In the Critics this week

Craig Raine on Manet, Alexandra Harris on Britten, Toby Litt on Tracey Thorn, Cheryl Strayed interviewed and much more.

In the Critics section of this week’s New Statesman, poet, novelist and critic Craig Raine visits “Manet: Portraying Life” at the Royal Academy in London. Raine declares the exhibition “absorbing”. And comparing Manet with Rembrandt, Raine concludes that “Manet’s best portraits are conspicuous refinements, subtly understated, less dramatic, more realistic [than Rembrandt’s]”.

Our lead book reviewer this week is the writer and critic Alexandra Harris, who reviews Paul Kildea’s major new biography of Benjamin Britten, whose centenary is being celebrated this year. “Britten’s journey to the centre of British public life was amazingly rapid,” Harris notes, “and does not seem to have been much hampered by the chattering prejudice that followed wherever he went.” As befits a practising conductor, Kildea is particularly good on Britten’s music itself. “[His] verbal explorations of the music are done with level-headed sensitivity leavened by a quirky lightness of touch …”

Also in Books: Tim Bale, one of our leading historians of the Conservative Party, reviews Tory Modernisation 2.0, edited by Ryan Shorthouse and Guy Stagg (“The Tories are in far more trouble than they – particularly those on the Thatcherite and populist right – realise”); Jonathan Derbyshire reviews The Scientists: a Family Romance by Marco Roth (“The Scientists is not just an intellectual memoir, a memoir of reading … it is also a memoir of Roth’s father”); novelist Toby Litt reviews Tracey Thorn’s memoir Bedsit Disco Queen (“It’s no surprise that Bedsit Disco Queen is an immensely likeable book. Everything But the Girl are (were?) an immensely likeable band”; Nina Caplan reviews Lawrence Osborne’s alcoholic travelogue The Wet and the Dry: a Drinker’s Journey (“[Osborne] is not interested in cultures that exist without alcohol but in people who drink where drinking is forbidden”); and Kate Mossman reviews A Prince Among the Stones: That Business with the Rolling Stones and Other Adventures by Prince Rupert Loewenstein (“This is one of the funniest rock books I’ve read …”).

In his “Notes in the margin” column, Jonathan Derbyshire celebrates the New Statesman’s association with the Goldsmiths Prize, a new prize that will reward fiction that is “genuinely novel and which embodies the spirit of invention”. And in the Books interview, Derbyshire talks to American author Cheryl Strayed about her memoir, Wild. “I couldn’t have written this book at 26,” Strayed, who is now in her early forties, tells him. “I wasn’t yet the writer who wrote Wild. It takes years to become a writer.”

Elsewhere in the Critics: our classical music critic Alexandra Coghlan enjoys the opening week of the Rest is Noise festival at the Southbank Centre; Ryan Gilbey is not wholly convinced by Robert Zemeckis’s new film, Flight; Rachel Cooke sings the praises of Jonathan Meades’s BBC4 documentary The Joy of Essex; Andrew Billen reviews Polly Stenham’s No Quarter at the Royal Court and the Almeida’s stage adaptation of Henry James’s “The Turn of the Screw”; Antonia Quirke enjoys a BBC World Service documentary about chickens.

PLUS: Will Self’s Real Meals.

A visitor at the Royal Academy's Manet exhibition (Photograph: Getty Images)
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Yes, you could skip brunch and save for a deposit on a house. But why?

You'd be missing out. 

There’s a tiny café round the corner from me, a place so small that you have to leave your Bugaboo pushchair outside (a serious consideration in this part of the world), which has somehow become famous across town for its brunch. At weekends, the queue spills on to the road, with people patiently waiting for up to an hour for pancakes, poached eggs and pondy-looking juices served in jam jars. The food is just as good later on, yet there’s rarely much of a line after 2pm, because brunch is cool in a way that lunch isn’t. Where lunch is quotidian, brunch feels decadent – a real weekend treat.

Though the phenomenon is hardly new – the term was coined by a Brit back in 1895 – brunch has always been more popular in the United States than here, possibly because it’s a meal that you generally go out for and eating out has long been more affordable, and thus common, across the pond. Despite our proud greasy-spoon heritage, the idea of brunch as an occasion with a distinct character, rather than just a wickedly late breakfast, is relatively recent, and it owes much to the increasing informality of 21st-century life.

The Little Book of Brunch by Caroline Craig and Sophie Missing revels in the freedom that the occasion bestows upon the cook, falling as it does outside the long-established conventions of the three-meal
structure. “It’s the meal where you can get away with anything,” they write.

By way of proof, along with eggs Benedict and buttermilk waffles, the book features such novelties as ’nduja-and-egg pizza, spaghetti frittatas and lentil falafels – dishes that you could quite respectably serve for lunch or dinner, yet also contain the cosseting, comforting qualities necessary in a first meal of the day.

Though such culinary experimentation is no doubt attractive to the increasingly adventurous British palate, I suspect that the arrival on these shores of the “bottomless brunch”, a hugely popular trend in the US, may also have something to do with our new enthusiasm for the meal – to the concern of health experts, given that Americans seem better able to grasp the idea of drinking as many Bloody Marys as they can handle, rather than as many as they want.

As David Shaftel put it in an op-ed for the New York Times entitled, wonderfully, “Brunch is for jerks”, this meal is “about throwing out not only the established schedule but also the social conventions of our parents’ generation . . . revelling in the naughtiness of waking up late, having cocktails at breakfast and eggs all day. It’s the mealtime equivalent of a Jeff Koons sculpture.”

The Australian social commentator Bernard Salt agrees, blaming this taste for “smashed avocado with crumbled feta on five-grain toasted bread at $22 a pop” for the younger generation’s failure to grow up, take responsibility and save enough money to buy a house. But as critics observed, house prices in Sydney, like those in the UK, are now so high that you’d have to forgo your weekly avo toast for 175 years in order to put together a deposit, and so, perhaps, it’s not unreasonable to want to live in the moment instead. “We are not going out for brunch instead of buying houses: we are brunching because we cannot afford to buy houses,” as the journalist Brigid Delaney wrote in response.

Baby boomers got the free education, the generous pensions and the houses and left us with shakshuka, sourdough and a flat white. Seems like a fair deal. 

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 20 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, May's gamble

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