A Greedy Man in a Hungry World Read online

  For Sarah and Jerry, who have always fed me well.

  CONTENTS

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  1. THE £31 CHICKEN

  2. SUPERMARKETS ARE NOT EVIL

  3. SUPERMARKETS ARE EVIL

  4. FINDING THE CHINESE IN KIGALI

  5. SLOW BOAT TO ELLIS ISLAND

  6. IS SMALL ALWAYS BEAUTIFUL?

  7. THE CURSE OF THE SPAGHETTI MARROW

  8. SOMETHING TO CHEW ON

  9. N IS FOR NARCOTICS

  10. THE SUMMER THEY STOPPED EATING

  11. A NEW GASTRONOMICS

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  JAY RAYNER

  COPYRIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I am a greedy bastard. For the sake of appearances, I could lie about this. I could tell you that my appetites are entirely unremarkable; that my relationship with food does not dominate my every waking moment. But we both know this would be a lie as big and fat as each of my really quite awe-inspiring thighs. I have earned those thighs. Every shadowed dimple of cellulite has been put there courtesy of a restaurant bill. If you are eating while reading this book, if perhaps you thought that a book about food culture in the twenty-first century would be the perfect companion to a meal taken alone, and the image of my over-engineered, middle-aged, lard-heavy thighs is now putting you off your food, then obviously I apologize. That said, I can’t really empathize with you. Nothing puts me off my dinner.

  This is less a confession than a vital piece of background information. Otherwise you might assume, as I lead you on a journey through the knotty complexities of how and what we eat now, that it was all merely some academic exercise on my part. It is nothing of the sort. It is motivated by lust and appetite. Even as I’m typing I’m thinking about what I’ll be having for dinner later on. At some restaurant with the word ‘pig’ in the title. I like pig. I admire the way its skin crisps so perfectly, the way the fat melts, the way it takes a cure so enthusiastically, producing the very best of charcuterie; salamis spiked with fennel or green peppercorns; chorizos so heavy with paprika they stain your fingertips orange as you get the oily slices from cutting board to mouth. There’s intense, earthy black pudding, and its Spanish cousin morcilla; bacons, singed rust and bronze in the pan, and pork scratchings that threaten to take out a filling, and …

  Sorry. I think I got a little distracted there. Where was I? Oh yes. Greed, namely mine, and its impact upon my work. The point is that a lot of books written about food policy, responding to the undeniably serious issues involved, can take on a pinched and troubled aspect, as if the subject under discussion were the correct interpretation of something profound but strangely unintelligible uttered by the Dalai Lama, rather than an examination of what may well end up as lunch. Whenever I am thinking, asking questions or writing about food, the one question I am always asking myself is: how will this eventually impact upon my lunch?

  Some may regard this as a moral failing, will think that too much appetite can get in the way of a cool and collected appraisal of the facts. I see it differently. Just as there’s no point reading a book about sex written by a nun, or a book about morals written by a banker, there’s also no point reading a book about food written by a picky eater. Sometimes gluttony isn’t a vice, it’s a virtue, and this is one of those occasions. Though I accept I may just be attempting to excuse my own failings. If I am, I’m doing a bloody good job of it, don’t you think?

  Either way the fact remains: my name is Jay Rayner and I am a greedy bastard.

  Live with it.

  1.

  THE £31 CHICKEN

  It would suit the narrative if I could claim that, from the moment I laid eyes upon the chicken, I knew I had to have it; that I was overcome by a greed and hunger verging on the carnal. Granted it was one damn beautiful chicken: good sturdy legs for the brown meat fetishists, a robust skin with the ivory promise of plentiful fat deposits underneath; breasts big enough to make Pamela Anderson wince with jealousy. But the truth is it wasn’t the chicken I saw first, but the entire meat carnival of the butcher’s shop. I had heard tell of Lidgate’s in Holland Park before, of course. It’s one of those high-end butchers that food obsessives dribble into their computer keyboards over, when describing their shopping adventures. It’s the kind of place you visit with more money than sense.

  Lidgate’s has been trading for 150 years, has remained in the same family throughout that time and has won countless awards for what, in cheaper parts of town, would be called their ready meals but here are called ‘baked goods’. The window is full of their ready-to-cook shepherd’s pies, the surface of the mash as carefully raked as the gravel outside a stately home. There are boeuf bourguignon pies and pesto-smeared saddles of lamb, and their own enormous sausage rolls, wrapped in the flakiest of butter-rich pastry. The shop is tiled inside and out in Edwardian shades of jade green. The butchers wear straw boaters as if it’s an entirely reasonable thing to do. (It isn’t.)

  I stepped inside and waited in the narrow space in front of the counters with the Holland Park yummy mummies, smelling of Jo Malone products – jasmine and mint, wild fig – while others were served. I was not entirely sure what I was going to do. I like butcher’s shops, worked in one of them at weekends as a kid. I like the promise of all that meat; like to think about what it could become. I like to think about what pleasure it could give me. I particularly like high-end butcher’s shops, as if the pleasure I can achieve can in some way be correlated on a graph against the cost of the produce on offer. I like all this, while also knowing it is wrong and deluded, that the quality of the meal will actually depend on my ability to cook those ingredients sympathetically. I listened to a butcher weigh off a piece of beef and quote the price. My eyes widened. I have spent big money on my dinner before, paid unconscionable sums for bits of dead animal, but this was in a new category.

  Then my gaze fell upon a small chicken, slapped with the label ‘organic free range’, from Otter Farm. Yours for £12 a kilo. Later I would check the going rate for whole fresh chicken in the supermarkets that week – from £2.04 a kilo to as much as £6 a kilo for a free-range organic bird – but even without checking I knew that this wasn’t just expensive; that this chicken laughed in the face of expensive. It had migrated to a new and unique category located somewhere between nose-bleeding and paralysing.

  In its favour these were small birds of little more than a kilo, and so, individually, a whole chicken was likely to come in at less than £20. I had paid £18 for a bird once before, a free-range organic number from Borough Market in south London, a place so expensive I never went there carrying plastic, only cash so as to put a limit on what I could spend. This would, in turn, enable me to carry on buying shoes for my children. Buying the £18 chicken had made me feel dirty and wrong, albeit in a good way; but the point is that these Lidgate’s birds were within my tolerances for excess.

  That’s when I saw it, on a glass shelf, creamy-coloured arse to the shop, as though its skin tones had been picked out of a Farrow & Ball catalogue. This free-range, non-organic chicken was big. Very big. I asked the butcher to put it on the scales. It weighed just over 3.2kg. At £9.90 a kilo. ‘That will be £31.78,’ he said, his straw boater rested at a jaunty angle. I let out a hiss of breath, like the air leaking from a punctured bicycle tyre. Did I want it? the nice chap asked me.

  Did I want it? Yes. Yes, I did want it. Who wouldn’t? A chicken costing more than £31? What would that be like? Surely it had to be the ultimate chicken, the king (or, more precisely, the queen) of birds? Sur
ely if I paid – I did the sums quickly – over 75 per cent more for a chicken than I had ever paid before I would accrue an equivalent amount more pleasure from the experience than I ever had before? At the very least wasn’t it my responsibility to find out? Wasn’t that what I did these days? As I left the shop, I noticed a sign in the window signed by David Lidgate, the current family member to be custodian of the business, to the effect that all their chickens were bred and supplied by small farms. ‘We pay our farmers a fair price.’ It felt like he was getting his apology in first.

  Before leaving I asked the butcher where this particular chicken had come from. ‘It’s an Elmwood chicken, I think,’ he said. Back home I Googled the words ‘Elmwood’ and ‘chicken’. It turned out to be an odd thing to have said. Elmwood isn’t really a place, or at least it isn’t a place any more. It’s an idea. While there is an Elmwood Farm somewhere in East Anglia, today the word is a registered marketing label, used by the Co-op – and only the Co-op – to describe a higher-quality, more expensive bird than the bog-standard, fast-grown cheap chickens they sell. The higher welfare standards started at the original Elmwood Farm have now been pressed into service at farms across Britain. The label is now applied to all birds grown under those standards.

  This is a familiar ploy by the big food retailers. Marks & Spencer has its Oakham chicken, which some might assume comes from the environs of the town in Rutland of the same name. It doesn’t. It’s just a brand name for chickens grown at farms all over the country, none of which is called Oakham. Tesco has a range of chickens called Willow Farm, which are reared on a few dozen farms across the south-west of England and Northern Ireland, none of which is called Willow Farm. The labels may portray bucolic scenes of olde farming life. They may be sold with images of carefully drawn ears of corn, but they are still birds raised on an industrial scale.

  Whatever my £31 chicken was, it had nothing to do with Elmwood. I phoned Lidgate’s and asked again if they could say where it was from. ‘It’s from Willow Field in Norfolk,’ I was told by another butcher. Right. That’s more like it. Willow Field actually sounds like a real place. It had the word ‘field’ in the name. That made it sound just like a farm. Back I went to Google, but found nothing online about a chicken farm in Norfolk called Willow Field, save for a planning application to the local council for the placement of a mobile home. Conceivably the mobile home was for luxury chickens to live in, but I thought it unlikely.

  I was becoming obsessed with this chicken. I had begun to fantasize about its life. Maybe its coop was completely pimped: ermine trim, leather seats, a sound system with serious bass, and a drinks cabinet heavy with vintage Crystal. At this price surely it had to be the most pampered chicken ever? Maybe they fed it on the ground-up bones of delicate songbirds? Perhaps it was watered with Evian? How else could the price be justified?

  To bring things back into focus I called Lidgate’s yet again. This time I spoke to David Lidgate’s son, Danny. He could not explain the misinformation I had been given but he could categorically confirm that it had come from a farm in Suffolk which didn’t want any publicity because they couldn’t produce any more birds and didn’t want any more trade. But he could tell me that they were slow-grown, hand-plucked, and hung for seven days before being dispatched. I wanted to ask him about the ermine-trimmed coop, but couldn’t quite summon the will.

  One afternoon I went onto Twitter and asked people there to tell me the most they’d ever spent on a whole chicken. There were a few who had never gone beyond a tenner. Quite a number of people had spent sums in the mid-teens. A small number had gone over the £20 mark. Curiously, people had very specific memories. ‘Eighteen pounds for a rooster in Montpellier. Nineteen ninety-one. It was worth every penny,’ said one person. ‘On one memorable occasion enough to feel obliged to give it a name,’ said another, without revealing what the sum might be. ‘Eighteen pounds,’ said a third. ‘Big bugger. Think they might have killed it for scaring the cows.’ One tweeter talked proudly of the two chickens they had picked up for a fiver in a supermarket deal; another said they had never spent more than £8 and wouldn’t dream of doing so. As these things do, the singular question about the price of a chicken had quickly become a debate about welfare standards, food poverty, excess and the morality thereof. And every now and then someone chipped in with a tweet announcing the enormous sum they had once spent on a chicken as if it were a mark of commitment.

  I nodded sagely. As I had suspected, this was a game I was going to win. I gave them the big reveal, told them about Lidgate’s and the £31 chicken. There was an electronic gasp of horror. Thirty-one pounds? Too much. Absurd. Ludicrous. Bizarre.

  Just wrong.

  ‘I once saw a woman run out of Lidgate’s in tears over the price of a chicken,’ one person said. I answered that I could well imagine such a thing.

  My warped, obsessive, competitive streak now took me on a tour of London’s classiest butchers, desperate to prove that I had spent the most it was possible to spend on a chicken. For some reason it mattered that the bird which now sat in my freezer awaiting its moment, the bird which had become such a talking point on Twitter, should be able to hold onto its title. I saw birds that were local and free-range and hand-reared and hand-plucked and hung with their guts in. I went to Harrods, where the food hall throngs with tourists who have no intention of buying anything other than tins of branded tea, and looked at shrink-wrapped birds from unpronounceable places in France. I did kilo-to-pound-weight calculations in my head, asked bored butchers to weigh chickens for me and pronounce on the price, and moved on, each time satisfied I was still ahead.

  And then I went to the meat counter at Selfridges’ food hall, which is run by a highly respected butcher called Jack O’Shea. There I met the £51 chicken. It was a Poulet de Bresse, a particular breed which was granted Appellation d’origine contrôlée, or AOC, status in 1957, protecting it as a name for a particular type of bird, prized for its gamey flavour and rich fat. A nice chap behind the counter called Les, who wasn’t wearing a straw boater, told me they were special ‘because of their diet. They’re treated like royalty, they are.’ The bird I was looking at, with its head, neck, and feet on, and guts in – when you bought a bird from Bresse you got to pay for a lot of things you might not actually want – cost over £22 a kilo, and it was well in excess of two kilos.

  Damn.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  There was I thinking I had bought the Bentley of chickens, with metallic paint and sports settings on the gearbox, when it was nothing of the sort. It was just a mid-range BMW. It was an Audi with under-seat heating, the kind of thing a desperate sanitary-ware salesman trying to prove his worth might buy as a way of declaring he had arrived, when in truth all it did was signal loud and clear to anybody who could bother to be interested that he had barely got started.

  I wondered, even then, whether I had finally reached the zenith of the luxury chicken business and quickly discovered I had not. One evening, in the kitchens of London’s Savoy Hotel, I came across Heston Blumenthal, the chef of the famed Fat Duck in Bray, which has three Michelin stars. He was there overseeing the preparation of the starter for a big charity dinner I was attending. I had snuck away from the velvet plush and precious gilding of the ballroom to the bright lights and hard surfaces of the kitchen, where I always felt more comfortable, and stood there in my dinner jacket, picking his brains about chickens. A few years before he had made a TV series called In Search of Perfection which involved finding and then roasting the perfect chicken. I wondered how much he had spent on the birds. He thought about £45 each. He talked about the quality of Label Anglais chickens, a British-reared bird which was supposed to challenge the big names of the chicken world.

  ‘But there are even more expensive ones.’ Like what? He mentioned the birds from Bresse. Well yes, I knew all about those. ‘It’s the cockerels, though. They only sell them for about two weeks of the year around Christmas,’ he said, hand-sown into muslin bags
. ‘They have this fabulous skin. ‘It’s like silk.’

  And how much would one of these Bresse cockerels set me back?

  ‘About £120.’

  There was, it seems, always a more expensive chicken out there somewhere.

  I went to university in the eighties with a bloke called Eugene, who was thinner than me, smarter than me, and got much more sex than me. His name isn’t really Eugene; it is, naturally enough, something far cooler than that, but it pleases me to take my revenge by giving him a really crass pseudonym, because he was horribly annoying. Though obviously not to the parade of pretty girls who were willing to go to bed with him.

  Eugene had read an awful lot of Jacques Derrida and Roland Barthes and, pace the kings of postmodern philosophy, liked to refer to things as ‘signifiers’ and ‘symbols’. Nothing was merely itself. In his universe everything was representative of its place within a long-drawn-out discourse; the physical world in which we lived was merely a set of these signifiers and symbols that had to be reconfigured and understood through their conversion to language. Or something. A pint of beer was never just a pint of beer. It was a signifier for the pursuit of a certain type of human experience, a way of managing communication, usually with one of the women who, a few drinks to the bad, had failed to recognize Eugene as the sociopath he was. (I’m really not bitter.) A bike was actually a signifier for modes of property ownership and an understanding of forward motion. A five-pound note was … something he cadged off you just before last orders in the back end of term when his money was running out, so he could buy this girl he’d just met another drink. Can you see just how bloody irritating Eugene was?

  Which was why it was all the more infuriating that thinking about the £31 chicken had in turn made me think about Eugene and his tiresome language of symbols and signifiers. For it was clear to me that this ridiculously expensive bird was so much more than just three kilos of prime protein, delicious fat and potentially luscious crisp skin. It could stand – Lord help me – as a symbol for so many of the arguments and battles that we are, and need to be, fighting over food in the early years of the twenty-first century.