 Oh, the faux-pas
of serving a dish at a soiree which was, as far as you knew, the pinnacle of haute-cuisine, only to find out that it is so Last
Year. It leaves today’s wannabe hostess tip-toeing through a minefield of edible
embarrassments. Sun-dried tomatoes. Are they still ok? NO WAY. I’ve seen them in a
supermarket in Canvey. What about pesto? You can get it in jars now…. Better cross out prawn cocktail and
black forest gateau too. Though I guess they have a certain post-ironic charm these days.
What goes around comes around.
I try one of those BBC2 cookery
shows for a spot of advice…
Some worthy gentleman on the box
takes me back to his schooldays with “comfort food,” smugly informing of the
illicit joys of Syrup Sponge and Lancashire Hot Pot. But don’t fool yourself that
you’ll be getting the stodgy delights traditionally associated with these dishes. Oh
no. These are hothouse hybrids, mere micro-spots of sultana sponge in the middle of a
giant white plate topped with a drizzle of crème anglaise in place of the true Spotted
Dick.
Where are the treats we really ate in those halcyon days? Where are the
e-numbers, the processed packaging and the grapefruits covered in silver foil with cheese
and pineapple sticks? Where are the nuclear-pink swiss buns covered in
hundreds and thousands or the dayglo orange-squash of childhood parties?
There are “natural”
colour glace cherries in my supermarket. What was ever natural about glace cherries, for Heaven’s
sake?
When I was a
kid and my mum made the Christmas cake, the sight of red, green and yellow glossy balls of
refined sugar signalled the season far more than a host of Blue Peter Advent Crowns. They
had about as much to do with the actual fruit as Cherry Coke. They were the colour of
baubles, of Rudolf`s nose, of holly berries. They weren`t "natural." Thank God.
 I recently checked out a
not-even-particularly-hip catering course. It displayed a centre-pyre of culinary lepers
such as iceberg lettuce and zig-zag tomatoes, food fashion-victims all. Why on earth
should I have to insist on flat-leaved parsley,
and not that vulgar curly stuff, which I’m rather fond of even if it is inextricably
linked in my memory with my childhood pariah, boiled skate. (I really hated that. Oh,
don’t tell me. Skate’s in?)
The Taste Squad are everywhere.
Some chap calling a radio phone-in recently was sniffily dismissed by the agony-chef for
enjoying deep fried camembert. OK, so
it’s the culinary equivalent of shell-suits – but if he likes it,
that’s surely his choice?
The biggest
quandary of all is what to tell Uncle Ted. Dare I risk general humiliation by serving a
pudding he will genuinely enjoy, or stick a vanilla pod in a lychee and call it dessert?
You can also take a look at previous
personal views:
Personal view 6 - The big lie
Personal view 7 - How I became a
serial killer
Personal view 8 - Rebranding
feminism
Personal view 9 - Here`s looking at
you kid
Personal view 10 - Waiting for Mr Ballcock
Personal view 11 - Sofa so good
Personal view 12 - Memories of Marzipan
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