. At the end of a very long, hard day, my genial Spanish feminist hosts invited me to dinner, telling me they would meet me in the hotel lobby at 10.30 p.m. I almost went into some sort of traumatic shock. I was aware of the Catalonian reputation for eating late – sometimes as late as midnight, at weekends – but I was having none of it. I have been told by waiters that a bottle of wine is ‘too much for a lady on her own’ I bade my colleagues farewell and found myself a gorgeous little tapas bar that was open at 7.30 p.m. I ate bread with deep green olive oil, deep red tomato and roasted garlic, octopus salad with waxy potatoes, jamon croquettes, and a plate of marinated anchovies.

I’m always a bit wary when invited for the first time to a dinner party at a friend’s home; some of the least enjoyable social occasions I've ever attended have been misleadingly advertised as such. The inevitable email about ‘dietary requirements’ has been duly responded to. You’ve muttered to yourself about the time (8 o’clock? Why so late?) and worked out that because your hosts (and I use that word advisedly) live on the other side of London, you won’t be in bed before midnight. And the route is terrible – but never mind, it’s lovely to be invited to someone’s home for dinner, isn’t it? Why would anyone cook you a meal they've never attempted before? And how come some people are incapable of understanding cooking times? Welcome to a bad dinner party.

One Sunday morning, in an upmarket bakery packed to the hilt with women clutching yoga mats and men proudly carrying papoose-swaddled babies, I glanced around in search of a fresh loaf to serve for lunch. I saw the myriad of shapes, sizes, colours and textures of the loaves on display, and then noticed something. All but one, a seeded rye, were variations on the dreaded sourdough. When it was my turn to be served, I asked ‘Is there anything in the shop except for damned sourdough?’ Judging by the disgusted looks that came my way, I might as well have been asking whether anyone fancied kicking a few homeless people for a laugh.

Whenever it is suggested travelling south or north of the Thames to visit an ‘amazing’ restaurant I usually start conjuring up excuses. Across London seems a journey too far for food – but going across an ocean for it can be worthwhile. In NYC last year, I found myself with an evening off and, staying in the Lower East Side, made my way to the Bowery Meat Company. The menu was perfect: steak and seafood, excellent cocktails, and sides which included sublime creamed spinach and whipped potato that threatened to float off the plate. I usually eat oysters naked, but Bowery’s version – baked under a parmesan crust – was irresistible. The steak was thick, juicy and cooked to perfection, the fries hot and crunchy.