Nathan Myhrvold was Stephen Hawking's researcher and Bill Gates's right-hand man at Microsoft. Now, he aims to reinvent the cookbook.
Birds Eye sold £7.5m worth of its Traditional Chicken Dinners last accounting year - and as these meals are made in the Republic of Ireland with imported chicken breast, "homestyle" gravy, potatoes and garden vegetables, I can
“Keeping a pig is great but Monster Munch are nice as well”
How British social history is written through our cookbooks.
It is thanks to a childhood passion for the Whopper that I came to be interested in the sustainability of food.
As oil prices peak and we approach the end of the age of cheap food, now is the time for city-dwelle
When did eating become so complicated? I have only to flick through a Sunday supplement to feel the inexorable rise of recipe-induced panic.
From seafood to stews, the country has a distinct culinary identity.
There are 55 branches of Yo! Sushi in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, so this is clearly a threat worth paying attention to. Naturally, when Scotland secedes, it may take its Yo!
The Staggers presents its list of the top 15 food blogs from around the world.
When everyone actually <em>is</em> going to die, no one will believe the tabloids.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that all airline food aspires to the condition of potato dauphinoise - or, possibly, Irish stew.
“Sucking the heads off prawns is one of life’s great pleasures”
I quite like that Channel 4 show The Secret Millionaire (Tuesdays, 9pm), in which a self-made Richie goes undercover among the unfortunate Dicks, his aim being to disburse himself of some of his well-gotten gains on worthy cau
I've been trekking round the country with No 1 daughter in order to vet universities.
Is there such a thing as English cuisine?
English winemakers are making great strides.
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.