Delay leads to increased pleasure when you set up a perfect shot of your dinner.
The very alliterative character of pulled pork suggested to me something bogus and contrived; after all, what do you do when you’re sold a pig in a poke if not disgustedly pull the cat meat out?
A delicate Soave with an elegant sea bream, a Muscadet with moules marinières, a salad slaked with self-effacing Vinho Verde, or an unoaked Chardonnay to water a risotto primavera.
Disraeli ate at Simpson’s; Gladstone, too; and George Bernard Shaw was a regular habitué until his greasy beard wavered too close to the spirit lamp on the carving trolley.
From Virginia Woolf's boeuf en daube to Bunny Garnett’s “orgy of squid”, the glorious new Bloomsbury Cookbook fleshes out the Group’s relationship with food.
If I make any oath of alliegance to honour my mother's nationality, it's to the American pancake, not the president.
There are few limits to the passion that sourdough can excite.
An organised cull of grey squirrels could also be a culinary opportunity.
Reams have been written about the British empire, but one culprit in the colonisation project has yet to receive its fair share of blame.
As a judge of the “beef and ale” category at the British Pie Awards, Felicity Cloake goes in search of fluffy suet pastry and rich, dark gravy.
Snap, crackle and pop is really this: the snap of our bones on the wheel of fate, the crackle of our skins in the fires of damnation, and the apoptosis that awaits our mortal cells.
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