The latest tiff between toffs gives plenty of food for thought.
It’s funny how one’s stamina diminishes with age. I once drank Hunter S Thompson pretty much under the table many years ago but these days I find 6am is pretty much my cut-off point.
Nigerian peanut sauces, Japanese pastries and German sausages, Portuguese salt cod and an Amazonian duck dish made with the cyanide-laced juice of the wild cassava root.
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.
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