"Tangerine!" by Amanda Prowse

NO 6 - "CORDON BLURGH!"

“Tangerine!” By Amanda Prowse

No 6 “CORDON BLURGH!”

We in the Prowse house are having a party. And I’m not talking about a couple of mates over for a glass of cheap plonk and a slice of pizza, where we all budge up on the sofa, but a proper, proper party. One with caterers, a dance floor, strings of lights around the trees, and where I shall most certainly be expected to brush my hair and wear shoes. I’m looking forward to and dreading it in equal measure. It’s not for a few months and yet we appear to have hit a bump in the road, or maybe fork would be more appropriate…

The issue has arrived after meeting the caterer where it has been confirmed that I have the culinary palate of a small child. Not so much of an issue when making packed lunches or tootling around the supermarket, lobbing Monster Munch and Jammie Dodgers into my trolley, but a whopping problem when you are being asked to choose between Teriyaki Salmon or lemon-glazed Dover Sole? Pomme Puree or Dauphinoise? And all I can think is – I’d prefer beans on toast.

What is wrong with me? I’d rather have a cup of soup on the sofa than any gourmet cuisine! My supper treat of choice, anywhere in the world, is always fish and chips, and as for smushed avocado on sourdough with a sprig of organic coriander and a slick twist of chilli flakes, for breakfast? No way, give me a bowl of Cocoa Pops and a slosh of cold white stuff every time! I like food that’s beige, breaded and preferably trawled through a sheep dip of tomato ketchup. Not that this is how I eat daily, but goodness me it’s how I’d like to!

I grew up in a house where my mum thought the height of sophistication was a Fray Bentos pie or a Vesta beef curry – which for those of you who don’t remember or are unaware, was a dehydrated meal that came in a cardboard box. It’s “Use By” date was always one hundred and forty two years away. The contents would be tipped into a saucepan, it looked like sand with lumps in and the odd pea. But oh, my friend, after adding water and boiling you were left with an unctuous, glossy, fantastic supper, the scent of which filled our little terraced house. It was always served tipped into the middle of a ring of over-cooked rice and we LOVED it! When your standard fare was smoked haddock or egg and chips, this curry dish was a tongue tingling, spice-addled, exotic delight that would see us “sit up!” on time and tuck in with relish.

Whenever, as a child, I’d gone “Up West” to the fancier side of London, I’d stare into the windows of softly lit restaurants where men in ties and ladies in lipstick held glasses of wine and laughed, while their silver cutlery rested on the edge of plates packed with food I couldn’t readily identify, but it all looked fabulous! And how I loved the idea of a ‘sweet trolley’ like the ones I’d seen in movies and on TV, (Victoria Wood; “Is it on the trolley?”) where a uniformed, obliging waitress would wheel said trolley to your table and ask what you would like from a colourful, wobbling, cream-topped, golden-crusted, sugar-sprinkled selection of puddings… which in our house we called ‘afters’ and was usually Arctic Roll – or if we were very lucky a small tub of Birds-Eye Supermousse – which was and is quite literally the best thing I ever have or ever will taste in the whole wide world, ever. It was cheap, riddled with e-numbers, gum and several ingredients that are probably now illegal and used in the manufacture of trainers, but run it through with sweet, sticky, faux strawberry flavour and I couldn’t get enough of the stuff. It was a soft moussey cream that slipped off my tongue and down the back of my throat with ease. Oh, yes, Supermousse night was always a celebration in our house. Can you imagine if we’d had a Vesta beef curry and a Supermousse on the same night? No, neither can I, it would have been too much for any of us to handle.

I think I always equated success with fine food. I’m talking about the chance to dress up and go to a fancy restaurant, that would mean we had made it! Food for us, like it is in most families, is the glue, celebration, and joy. Preparing, cooking, and serving food is truly just another expression of love. This philosophy has been handed down from my great grandma and I now enjoy nothing more than seeing the whole family sit down to eat, talk, and laugh at my table.

I’ve realised however, and I’m sure I’m not alone, that the food I ate as a child and the tastebuds I developed within our family home have greatly shaped what I like to eat. I’m now in the fortunate position to be able, if I feel like, to eat at a restaurant. And this is where the problem lies…

I like a café, yup, love a good café, especially one that knows how to make decent cuppa, can perfectly poach an egg and has bottles of ketchup on the table. I also love a food truck! Is there anything nicer than ambling along with a fistful of something savoury, salty, sweet, and fabulous, served from an artisan who not only values your custom, but where you can see the ingredients go from shelf to pan to magic in a matter of minutes? Bravo!

Fast food isn’t for me. I don’t do drive throughs and apart from my obsession with fish and chips, tend to avoid take aways. The issue comes when we visit the fancy establishments that for years I could only ogle through the window and find I am completely out of my depth, turning the joyous event into something of an ordeal.

And the problem is this: I don’t like it. Any of it. I don’t like a restaurant that’s too quiet or too empty. Equally, I hate one that’s too noisy and too busy. If it’s too dark I’m suspicious, too bright I’m self-conscious. I don’t want a minuscule portion of raw anything dotted with a foam and dusted with truffle powder. I want gravy not jus. I like spuds not grains and I die a little inside when I read a menu and only recognise the word ‘bread.’ It makes me feel embarrassed, out of place and awkward, so much so that I tend to bolt my food and grab the first Uber, keen to get home, kick off my heels, shove on my pj’s and munch a  bag of ready salted while I watch Masterchef on catch up. All that, and it often costs more than I spend on a week’s worth of groceries!

I’m sure it’s more about my own awareness and self-esteem than it is about the food, but we have dined at some incredible places all over the world. From sky high restaurants in London to ones with harbour views in Hong Kong, plush eateries in New York and on terraces with the Sydney Opera House in front of us, and yet nothing, nothing tastes as good to me as beans on toast eaten in my kitchen.

So, what to expect if you get an invite to my party? Grub you can eat with your fingers, puds like your nan used to make and a healthy disregard for formal dining. Thinking about it, might just go with fish and chips… in fact let’s go the whole hog; shoes and hair brushing optional.

Tell me about your food loves and food hates? What’s your go to snack?

For all things “Amanda Prowse” and to buy her books head to www.amandaprowse.com