Christopher Hirst - Love Bites - Marital Skirmishes in the Kitchen

FOURTH ESTATE • London

To Mrs H, whose real name is Alison

Cover Page

Title Page Love Bites Marital Skirmishes In The Kitchen Christopher Hirst FOURTH ESTATE • London

Dedication To Mrs H, whose real name is Alison

A Culinary Courtship

1 Cracking the egg

Seeking Glory

2 Rhubarbing

The First Eruption

3 Rhubarbing on

A Chilly Moment

4 Crêpe souls

Taste For Travel

5 Burger king

The Sound Of Falling Scales

6 Infernal rind

The Lure Of The Cookbook

7 The joy of blancmange

Tools For The Job

8 Slower pasta

Walking Down The Aisles

9 A bite on the wild side

Whining And Dining

10 Pizza excess

Dinner Party Dust-Up

11 A selfish feast

Suet And Steel

12 A cake is not just for Christmas

Judicial Matters

13 Telling porkies

Cash Into Nosh

14 Getting the raspberry

Recipe For Disaster

15 Death by chocolate

The Food Of Love

16 Shucking revelations

Bibliography

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Praise

Copyright

About the publisher

GIVEN OUR COMMON INTEREST, it was appropriate that Mrs H (as she then wasn’t) and I met in a kitchen. It was at a party in south London, Darling Road to be precise, in 1982. When one thing happily led to another, food emerged as a joint passion. The first meal I ever made for Mrs H was a giant pile of smoked salmon sandwiches. I noticed that they went down well. This was promising. I doubt if a longstanding relationship would have resulted if she had turned out to be one of those females whose main nutritional intake is a breath of air.

The first meal she ever made for me was a Mongolian hot pot. This takes the form of a great plate of raw titbits – slivers of chicken breast, pork and steak, along with prawns, sliced scallops, broccoli florets, mangetouts – that you cook piecemeal in a large pot of stock over a methylated spirit burner. When you’ve simmered a piece, you eat it. Mongolian hot pot is an ideal dish for a couple in the exploratory stages of courtship. Because you use chopsticks to fish out the various items, there is plenty of scope for intimacy. You might steer your companion towards a succulent piece of steak, while she hands over a juicy prawn. There might be a certain amount of light-hearted competition for a scallop. The culinary foreplay is prolonged but not so heavy on the stomach as to preclude subsequent activity.

The meal was a revelation. My passion for food began when I became passionate about Mrs H. After living in an all-male flat, where food was fuel rather than feast, I was astonished by the flair and generosity of her cooking and also the remarkable amount she spent on ingredients. Not that I was entirely indifferent to food when we met. I don’t suppose many men would have proposed the Royal Smithfield Show as a destination for a first date. Somewhat to my surprise, Mrs H expressed keenness to attend this agricultural jamboree. The first thing we saw inside Earls Court was several lamb carcasses suspended over an enclosure containing their living siblings. Mrs H did not seem too alarmed by this vivid depiction of before and after. We bought a pair of pork chops at the show, which she grilled for supper. They were excellent.

Nibble by nibble, our relationship blossomed. We did a certain amount of the restaurant work that courting couples are supposed to go in for. Not that we had many candlelit dinners for two. Economy was a greater priority than romantic surroundings. Restaurants don’t come much cheaper or less romantic than Jimmy’s, the Greek joint staffed by famously cheerless waiters in Frith Street, Soho, while Poon’s on Lisle Street came a close second. Though far from ideal for a tête-à-tête – you ate at shared tables covered by greasy oilcloths – Mrs H was impressed by the robust generosity (she says ‘greediness’) of my ordering: roast duck, sweet and sour crispy won-tons, oyster and belly pork casserole…

Mostly, we dined at home. Since I spent almost all of my twenties in the pub, I missed out on the prawn cocktail era. Mrs H introduced me to a few delights of that distant time – snails in garlic butter (I was impressed that she owned snail tongs), kidneys in mustard sauce, chocolate mousse and cheese fondue. I’m still fond of her fondue, made in a large Le Creuset pan, though we restrict our intake of this dish, which is of doubtful value for the arteries unless you have spent the day climbing an alp or two, to once or twice a year. In her turn, Mrs H had missed out on certain areas of gastronomy that I regard as essential. I brought pork pie, rhubarb tart and shellfish to her attention. This did not, however, prevent her from refining my technique for moules marinière. ‘You don’t need great big chunks of onion. Could you chop it finer?’

Through Mrs H, I discovered the difference between proper paella and the Vesta variety. I also enjoyed the revelation that curry could be a pleasure, where you tasted the ingredients, rather than a form of trial by ordeal. She acquainted me with homemade pâté and salads that did not involve floppy lettuce. She even maintains that I didn’t like broccoli before we met. I find this hard to believe. I’ve always been a big fan. ‘You haven’t! YOU HAVE NOT! And, it’s only in the last couple of years that you’ve eaten curly kale and spring greens.’ Well, she may be right on the last point, though I can now see the point of such vegetation. Mrs H also recalls my eruption when she tried serving flowers in a salad, which was fashionable some years ago. ‘You objected very strongly and described it as “poncing it up”.’

I gained an additional impetus towards culinary matters when I began writing a weekly column called ‘The Weasel’ in the Independent. Though its contents could be anything of a vaguely humorous nature, food and drink began to make a regular appearance. As with any habit, it started innocuously enough. You happen to write a piece about eating muskrat (dark, tough, springy meat not unlike Brillo pad) at a restaurant called Virus in Ghent. Soon after, you find yourself eating betel nut near Euston station, aphrodisiac jam in Paris, illicit ormers in Guernsey…

This new direction for the column bemused some executives on the paper. Objections to the high gustatory content were passed from above (‘Can’t he write about anything else?’), but I found it difficult to comprehend such griping. After all, what could be more interesting or amusing than food? Indeed, what else is there? Maybe I did ease up on the nosh from time to time, but this only produced an even greater flow of food pieces when I turned the tap back on: setting fire to the kitchen when trying to crisp Ryvita under the grill (they curled and touched the electric element); blowing up the fusebox when I tried to put a fuse on the fridge; making frumenty, the alcoholic porridge that prompted Michael Henchard to sell his wife and child in The Mayor of Casterbridge (‘Well, I’m not sold on it,’ said Mrs H).

Perhaps the real theme, which steadily emerged in column after column, was the difference between men and women in the kitchen. Or, at any rate, the difference between Mrs H and me in the kitchen. Though I came to spend much time cooking in the kitchen – more, possibly than Mrs H – it remains her bailiwick. Never having been taught the essential rules of the kitchen, such as tidying up and putting the right thing in the right place, I came in for a certain amount of brusque character analysis. Recently, when I foolishly asked Mrs H to refresh my mind concerning my shortcomings in this milieu, it prompted a Niagara-like flow that proved hard to turn off.