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.
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.