Whatever we choose to eat
Yesterday about noon, in advance of an enjoyable family BBQ lunch in the south of England, a nephew I hadn’t seen in a while – still somewhat hungover having been out on the tiles in London until 4.00am before being driven down by his father – was ‘shooting the breeze’ in a small gathering on the sunny terrace over a huge jug of Pimm’s Number 1.
After about half an hour, out of the blue, the kitchen suddenly delivered some ‘eats’ to accompany our imbibing in the form of two of my favourites – boccoronis and sun-dried tomatoes – to which my nephew previously had never knowingly been exposed in the sense that, whenever he’d been offered them, he’d chosen to decline.
[You’ll have to cut me some slack here because I would never describe myself as a ‘foodie’.]
For at least the first half-century of my existence on this planet anchovies were a brown, spiky, slug-like food additive of uncertain origin and tart, dubiously bitter, taste that appeared primarily in salads or specific pizza offerings, seemingly as a counter-point to anything tending towards the sweet or syrupy.
Then one day a female of my acquaintance produced a tub of small, silver fish doused in what I assumed was Mediterranean oil.
Being the sort instinctively nervous of new foods or experiences I asked after their identity and was informed they were ‘boccoronis’ or – by way of introduction to someone known to be of unsophisticated palate, as I was – anchovies.
Anchovies! I immediately recoiled from the thought of stuffing into my mouth – and this on their own(!) – several examples of an item that to me was as described in the preceding paragraph.
Why on earth would I want to do that?
Eventually, with encouragement and then in a self-generated spirit of “What the hell, I’ll try anything once …”, I took the plunge, prepared for any reaction (but mostly revulsion) that might follow. I was then both surprised and delighted. These anchovies/boccoronis were absolutely delicious and – not to put too fine as point upon it – even addictive.
Cut back to yesterday.
My nephew duly tried the boccoronis and sun-dried tomatoes and loved them both.
A few minutes later, now discussing foods in general, he asked me if there were any that I would avoid at all costs. I paused, trying to think of anything that for me personally was genuinely in this category – I’m talking here about things I am or feel allergic to, rather than e.g. types of foods that I would never choose in a restaurant because there was always something else on the menu that I would prefer by choice to eat instead.
At this point my brother chipped in with his first total no-no (gooseberries).
Emboldened by this intervention and seeking to contribute, I then opened the topic out into a broader dimension by mentioning oysters.
These babies I had consumed an estimated two or three dozen times in my life – sometimes in concoctions such as ‘steak, ale and oyster’ pastry pies or seafood platters – but primarily served as a course on their own.
If my memory is accurate, with an accompaniment of lemon juice and Worcestershire sauce or similar and effectively swallowed whole.
Without exception they had always gone down fine etc. but – for good or ill and at the risk of adding to the food sub-folder of my worldwide reputation as a philistine – to be honest I found them bland to the point of wondering what the hell oyster-addicts saw in them, especially whenever I was dining in the company of one who was writhing in orgasmic ecstasy on the opposite of the table.
Which brings me to this link to an article by Emma Henderson on the joys of oyster-eating that I spotted today upon the website of – THE INDEPENDENT
