Only one kind of meal comes with an erratum slip: the catered formal dinner.
Tracy Worcester's fight against the excesses of industrial pig farming reaches Brussels.
Drinking good wine provides an occasion for pleasure, but it also provides an opportunity for thought.
Within a Budding Grove, with its hint at the similitude of erectile clitoral tissue and burgeoning plant life, is the somewhat suggestive translation of Proust's À l'ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs given by C K Scott Moncrie
Will Self and Nick Lezard visit a no-nonsense Leicester Square restaurant.
My nephew Jack and I are heading south after an unsuccessful attempt to reach the remote Hebridean island of St Kilda. Facing the implacability of a force-nine gale, Angus the skipper demurred.
I often have a kebab, though not as often as I might.
The other afternoon I was cycling up the Mall when the Queen emerged from the gates of Buckingham Palace, so plumply erect in her customised Daimler that she resembled nothing so much as a cerise pouffe propped up in an old-fa
"We're, like, regulars, aren't we?" I said to the attractively goofy young fellow who takes the role of maître d' in the new gastropub across the road from our house.
Circa 1969 the only restaurants in Britain were Chinese ones - or at least, that's the way I remember it.
A long time ago, when I could still bear to eat in social contexts, I attended a dinner at London Zoo given by the Royal Zoological Society.
If the historian Oswald Spengler were alive today, Wimpy is the kind of fast-food joint he'd be eating in.
Even people who know absolutely nothing about British politics of the past two decades still know that Peter Mandelson once mistakenly referred to mushy peas as guacamole in a Hartlepool fish-and-chip shop.
Pret a Manger is the the mother of all pseudo-sophisticated sandwich outlets.
I find it absolutely mind-boggling that on our high streets there are more than 214 branches of Nando's, a restaurant chain originally started in South Africa by ethnic Portuguese refugees from Mozambique - but then I suppose
At what mute, inglorious juncture in the history of British cuisine did the "all-day breakfast" make its appearance?
One of the most realest meals there is in the so-called developed world is a hotel breakfast. I say this for a simple reason: no one - unless they are close to expiring - refuses it.
Wagamama has been serving a bizarre fusion cuisine - part Japanese traditional, part English nursery slop - for nigh on 20 years now.
To sit in Pizza Express is to partake in a mystic communion with the cosmopolitanisation of the Brit
I'm not altogether sure Christmas dinner is a meal at all, let alone a real one; rather, it is the focus of all the faith, hope and joy - as well as the transgenerational neuroses and psychic dyspepsia - that we load on to tha
Peace on earth and mercy mild probably aren't on most people's Christmas shopping lists this year - not if they're realistic.
If you're anything like me, you probably find the global dominance of the Subway sandwich chain bewildering.
Starbucks coffee is so bad I'll happily walk several blocks just to avoid drinking the stuff
I suppose I was looking for an archetype that no longer exists. A fusty realm of red flock wallpaper and piped sitar music.
If the fishing lobbies continue to hold sway then the tuna will go the way of the dodo
A visit to KFC: how can anything that tastes this awful be quite so popular?
Forget the Nobel Prize. What about the Swedish drinking song championship?
Walking into the McDonald's on Oxford Street made me feel like Rip Van Winkle
Scotland's reputation as a nation of "bevviers and swalliers", as the justice minister, Kenny MacAskill, put it, is under attack from the SNP.