Will SelfWill Self is the author of seven novels, six collections of stories and five collections of non-fiction. His most recent novel is The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds column for the New Statesman as well as the Real Meals column.
Articles in Real Meals
On the dockside in Boston I spotted Fia’s Seafood – they were offering “twin lobsters” for $28.95; I ventured in and asked if the lobsters were identical or non-identical tw
Jamie Oliver – like the poor he so adores – seems always to be with us; to be with us and to have been with us always as well, although it’s only 14 years since he first thrust hi
It’s Tuesday afternoon and I feel like going to synagogue.
Five Guys is a US fast-food chain that’s been high-profile there for some years now.
Heading very slowly across town to the Slug & Lettuce in the Borough, I kept looking behind me to check that I was leaving a man-sized slime trail on the pavement.
So, I load da inner-city ghetto boyz up in the gun wagon and we head south in a swampy summer rainstorm.
Back in the 1970s, when the world was just as evil and scuzzy as it is today but my gastrointestinal tract had a certain innocence – and even freshness – there was a pizza joint in Hamp
I once had lunch with the late Malcolm McLaren.
I’ve always found George Gordon (Lord Byron) to be the most proximate of those literary and historical figures whose towering eminence and temporal removal should, by rights, place them at a
How to describe it? How to articulate the effect provoked in me by these artfully aligned and textured surfaces?
I once asked Martin Amis how an interview had gone with a particular journalist and he thought for a moment before shrug-sneering, “Well, y’know, he was a Tim.” When I wa
I was in Basel so I thought I’d check out some raclette, a melted-cheese experience that defines Switzerland as surely as the hollowed-out Alps full of Nazi gelt and aggressively policed recy
I have the impression that Spudulike has been in steady retreat for some years now; their website lists a modest 45 outlets blobbed across the forked mash of the British hinterlands, but surely thi
‘‘Which,” I asked the nice young man in Le Pain Quotidien, “is the most daily of your breads – by which I mean the most popular?” To his credit he wasn’t f
I thought it might be a good idea to depart this year with an explosive fart rather than a whimpering burp, so I arranged to meet a young radical friend of mine at the Spaghetti House in Knightsbri
The “spatialisation of culture under the pressure of organised capitalism” is how the veteran critical theorist Fredric Jameson described the Westin Bonaventure Hotel in downtown Los An
Nick Lezard, whom I met at Prezzo for one of our twice-per-lustrum inter-columnar suppers, told me that prezzo means “price” in Italian.
Numbers of giraffes (Girrafa camelopardalis) in the African wild have more or less halved over the past decade, while the numbers of Giraffes (Restaurant pseudoglobalis) in the ur
In John Steinbeck’s Depression-era novel, The Grapes of Wrath, the Joad family, forced off their farm by the Oklahoma Dust Bowl, head west to the promised land of California.
The last thing you want to hear about is my bowels – I know that.
It’s worth recalling the infamous “black dinner” from J-K Huysmanns’s Á Rebours, the so-called immoral book that the prosecution counsel insisted on reading
As we drove down the broad stretch of Highway 9, which, under its guise as State Street, forms the main thoroughfare of Hurricane, Utah, my 14-year-old confided that he found the girl on the illumi
I haven’t felt that I’ve done the great British institution of fish and chips full justice.
Happy birthday to the hegemon!
I haven’t eaten a real meal in the past ten days – if by “real” is implied a repast the consumption of which lies on the scale between “automatic” and “hea
The joint is called “Mariners” – which is fair enough: somewhere has to be – but there’s nothing oppressively nautical about the place.
I emailed my friend Zee who is half German, half Pakistani, but was raised in Britain and now lives in Cologne. “I’ll be on your hof next week,” I wrote.
Ask not what your country can do for you – instead, go to yet another chain Italian restaurant and order some farinaceous foodstuff that will make your stomach swell up like that of a cow tha
It was said of Guy de Maupassant that he ate dinner every evening in the restaurant on the upper deck of the Eiffel Tower, and when asked why he did this he replied: “It&r
In keeping with the convergence of downtown Los Angeles – as depicted in Blade Runner (1982) – and Britain’s metropolitan regions, there is an increasing number of noodle