The more you consider the crumb, the more you sense the world about you crumbling – while we ourselves are but crumbs scattered on the face of the earth.
A court has ruled that the Snowball is a cake, not a biscuit, and is exempt from tax. It’s not the first snack to wriggle out of extra charges.
Spain has emerged from ossification since Franco’s death, and nowhere more admirably than in its wine industry.
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.
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.
This culinary powerhouse is so easy to prepare that to accuse someone of not being able to boil one is a grave insult.
On the scale of outrages this ranks fairly low but I am driven to complain by a desire for simplicity and purity.
Alcohol in powdered sachet form: what could possibly go wrong?
An enoteca in Spitalfields, east London, will be selling a different Tuscan red by the glass each day, with dishes to match.
Can only native Italians bake real pizza and must they hail from Naples for it to be authentic?
Cardamom and fenugreek, garlic and chilli, black pepper and sea salt: just some of the grotesque additives with which these Shropshire smallholders coat their death discs.
The new multicultural South Africa should stop banging on about Pinotage and embrace Cinsault, a French grape so cosmopolitan that it’s even comfortable with curry.
Sue Douglas’s Diary.
French-Algerian writer Sarrazin was in prison for armed robbery when she wrote her autobiographical first novel. The singer-songwriter Patti Smith celebrates a book that guided her through her youth.
The dark underworld of West Yorkshire rhubarb forcing.
Cinemas warn you to put your mobile phones on silent but say nothing about the clash of jaws or the gargling of gullets.
It's not all about whisky north of the border.
Two new books on cooking and interiors explore 20th century society's biggest paradigm shift.
Searching in vain for chicken soup in Gothenburg.
No one in their right mind would ever visit a garage for the love of gastronomy, yet everybody who’s passing through seizes the opportunity to put something in their mouth.