In the 1910s, deliveries of London’s finest beers were made by horse and cart. Now, in Hackney Wick, breweries are staging a revival.
I can understand the logic of opening a branch of Dirty Burger in Shoreditch – but Vauxhall? Although the spirit of gentrification is taking up residence here, the fact remains the place is still what is scientifically termed a shithole.
Most fizzy drinks are vile, yet some of those still do duty as mixers – the point here being, presumably, to cancel out one horrible taste with another.
You are inclined to think that polenta and gnocchi, blinis and burritos have always been with us. But they are not part of our collective conscience as they would be for the people who grew up eating them.
Less than a century ago Iraq’s ancient Jewish community made up a third of Baghdad’s population but is now estimated at no more than seven individuals.
This is perfect comfort food for those who’re feeling vertiginous as they contemplate the giddy extent of the ever-inflating London property bubble.
Philip moved his court frequently and I believe his reasons had to do with drink: half of his lands produced wine, the other half beer.
In January 2013, there were just 15 micropubs, almost all of them in Kent. A year later, there were more than 40, spread across the country.
Blackberries make an excellent fool and a decent autumnal replacement for summer cherries in a clafoutis, as well as a lovely fruity sauce for the first of the season’s game.
Nicholas Lezard’s Down and Out column.
A cheerfully-purchased memento mori is forcing Eleanor Margolis to rethink her dietary choices. At least in the bedroom.
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