29 Jun 2015
Not long ago, there was a birthday. To celebrate, we travelled in style to an excellent restaurant in London. It’s the kind of place you don’t visit every day, but the birthday in question was that of a great friend and it was a special one. You have to order at least four courses, where between each there’s an amuse bouche or palate cleanser or a “compliments of the chef” so that by the end of it all you’ll have eaten your own body weight in some of the best cuisine in the world. The food was sublime, the wine more than Fine and we didn’t stop until properly stuffed. It was all completely delicious, and we had a marvellous time.
We are led to believe that occasions like this count amongst the fun things about being a grown-up; we can go to lovely places, have a blast, and eat like kings. To a large degree this is true. If we want.
I was discussing this subject with Hatty, (quelle surprise) who herself is a bit of a foodie and something of the amateur chef. As expected, we did indeed coo over the beautifully thought-out menu and absurdly delicious beverages, and pondered on a date we might go back. However, as we languidly lounged in her living room, I noticed the movement of her hand. It swung, rhythmically, between paper bag and mouth and on enquiry, she confessed. Her down-time delights were old fashioned sweet-shop sweets. To be precise, milk bottles. You know the ones: small, white and shaped like a bottle; most likely made of condensed milk and still sold by the quarter. Hardly haute cuisine. Despite the fact the she is well aware that they have zero nutritional value and are aimed at seven year olds, they are her secret vice.
My own confession is that this is something to which I can relate, having hidden a guilty secret of my own; a habit concealed for more than 9 years, since 2006, when Nestle first brought out their Kit Kat chunky. To be precise, I’m speaking of the special edition peanut butter flavour. It is impossible to describe the extent to which I love these bars. Despite the fact that they are sickly sweet, full of calories, and covered in muck that is so low in cacao it should be embarrassed to call itself chocolate, they are completely divine in every way. I have been known to buy them in bulk and eat several at a time. So judge me.
A poll of friends revealed that Hatty and I are Not Alone. Confessions of Hubba Bubba habits, Disco Disc dependence and Curly Wurly cravings poured forth like our very own Willy Wonka fountain of sugar-fuelled madness. Utterly, childishly, 1970’s fabulous.
Thing is, it’s all very well being a culinary grown up, and I did enjoy our night out and we’ll definitely go again. Nevertheless, the fact remains that inside every sophisticated epicure beats the heart of a scabby-kneed, hyperactive five year old, running to the sweet shop, pocket money clutched in a little grubby paw.
