Food Legend

Food reviews and tales from one man's food adventures
ONION BHAJII seen this malteser, right. It was on a tram, rolling around the floor. Lady Legend and I were transfixed. It was just there, doing it. Everyone else on the tram seemed oblivious. It was turning this way and that, performing a slow roll from left to right, cutting between sets of feet, nesting in the corners. Basically, this malteser was one of the best live events I’ve seen in 2012. It was utterly engrossing, such simple pleasures, a real crowd pleaser. I heard via Alan Carr that a dog has won Britain’s got Talent. Well, I can only assume they’ve not seen this malteser in full flow. If this little guy could adapt his act from the tram to the theater…my god. I was reminded about these scenes because there’s been a malteser knocking about the floor of a place I’ve been working in this past week. The place will remain anonymous because I don’t want the cleaners to pick it up. Like some were born for the stage, lone maltesers are born for the floor. Why so? They don’t stop but they do drop and roll. You hardly see any other chocs knocking about the ground. Once in a blue moon you’ll see a twix finger on the street and thank your blessings. A snickers in a toilet cubicle? The greatest joke ever told. It’s always a malteser, never a bon bon or mars planet. There was an art thing in Manchester recently where they deposited 8,000 tiny clay commuters throughout the city. Imagine the same thing but with stray maltesers, so much better. There’s more maltesers knocking about than commuters, surely. They did try to do it with maltesers but Manchester council denied it down to health and safety reasons, slippery under foot like. The world’s gone mad.Take this malteser tram scene and replace the malteser with an onion bhaji. Not so cute now is it? The tram passengers turn from unaware to horrified, screaming, trying to stamp on it. WHAT IS IT!!!! HELP ME!!!!!!! Women and children smashing windows in with that tiny emergency hammer. Old men, crazy from the heat, attempting to dive upon it and missing. A trail of bright oil in it’s wake, great speeds gather on account of it’s weight. See, what we’re talking isn’t the sad little bhajis you might pick up from Johnny Tesco or Sally Sainsbury. Those multipack conker sized disappointments! Nor are we talking takeaway, restaurant or home-assembled bhajis. What we are talking is a gift, literally. Courtesy of my old mate Jen (thanks Jen!). In case the photo deceives, this big old bhaji boy was massive. That’s a real sized plate, one that might eat your main course off, and that’s my thumb which is quite big but not obscene.This rotund beauty sat for hours at room temp, observing, like Marlon Brando. It was part of table ensemble made for yours truesies 30th birthday. A surprise event that was the event of the season and my lifetime. If you’re familiar with the phrase “NO WAYYYYYYY”, it was the dictionary definition. Would you believe me if I said the central characters of the spread were Food Legend branded specially reduced packaged sandwiches? It’s all so true and so beautiful. I was blessed…with a lot of food to take home. I forget where Jen procured this bhaji, it was a market if memory serves right. After about four packaged sandwiches the day after the 40th party, Lady Legend and I shaped up devour the monster bhaji. I went to the kitchen, took it out of the fridge, upturned it from it’s greased up carrier and decanter it on to a baking tray. Thump. I’m trying to find a size equivalent in my mind, I flounder…what is it? Fist? Tennis ball? No and no. Cow brain? Yes, cow brain. It’s really big. If you listen long enough you’d hear it breathing. It goes in the oven, I go away for ages and come back. On my return it’s exterior is battered by the oven, crisped up real nice. All the ventricles and tentacles are popping, the tree-like roots crunched up and gagging for it. I carve it in two, the ceremonial goose. One plate for Lady Ledge and one for I. We blob a side serve of sweet chilli sauce next to the half-cranium, we nail sweet chilli sauce so hard in our house. It’s a confusing one, the outside is crunchy and what you know from previous bhaji experiences. The inner is vast though, a world unto itself. It’s heavily paste-like. Imagine roasted butternut squash or some such, it’s a bit like that. You have the inner network of a traditional onion b but there’s sections that are blurred, you can’t see the infrastructure, the foundations are lost at sea. It’s the size shift maybe, I struggle to remember what a bhaji interior is usually like. Is it tunnels and rope swings like the exterior? Maybe it isn’t. Either way, this interior is something unique. The colour is vibrant, technicolour, poke your eyes out orange. The paste texture isn’t a bad thing, it’s just a new thing. We enjoy. The sweet chilli sauce dip (hot variant, thanks for asking) bolsters the flavour quota, there’s nice spice going on with it all. We finish up with aplomb, our plates clean enough to go back in the cupboard. A stopwatch was not employed but I daresay we performed this annihilation at breakneck speeds. Hey, it’s not everyday you turn 50. Not bad, not bad at all. I recommend going big on things you’re accustomed to at traditional size. It’s got me going. I’m trying to think of what would be good. I’ve had big pork pies but I don’t appreciate it, the bigging up increases the jelly insulation and I’m not keen. I’d relish a massive spring roll or the kingest prawn you could catch. I’d recommend one of these king bhajis, especially as a table centerpiece. It gets the crowd going and it’s a real conversation starter. You’ll have to ask Jen where to get it from though. Happy 60th!

ONION BHAJI

I seen this malteser, right. It was on a tram, rolling around the floor. Lady Legend and I were transfixed. It was just there, doing it. Everyone else on the tram seemed oblivious. It was turning this way and that, performing a slow roll from left to right, cutting between sets of feet, nesting in the corners. Basically, this malteser was one of the best live events I’ve seen in 2012. It was utterly engrossing, such simple pleasures, a real crowd pleaser. I heard via Alan Carr that a dog has won Britain’s got Talent. Well, I can only assume they’ve not seen this malteser in full flow. If this little guy could adapt his act from the tram to the theater…my god. I was reminded about these scenes because there’s been a malteser knocking about the floor of a place I’ve been working in this past week. The place will remain anonymous because I don’t want the cleaners to pick it up. Like some were born for the stage, lone maltesers are born for the floor. Why so? They don’t stop but they do drop and roll. You hardly see any other chocs knocking about the ground. Once in a blue moon you’ll see a twix finger on the street and thank your blessings. A snickers in a toilet cubicle? The greatest joke ever told. It’s always a malteser, never a bon bon or mars planet. There was an art thing in Manchester recently where they deposited 8,000 tiny clay commuters throughout the city. Imagine the same thing but with stray maltesers, so much better. There’s more maltesers knocking about than commuters, surely. They did try to do it with maltesers but Manchester council denied it down to health and safety reasons, slippery under foot like. The world’s gone mad.

Take this malteser tram scene and replace the malteser with an onion bhaji. Not so cute now is it? The tram passengers turn from unaware to horrified, screaming, trying to stamp on it. WHAT IS IT!!!! HELP ME!!!!!!! Women and children smashing windows in with that tiny emergency hammer. Old men, crazy from the heat, attempting to dive upon it and missing. A trail of bright oil in it’s wake, great speeds gather on account of it’s weight. See, what we’re talking isn’t the sad little bhajis you might pick up from Johnny Tesco or Sally Sainsbury. Those multipack conker sized disappointments! Nor are we talking takeaway, restaurant or home-assembled bhajis. What we are talking is a gift, literally. Courtesy of my old mate Jen (thanks Jen!). In case the photo deceives, this big old bhaji boy was massive. That’s a real sized plate, one that might eat your main course off, and that’s my thumb which is quite big but not obscene.

This rotund beauty sat for hours at room temp, observing, like Marlon Brando. It was part of table ensemble made for yours truesies 30th birthday. A surprise event that was the event of the season and my lifetime. If you’re familiar with the phrase “NO WAYYYYYYY”, it was the dictionary definition. Would you believe me if I said the central characters of the spread were Food Legend branded specially reduced packaged sandwiches? It’s all so true and so beautiful. I was blessed…with a lot of food to take home. I forget where Jen procured this bhaji, it was a market if memory serves right. After about four packaged sandwiches the day after the 40th party, Lady Legend and I shaped up devour the monster bhaji. I went to the kitchen, took it out of the fridge, upturned it from it’s greased up carrier and decanter it on to a baking tray. Thump. I’m trying to find a size equivalent in my mind, I flounder…what is it? Fist? Tennis ball? No and no. Cow brain? Yes, cow brain. It’s really big. If you listen long enough you’d hear it breathing. It goes in the oven, I go away for ages and come back. On my return it’s exterior is battered by the oven, crisped up real nice. All the ventricles and tentacles are popping, the tree-like roots crunched up and gagging for it. I carve it in two, the ceremonial goose. One plate for Lady Ledge and one for I. We blob a side serve of sweet chilli sauce next to the half-cranium, we nail sweet chilli sauce so hard in our house. It’s a confusing one, the outside is crunchy and what you know from previous bhaji experiences. The inner is vast though, a world unto itself. It’s heavily paste-like. Imagine roasted butternut squash or some such, it’s a bit like that. You have the inner network of a traditional onion b but there’s sections that are blurred, you can’t see the infrastructure, the foundations are lost at sea. It’s the size shift maybe, I struggle to remember what a bhaji interior is usually like. Is it tunnels and rope swings like the exterior? Maybe it isn’t. Either way, this interior is something unique. The colour is vibrant, technicolour, poke your eyes out orange. The paste texture isn’t a bad thing, it’s just a new thing. We enjoy. The sweet chilli sauce dip (hot variant, thanks for asking) bolsters the flavour quota, there’s nice spice going on with it all. We finish up with aplomb, our plates clean enough to go back in the cupboard. A stopwatch was not employed but I daresay we performed this annihilation at breakneck speeds. Hey, it’s not everyday you turn 50. Not bad, not bad at all. I recommend going big on things you’re accustomed to at traditional size. It’s got me going. I’m trying to think of what would be good. I’ve had big pork pies but I don’t appreciate it, the bigging up increases the jelly insulation and I’m not keen. I’d relish a massive spring roll or the kingest prawn you could catch.

I’d recommend one of these king bhajis, especially as a table centerpiece. It gets the crowd going and it’s a real conversation starter. You’ll have to ask Jen where to get it from though. Happy 60th!

BREWDOG MANCHESTER

Once in an every so often while, one reaches outside of the reduced counter and pulls oneself up. By bootlaces, by hook or by crook. It is inevitable that her and him indoors, must at points extend beyond the door mat and dine out. Myself and Lady Legend only went and boodled down to the new BrewDog bar in Manchester diddle we! BrewDog, for the uninitiated, is a brewery, dogg. A Scotch indie one at that (Beere and Sebastian, Aztec CAMRA), that goes all in on the robust craft beers you hear so much about these days. You know, fully flavour, darker deeper depths, hoppier hops than your average. A hark back and a hark forward, tastes most seen in these times from our American craft beer friends. These Brewdoggers have begun opening bars across the country, the latest being BrewDog Manchester. It’s a bar, right. It’s got all those BrewDog beers, it’s got a lot of other craft beers with super labels, it’s got loadsa seats and that. It does food too yes, that’s why we’re here yes. Well, it wasn’t. We wanted to come for the beer anyway, myself and Lady Legend are long time procurers of the BrewDog Punk IPA mini-cans from your boy, Sainsburys. There was a time when I thought I’d be swayed by any beer in a smaller can (I’m talking the 330ml specific), loved those dinked Heine-kans diddle I? Sizewise over flavour wise for certain, still do. You’ve got your dinky Fosters cans lately, I’ve not touched them with a barge pole but the size appeals, the pull so much stronger than with your full-size. It’s the old micro-pig story all over again. Don’t want a big pig running about the house but I’ll happily keep a pig that never grows forever, I’ll put it in my handbag. They made Mars Bars smaller, more streamlined. More in line to fit in a handbag. I heard that at the time, dunno if it was from an official Mars spokesperson but it’s forged in my memory as fact. We like things smaller these days. These craft beer enthusiasts oft go by the half-pint, these things can be filling, there’s so many sorts that to pledge to a full length would be wasteful. I spy with my little eye a lot of half pints, some of the stronger ones you can buy by the third even. They’ve got the little Punk IPA cans here but why go out for hamburger when you’ve got hamburger at home? I put some cheese on my hamburger and have a half of Punk IPA from tap. Lady Legend opts for a half of 5AM Saint. Hers is slightly darker, redder, hoppier, spicy…cha cha oi oi, it’s a good one. Prefer mine though to be fair, it’s fruity on the toots, it’s light but deep, it’s in your face. It’s in my mouth, it’s down my gob, it’s under your bed.

So far, so incendiary. Try these bananas on for size, not only does this stark space house a bevvy load of higher grade cherry picked bevvies, it’s also home to higher grade cherry picked food fare. Fair to middling? Not much! On your bike, mediocrity! Average who?? First off, the menu is essentially burgers and pizzas. Get in my son. “Punk rock” pizzas and “Bad Ass” burgers. What’s a punk rock pizza? Not sure, is it got safety pins in the stuffed crust like Pizza Hut done with the hot dog injection? Bad Ass burgers I can imagine, I wouldn’t say it but it I’m sure I’ve been around burgers that have been described as Bad Ass before. Speaking of which, has anyone seen that film “Bad Ass”? With Danny Trejo? Crap Ass more like! Anyway, I only hope the punk rockers wash their hands before they start tossing mon dough. The menu is slight, you’ve got an option of three burgers and three pizzas. There’s some cheese and meatboard options up on the specials board. I have to confess, I like a limited menu. It’s bold, it’s brassy, it’s like a Gordon Ramsay style stripdown to nailing the basics. Keep it basic, big bollocks. I say basic, I mean core, I’m talking sturdy foundations. The menu is designed by 2011 Masterchef winner, Tim Anderson. An American space cadet by all accounts. I didn’t see it, I don’t know but it’s an enticing proposition none the less. Burgers start at a very famous £4.50, pizzas is around the £8.50 mark. Reasonable much! I should say so considering the star quality involved in inception and ingreds alone. I order “The Milwaukee” burger, “lovechild of a German Bratwurst and a Danish Hot Dog”. Giggidy. Lady Legend orders “The Santa Ana”, a pizza billed as being “hot as hell” with jalapeños, chillies, chorizo and more. Hold the avocado she says, can’t eat it, allergic she is.

It’s a late Saturday afternoon, it’s bustling. The crowd is mixed, seasoned beer connoisseurs…not quite as bearded as CAMRA, sharper dressed. There’s some younger guns too, some lads’ lads, the sound is one of rabble and rouses. Light on rogues mind, the atmosphere is one of savouring and enjoyment. I see one punk but I think it’s from Topshop. We’re sat up on the balcony, I can see a lot of smart phones in hands from my vantage point. Mature tweeters. It’s dimly lit up here, myself and Lady Legend are sat on a leather sofa. It looks a bit like a film set or Universal Studios, she says. It’s your fairly standard spacious industrial type build. All brick and glass, chalkboard painted walls on the stairs, minimal over maximal seating. Room to stand and pontificate, room to whip your phone out and tweet a picture of your bezzer. Relatively frill (thrill?) free, a blank canvas to concentrate on the beers upon. No bells, nor whistles, a few logos and a stark “In Hops We Trust” bit of neon tube lighting. Fair dinkozoids. Shine a light, here comes the meals. Fairly essential service times, that took a shade quicker than ten minutes! Boy oh boy! Let us start a new paragraph to divulge…

The burger and pizza come on individual wooden chopping blocks. My burger is dissected, splayed in half, each side speared in place by sharpened flag pole. No flag mind, we’re not in Nandos any more, Toto. No side salad, no fries, just straight up burger on block with folded napkin. No cutlery, no sauces, no seasoning. Just burger, in half, a perfect cross-section. Normally, the premise of eating a large burger in public (outside of fast-food circles) without knife and fork on standby would make me nervous. The bit where the top bun remains but the bottom bun has torn or disappeared completely, your fingers sliding over patty and relish, cheese and lettuce hanging from your face. Put it down and complete with cutlery, that’s the old standard, that’s been my tactic in life so far. I feel at ease with this line up though as the burger has already been made more manageable for me courtesy of the splice. Plus, I should note that the napkins in Brewdog are exceptional. I don’t know how to describe them…I’m unsure of the material, is it paper? Is it cloth? It’s some kind of extra strength paper if it is some kind of paper. It’s larger than life, a real character, you get chance upon chance to wipe your lips in clean spot upon clean spot. It’s the gift that keeps giving, I’d go even just for the napkins. Oh to take one home! I digress. The burger is fabulous, fantastic even. We’re talking pork mince with fennel that sings in all the right places, cooked to a med rare standard. Atop the burger we’ve got your old mate onions, fried crisply, sauerkraut and smoked cheddar. Hoity toity, sauerkraut on a burger! We’ve waited our lives for this. It’s got a mustard sauce with Zeitgest beer tainting from the Brewdog stable, gherkins lie beneath the burger behemoth. The bun is a real zinger, freshly baked sesame seed studding…perhaps a bit sourdough. It’s a complex affair, a lot of flavours knocking about. It’s up there with the best burgers I’ve ever had. Not as good as a Big Mac, says Lady Legend, and she’s not even had a Big Mac. She’s on to something though, behind the A-list components there’s a singe of McDonald’s everymanability. The nom factor? Don’t know. I’m not saying that as a bad thing dear reader, I’m stating it as the best thing. This burger knows what it’s doing as much as a seasoned McDonald’s staple does, in a good way. They’re from different walks of life and never the twain shall meet but I think they’d get along. Of course, it could just be the gherkins talking. In short, this burger is a masterclass from a masterchef. 

Lest we forget the pizza! The Santa Ana looks absolutely darling. It’s a 12” we reckon. It’s a colourful affair, ripe with the aforementioned chillies, jalapeños and chorizo, alongside Monterey Jack (big fan) and cumin spiked tomato sauce. The real game changer on this is the single dabs of sour cream on each slice, inspired and lesser seen. Sweetcorn too I might add, you don’t see that topping knocking around the finer end of pizza dining these days. All the better for it though. The chorizo is high grade, it’s a spicer but it’s not “hot as hell” as stated, all the better for it as Lady Ledge and myself were already clammy of palm when entering this establishment. The base is award winning, thin as a tin yet substantial with crunch and mulch. This is no crispy cracker mind, on side profile it reads almost like a perfectly cooked pancake. The underside of each slice shows the lay of the land with nobbles, bobbles and burn blisters in all the right places. Half way through the onslaught, Lady Legend offers up the folding in half lengthways technique. An ingenious approach as each slice is broad and generous without it. By making a tunnel (to your mouth), you’re inverting the toppings upon each other and blending the sour cream splodges across the board. It’s like how one might imagine a native New Yorker might tackle a large slice, what it loses in subtlety, it gains in mystery. You don’t know what’s going in and where, each bite is a bigger taste sensation for it. We share the burger and pizza between us, we were nervous prior that the spread would be too much but our hearts and stomachs opened on our food’s arrival. Despite the napkin size, and therefore encouragement for error, our napkins are relatively blemish free by the end. This speaks again of the high grade, the judgement, the very lack of enthusiastic no-good run off that lower rung fast foods produce. Our boards are clean and our halves destroyed. We finish off with a pint of Punk IPA for Lady Legend and a pint of Zeitgeist for yours true. Zeitgeist is an “alternative” black lager, it’s got the deep and dark thing going for it, at times it reads like the original fizzy guinness. It’s a good one and I get more in to the swing as I delve deeper. We sit, nodding out slightly, absorbing. Looking at the good lightbulbs, lots of filament going on. We’re filled but not floppy, we stretch the food stilts, totter down the stairs, ablute in the appropriate places and exit.  

You, dogg! Yes, you dogg! Get to BrewDog!

IKEA HOT DOGI’m in Ikea, I’m alone. I’m drinking a can of cider with a big pear on it. £1.15 it cost. The lady at the counter looked at me, and the can, and asked if it was apple or pear. I looked at the can, with a big pear on it, and her and said “pear”. She said she could really go one for one of those cans right now, “I know! I only just got here and I’m exhausted!” I said. I don’t go in for such exchanges typically but I was feeling buoyant. I’d arrived, a ten minute train journey from Manchester Victoria to Ashton-Under-Lyne. Who knew? I was on a quest, I quest for A3 accommodating picture frames. Hell knows why so rare. I just PRESUMED that A3 was as common place as A4 on the international paper size scene these days. You know, A3, double the size of A4, 29.7cm x 42cm, dunno what in inches. A4 frames abound…HEY MA! Frame this print out! Look Wincey, I framed your food hygiene certificate! I framed this single ply of blank standard printer paper, I just thought it were like coo an snazzy! What. In. Hell. What is wrong with these high street bastards? Agreed, these standardised A-sizes are all of a type (literally!) but A3 is infinitely better than a framed A4. COME ON! It’s a famous paper size but it’s scant on the frame scene, this is why I’m in Ikea. I shall not bore ye further with my derision for budget frame stockists and their extensive yet limited range. But look, they had *almost* A3 size but 2cm short of the mark, every last one of them. Whyyyyy. I’m on a quest to find that extra 2 centimetres. Jeremy Beadle had a small penis but on the other hand…I’m in Ikea, I’m alone. This is new territory. Of course, it’s staid predictable one-way system territory but still, I’m solo! This is new! Where art thou Mother? Father? Lady Legend? There was times when I didn’t want to go to the shop at the end of the street, now look at me! I leave the canteen area and follow the arrows, I follow them for five minutes, through bedrooms, offices and kitchens, and arrive back in the same canteen area? Wha? I disregard the one-way system and set off again, I find a map, it makes little sense but I note the frame area is on the floor below and depart. Hours later I arrive in the designated sector, I rifle through frames both with eyes and hands, I read dimensions over and over, I walk around in ever smaller circles. Once so full of hope, I’m now crest fallen and ready to leave. Where am I? Who am I? Where’s the hot dog? I decide to leave. I kind of go back on myself, I end up back at the canteen area I left hours ago. It takes me just shy of ten minutes to get back here, I don’t know how I did it. I know not what I do. I’m leaving I think, I’m at the opposite end of the hot dog finishing line. What about the hot dog? I’ll leave it, I don’t care. I get in the lift, go down to “entrance level”, the doors bing bong open and there it is…the hot dog exit gate. Bling blong, let us get ready to rumble!I haven’t eaten since morning (Golden Syrup baked Weetabix, thanks for asking) and now it’s 3.50pm, I’m ravvo*. I’d stretch to two but the shrapnel in my pocket dictates a single berth. Could probs pay on my card but that’s a bit of a sad scene, gives the teller too much time to speculate about my hot dog use. “They’re not both for me ha ha” I’d say, “Darling! Your hot dog is ready!” I’d shout to no-one. If it wasn’t for the price hike of the last ten years I could’ve stretched to two in change, they used to be 35p, now they’re 60p. Still the hottest bargain in town mind. I take my boy wonder round the corner to the self-serve saucing station, note my excellent lattice work of ketchard and mustup in the photo above. It’s hard to tell where the ketchard begins and the mustup ends. Waste not want not, I almost turned the mustard dispenser on myself dear reader! It hoitered and toitered, I gasped and fudged, silently, restoring. Safely does it. I exited before first bite, hot dog resting upon napkin within grasp. Oh, I’m outside. I’m in the real world again. I’m actually facing the main road, I’m walking and eating. No rest bite in anonymous car park solace. I fold her in. The Ikea hot dog is famous, in these eyes at least, for the tightness of the hot dog “skin”. Or rather sometimes that it’s a bit stiff, you pierce it with your teeth. Most times the hot dog’s soul has already attempted the escape by poking through it’s tight surround at one end, this dog a classic example. We forget the technical name for it but the size of the hot dog, the extension at both ends beyond bun, is highly commendable. Over hang is encouraged, top muffin tops, the thong song. It’s a hot dog, it tastes like a hot dog. The skin isn’t as tough as one might dread though one didn’t anticipate the crispiness of the bun. Surprising but in fairness it’s a rarely a soft white experience. It’s 65p, it can’t not be a five-star review. You can get a bad burger but a bad hot dog is much harder to pull off. The elements are infallible. Make that sausage cheaper! Pump enough preservatives in to the bun ‘til it’s use by still ain’t used by 2014! Delicious! You can’t mess up the template, it’s award winning. You don’t dwell on a hot dog, least not one this far down the food chain, it’s a force feed, a gulpathon. Hot dog eating contests where the hot dog guys dip them in water so they can absorb the buns faster. I get it. I’m there with you brothers. Why couldn’t I have got two? But the open gaze of the open road in raw, hard daylight! And me! Carrying a deuce! No way. I want a car park. Idea for a fast food restaurant : dark multi-storey car park interior, no tables, blind spots galore and fevered eaters consuming alone in hidden places, basking in the shadows. I go to get the train home, empty handed, my train leaves in five but I spy a Wilkinson’s from the station vantage point… Excalibur! That’s where does the frames see, not the exact A3 ones but we’ve given up on that by this point. There’s a Wilkinson’s in Manchester but I decided to risk it for a biscuit with this Ashton Wilko’s and see if they had the frames. They had one, I didn’t get it, I wanted ten, I missed my train. Had 45 mins to kill, walked around, walked in to B&M Bargains, bought some obscenely cheap name pasta sauces (Jamie Olive Oil, Gordon Ramsay) and kicked my heels. On my return to the station I heard lads cavorting on the platform, not lads I thought. Last thing a former choir boy like me wants is a laddy train! Voices going back and forth, bantering, effing and jeffing. No thank you very. Hang about, this isn’t lads. This is big lads. Big old lads. Centurions, knights of the realm, our forefathers. Here, on Ashton-Under-Lyne train station, platform 1. Arguing between themselves the merits of the Manchester football teams, “Stick your City up your arse”, “You big United bastard, you great tit”. The big lad around 108 against a squatter, fatter lad, roughly 120 years old. Both in full baby grows, pampers full to bursting. The 120 yr old steaming up his glasses, yelling his little face off. The bigger, tougher 108yr old lad stepping up to him occasionally and flashing double V’s in his face. Incendiary, lesser seen behaviour from the league of extraordinary gentlemen. Fair play to the big lads. 12 or ish minutes later, I’m back in the big one. Manchester Victoria, hardly get off here me. I’m more of a Piccadilly station man. It’s a bit like City and United I guess, you’re one or the other. Today, I’m Victoria, what will be the first sight of Manchester I wonder as I walk with long strides out of the station. Mid thought I see my first sight, a large poster display for the “Birds of a Feather” stage show. Holy moly. Those old girls from way back when. What’ll Iiiiiiii doooooo. You know, Sharon Theodopalopapapapados. Classic japes from the old girls. I miss them, y’know. No. Actually no. What is this? What year is this? It’s the same three, the big three. You’ve got…don’t know names, you know, the one with the shorter hair, the basin cut. She’s a bit thinner than she was, looks a bit like a school boy on the poster actually. Bit like one of those Krankies, looks a bit malnourished and sad. Still a woman but maybe trying to be a man too? Not sure, I’ll get back to you on that one. In the middle you’ve got…the dark haired one, the what’s she called, you know, I want to say Veronica. That’s not it. She looks freeze dried. I think they’ve photoshopped her head from the series because I don’t think she’s been seen since. She hasn’t aged a jot but to be fair I think she hit a ceiling back in the day. She looks a bit like this anti-McDonalds propaganda I saw the other day where they’ve photographed a burger and fries two years after and they haven’t deteriorated or moulded…but they’ve almost got stronger. The blonde one, thingy, looks similar to how she did but maybe a bit more sunken in and knackered. We all do it so I’m not knocking that but come on, Birds of a Feather. Doesn’t need to be the first thing you see when you step off a train in a grand(ish) old station does it? Eating a hot dog during that live show could tip the tasty treat to bleak street. Vendor, I demand a refund! My hot dog looks like Doreen! Doreen, that’s it. Doreen. I got the frames from Wilkinsons, ten of them, two centimetres shy each. Forgiveness is next to forgetfulness. I move onward and homeward, the two carriers on the end of my arms precariously sway between rush commuters and darting babies. My hair is shrinking with the heat, my back a river, I reach an untouched train and nestle for the homeward stretch. My bags beside me, everybody hates me as the carriage fills but it’s essential friends, I’m nursing these glass faced nest eggs. Leave me be! You don’t know what I’ve done, you don’t know where I’ve been. A hot dog I have eaten, vewy good it was too cheer. *ravenous

IKEA HOT DOG

I’m in Ikea, I’m alone. I’m drinking a can of cider with a big pear on it. £1.15 it cost. The lady at the counter looked at me, and the can, and asked if it was apple or pear. I looked at the can, with a big pear on it, and her and said “pear”. She said she could really go one for one of those cans right now, “I know! I only just got here and I’m exhausted!” I said. I don’t go in for such exchanges typically but I was feeling buoyant. I’d arrived, a ten minute train journey from Manchester Victoria to Ashton-Under-Lyne. Who knew? I was on a quest, I quest for A3 accommodating picture frames. Hell knows why so rare. I just PRESUMED that A3 was as common place as A4 on the international paper size scene these days. You know, A3, double the size of A4, 29.7cm x 42cm, dunno what in inches. A4 frames abound…HEY MA! Frame this print out! Look Wincey, I framed your food hygiene certificate! I framed this single ply of blank standard printer paper, I just thought it were like coo an snazzy! What. In. Hell. What is wrong with these high street bastards? Agreed, these standardised A-sizes are all of a type (literally!) but A3 is infinitely better than a framed A4. COME ON! It’s a famous paper size but it’s scant on the frame scene, this is why I’m in Ikea. I shall not bore ye further with my derision for budget frame stockists and their extensive yet limited range. But look, they had *almost* A3 size but 2cm short of the mark, every last one of them. Whyyyyy. I’m on a quest to find that extra 2 centimetres. Jeremy Beadle had a small penis but on the other hand…

I’m in Ikea, I’m alone. This is new territory. Of course, it’s staid predictable one-way system territory but still, I’m solo! This is new! Where art thou Mother? Father? Lady Legend? There was times when I didn’t want to go to the shop at the end of the street, now look at me! I leave the canteen area and follow the arrows, I follow them for five minutes, through bedrooms, offices and kitchens, and arrive back in the same canteen area? Wha? I disregard the one-way system and set off again, I find a map, it makes little sense but I note the frame area is on the floor below and depart. Hours later I arrive in the designated sector, I rifle through frames both with eyes and hands, I read dimensions over and over, I walk around in ever smaller circles. Once so full of hope, I’m now crest fallen and ready to leave. Where am I? Who am I? Where’s the hot dog? I decide to leave. I kind of go back on myself, I end up back at the canteen area I left hours ago. It takes me just shy of ten minutes to get back here, I don’t know how I did it. I know not what I do. I’m leaving I think, I’m at the opposite end of the hot dog finishing line. What about the hot dog? I’ll leave it, I don’t care. I get in the lift, go down to “entrance level”, the doors bing bong open and there it is…the hot dog exit gate. Bling blong, let us get ready to rumble!

I haven’t eaten since morning (Golden Syrup baked Weetabix, thanks for asking) and now it’s 3.50pm, I’m ravvo*. I’d stretch to two but the shrapnel in my pocket dictates a single berth. Could probs pay on my card but that’s a bit of a sad scene, gives the teller too much time to speculate about my hot dog use. “They’re not both for me ha ha” I’d say, “Darling! Your hot dog is ready!” I’d shout to no-one. If it wasn’t for the price hike of the last ten years I could’ve stretched to two in change, they used to be 35p, now they’re 60p. Still the hottest bargain in town mind. I take my boy wonder round the corner to the self-serve saucing station, note my excellent lattice work of ketchard and mustup in the photo above. It’s hard to tell where the ketchard begins and the mustup ends. Waste not want not, I almost turned the mustard dispenser on myself dear reader! It hoitered and toitered, I gasped and fudged, silently, restoring. Safely does it. I exited before first bite, hot dog resting upon napkin within grasp. Oh, I’m outside. I’m in the real world again. I’m actually facing the main road, I’m walking and eating. No rest bite in anonymous car park solace. I fold her in. The Ikea hot dog is famous, in these eyes at least, for the tightness of the hot dog “skin”. Or rather sometimes that it’s a bit stiff, you pierce it with your teeth. Most times the hot dog’s soul has already attempted the escape by poking through it’s tight surround at one end, this dog a classic example. We forget the technical name for it but the size of the hot dog, the extension at both ends beyond bun, is highly commendable. Over hang is encouraged, top muffin tops, the thong song. It’s a hot dog, it tastes like a hot dog. The skin isn’t as tough as one might dread though one didn’t anticipate the crispiness of the bun. Surprising but in fairness it’s a rarely a soft white experience. It’s 65p, it can’t not be a five-star review. You can get a bad burger but a bad hot dog is much harder to pull off. The elements are infallible. Make that sausage cheaper! Pump enough preservatives in to the bun ‘til it’s use by still ain’t used by 2014! Delicious! You can’t mess up the template, it’s award winning. You don’t dwell on a hot dog, least not one this far down the food chain, it’s a force feed, a gulpathon. Hot dog eating contests where the hot dog guys dip them in water so they can absorb the buns faster. I get it. I’m there with you brothers. Why couldn’t I have got two? But the open gaze of the open road in raw, hard daylight! And me! Carrying a deuce! No way. I want a car park. Idea for a fast food restaurant : dark multi-storey car park interior, no tables, blind spots galore and fevered eaters consuming alone in hidden places, basking in the shadows.

I go to get the train home, empty handed, my train leaves in five but I spy a Wilkinson’s from the station vantage point… Excalibur! That’s where does the frames see, not the exact A3 ones but we’ve given up on that by this point. There’s a Wilkinson’s in Manchester but I decided to risk it for a biscuit with this Ashton Wilko’s and see if they had the frames. They had one, I didn’t get it, I wanted ten, I missed my train. Had 45 mins to kill, walked around, walked in to B&M Bargains, bought some obscenely cheap name pasta sauces (Jamie Olive Oil, Gordon Ramsay) and kicked my heels. On my return to the station I heard lads cavorting on the platform, not lads I thought. Last thing a former choir boy like me wants is a laddy train! Voices going back and forth, bantering, effing and jeffing. No thank you very. Hang about, this isn’t lads. This is big lads. Big old lads. Centurions, knights of the realm, our forefathers. Here, on Ashton-Under-Lyne train station, platform 1. Arguing between themselves the merits of the Manchester football teams, “Stick your City up your arse”, “You big United bastard, you great tit”. The big lad around 108 against a squatter, fatter lad, roughly 120 years old. Both in full baby grows, pampers full to bursting. The 120 yr old steaming up his glasses, yelling his little face off. The bigger, tougher 108yr old lad stepping up to him occasionally and flashing double V’s in his face. Incendiary, lesser seen behaviour from the league of extraordinary gentlemen. Fair play to the big lads. 12 or ish minutes later, I’m back in the big one. Manchester Victoria, hardly get off here me. I’m more of a Piccadilly station man. It’s a bit like City and United I guess, you’re one or the other. Today, I’m Victoria, what will be the first sight of Manchester I wonder as I walk with long strides out of the station. Mid thought I see my first sight, a large poster display for the “Birds of a Feather” stage show. Holy moly. Those old girls from way back when. What’ll Iiiiiiii doooooo. You know, Sharon Theodopalopapapapados. Classic japes from the old girls. I miss them, y’know. No. Actually no. What is this? What year is this? It’s the same three, the big three. You’ve got…don’t know names, you know, the one with the shorter hair, the basin cut. She’s a bit thinner than she was, looks a bit like a school boy on the poster actually. Bit like one of those Krankies, looks a bit malnourished and sad. Still a woman but maybe trying to be a man too? Not sure, I’ll get back to you on that one. In the middle you’ve got…the dark haired one, the what’s she called, you know, I want to say Veronica. That’s not it. She looks freeze dried. I think they’ve photoshopped her head from the series because I don’t think she’s been seen since. She hasn’t aged a jot but to be fair I think she hit a ceiling back in the day. She looks a bit like this anti-McDonalds propaganda I saw the other day where they’ve photographed a burger and fries two years after and they haven’t deteriorated or moulded…but they’ve almost got stronger. The blonde one, thingy, looks similar to how she did but maybe a bit more sunken in and knackered. We all do it so I’m not knocking that but come on, Birds of a Feather. Doesn’t need to be the first thing you see when you step off a train in a grand(ish) old station does it? Eating a hot dog during that live show could tip the tasty treat to bleak street. Vendor, I demand a refund! My hot dog looks like Doreen! Doreen, that’s it. Doreen. I got the frames from Wilkinsons, ten of them, two centimetres shy each. Forgiveness is next to forgetfulness. I move onward and homeward, the two carriers on the end of my arms precariously sway between rush commuters and darting babies. My hair is shrinking with the heat, my back a river, I reach an untouched train and nestle for the homeward stretch. My bags beside me, everybody hates me as the carriage fills but it’s essential friends, I’m nursing these glass faced nest eggs. Leave me be! You don’t know what I’ve done, you don’t know where I’ve been. A hot dog I have eaten, vewy good it was too cheer.



*ravenous

AMERICAN SWEETS

Whistling Dixie! Sweet olde Tootsie, one helluva gal! In the twink of an eye she was gone. Let us get to the root beer of the problem here, the crux. Further, delve forth, blow the fluff, this froth off this cup. Laffy that taffy, I’m falling, I’m clutching, my straws are no s’mores. Laden my bag, this American booty. Such far away treasures; a haul, a seizure. Seen so much on TV, film and occasionally life. Wanted, so much more exotic than our staid sweet life. Life, oh life. What have we got to shout about? Polystyrene chunky kit kat “challenges”? All shite by the way. Endless family feed bag choc bite reinventions? Sure I’ll gnaw that chalice til the blood has runneth dry but throw me a lemon guys, where’s the spark? Why no freak flags flying? Sure these American sweets are oft disappointing (Hershey’s smells and tastes like day old nappies) but look at them, the packaging, oh the packaging! The freak factor! They’ve got it all. Bring back the Wispa? GTFO, bring back something good. Fuse bar anyone? These American sweets though, so steeped in legend, the grass over thar is greener, sire! Look how freaky they get with their M&Ms for instance…pretzel, peany b, more. The nerds, oh the nerds, zaptastic colourific snot crystals. Beast on you utter bast. I could wail for time trails but let us log some specificisation, Yankee stylee…

THE TWINKIE

That name, the holy twink. Maybe the most famous of the American fat man endorphin doozies. The past year or so, in my eyes, has seen twinkies descend upon our American offering sweetie houses. Over there, I gather, it’s more traditional to buy twinkies by the box set. Here they’re most likely sold separately, as pictured, in an unbranded clear plastic slip. Hardly the most attractive proposition on the market is it? Mmm…sponge finger in condensation and cream strobed body bag. Looks aside, it’s the legend that matters here and Twinkies are legend. Fat man after fat man folding in these sponge demi baguettes, I want a piece of this rich tapestry. 
The wrapper is off and I’m engaging. A Twinkie is a sponge finger (no other way around it) with that kind of cream inner that has never seen a fridge in it’s life. To tackle one pure, undented, seems almost sacrilege. Twinkies should be battle ravaged, kicked around the playground, cream pockets picked. Mine is a fresh faced new born, unpucked but travel hardened, misty packet, I see your truth. Before it goes in, I’m aware it’s a dirty boy but good can come from this. The size is diminutive compared to what we’ve seen from USA portions in the past. It’s noshable for certain, it doesn’t take long to devour. It’s cheap, it’s low down on the snack ladder. It’s hanging on to the first rung by it’s greased up digits. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s crap but quality wise we’re talking the same standard as a domestic corner shop’s basic sponge cake (happy shopper vibes, sub £1).  Part of the problem is I don’t think these should be sold separately, it should be a set, you need more than one. You need to find a rhythm, to hit a stride, a chain of events, you need consecutive fingers. One doesn’t hit the spot, it hits the classroom ceiling and stays there forever, frozen. It’s best getting creative on the domestic snack scene to find a similarly low brow alternative for chain treating. You’ve got to hit these once though, just to say you have.

FLUFF
 
Marshmallow spread! Stone the crows! It’s been out there for a while over here, I hit my first tub about five years ago. Tell me something I don’t know! First time around I wasn’t fussed, not for me I thought. Too sweet, too much like white paint on my toast thank you kindly. I liked the lightness of the jar, I liked how the spread morphs back to a flat level after you’ve pegged it with your palette knife. Still do tbh. Didn’t even finish the jar that first time, a rusty shelf staple for time. This time I’m ready, I’m ready to get creative. To make Fluff great you’ve got to blend it, mix it up with another toast topper. I’ve been eating it with peanut butter (crunchy, thanks for asking), the jar actually suggests it, calling the combo a “fluffernutter”. I wouldn’t go that far but it’s a winning Elvis style one-two step. I’m in the process of acquiring some chocolate spread to try out a chocomallow dinker. Wish me luck, I think that might be the top trumper. Couldn’t really fail much could it? Fluff is entirely endorsed here as a flair cupboard manoeuvre. I’m converted. 

TOOTSIE ROLL
 
Devil knows what this is. I’ve had it before, not the “in-the-piece” as this, more the miniatures, as in the little chewies. When you extend this “roll” from it’s slip, you’re confronted with a five portion scored mini length. Lady Legend remarked that it looked like “that poo off South Park”. Indeed it did, this chocolate fudge like toffee. I like the size of it, I like the size of the knuckles that you break off. The taste is a bit weird, well, just chocolate toffee…it’s a lesser seen variant. Not chocolate covered toffee, actual chocolate flavoured toffee. I’m not sure that is what a tootsie roll is supposed to be. American sweets, from this selection at least, don’t have that handy subtitle on the pack that sez wot it is. You know, like coca cola, the sparkling vegetable extract or some such. We didn’t taste vegetable extract but now we know. Or take Smarties; crispy outer shell, milk chocolate inner. What’s a tootsie roll? Ask Jeeves I guess. Who’s Jeeves? I forget. How do we turn the subtitles on? Where’s the remote? Why don’t I have a palette? I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be a fudge toffee chocolate hybrid, fuffeelate. It kind of doesn’t matter, all you need to know is it tastes good and it feels good to say it. Tootsie roll, toot-sie roll. Toots. 

A&W ROOT BEER
 
Few canned softs on the market make you say “sparkling vegetable extract drink who?” but root beer does for me. For starters, it’s got beer in the title. Amiright? Remember when I went to France on a school trip as a tot and tried to get mortal’d on umptween cans of Shandy? Hash tag winning! Root beer won’t get you rinsed (neither did the Shandy) but it will get you quenched. It’s dark, like cola, least I think it is. I didn’t decanter, friends. It sparkles, proper fizzes like. Some people don’t like it. It’s nearest mainstream friend would be Dr Pepper but it’s not the same. What does it taste like? Dunno, root beer? What does coke taste like? What does an onion taste like? There’s aged vanilla in there (the can told me), it sings. It’s sweet, it’s mellow, it’s got a good thing going. I’d go out on my limbs to say that root beer is my favourite soft. And that A&W is a fine example thereof. Perhaps the best I’ve known. I want to be proven wrong, I want more, I wish to learn. Teach me. But for now this is excellent,  I’ll sup on in silence. Sparkling vegetable extract who??

LAFFY TAFFY
 
Summon to me an excellent length, a yard stick of sweet. Smooth as an egg shell but chewy as a chew toy. Not for dogs like, for everyday humans, like me and thee. Make it a big bright poker, put jokes on the packet. Make it thin like a pencil but fluorescent like a marker. Make it mystery flavours, keep stacking up the flair moves. It doesn’t get any sweetier than this, the Laffy Taffy double flavour swirl yard stick. What’s the flavour? Does it matter? I think there was a lime or a lemon, perhaps a raspberry? Too obvious I’m sure, these cats are cleverer. More likely a gooseberry and a star fruit. Either way, star quality for certain. When extended this Laffy Taff had that perfect processed cylindrical finish to it, no lumps nay bumps, rivets nor pivots. It’s a clean line, it’s as old as the day it was born. It’s got the perfect chew count for me, my dream density, the perfect purchase. Like a chewit sorta, but not a weird crispy hard one. Heavy MaomMaom vibes. More the chew that doesn’t work your jaw off but leaves you satisfied after a mild teeth press. How many can you bench? I’d never had Laffy Taffy before but this beauty has got me bustling for more, I know this is the tip of the ‘berg, I dare not dream the full variations, the spin offs. Spoon feed them all to me, show me pictures at least. I’ll watch adverts on YouTube, I’ll google image until cows come home. I laff Laffy Taffy, I’ve had similar but this is the perfect package for me. Compliments to the chef. 

This edition of Food Legend was made possible by the gargantuan range of THE CANDY SHACK, the American Grocery store on the second floor of Afflecks, Manchester. Worth a pilgrimage if ever I swore one. Wholly endorsable!
TOAST ME! CHEESE AND HAM Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me. Toast me, cheese me, ham me, kill me. Well, they were only 70p for a brace from tesco frozen, who could refuse? I’d been told of these toaster activated savoury hot pockets, curious indeed but too disgraceful to get involved with. My periscope won’t go lower, I want to see the fish with elbows for faces and glow in the dark nose hairs. 70p though, not even on offer either. It would have been rude not to. I was damned if I didn’t and damned if I did. It was a Sunday, I was a little worse for wear, it was a solo mission for breakfast components. These toast mes were an additional, a starter piece for Lady Legend and I. I wouldn’t ordinarily have spotted them but on this particular trip to Tesco I was being methodical. Scanning all aisles and paying particular note to the lesser spied freezer sector. These Tesco Expresses are a fascinating experiment in whittling. Whittling all the breadth and excess of larger Tescos in to a core range of strictly essentials. Where’s the puff pastry? The fresh herbs? The lamb mince? Don’t have it, mate. Where’s the cheese and ham toaster activated frozen snacks? Right this way, sir! Purchased and home, hands shaking uwith the obscenity of it all. I strip back the foil wrapper, packaged like your neighbourhood pop tart. The instructions say to toast on the highest setting for a couple of minutes. I’m nervous, the highest setting? 7? It’s a road less travelled, it’s the number your smoke alarm dreams about. I’m scared, as I put the two frozen boards in my toaster, I’m scared. I’m envisaging the great billowing black as soon as I pop them down. My eyes are transfixed. I’m sure this will go wrong. It’s going to char the golden crumb, maximum is too high! I’m thinking of the boy who scolded his face on the blistering pop tart, the pop tarts that say to toast activate on the LOWEST setting. And here I am, putting cheese(!) in a toaster on the highest(!) setting. This could be a fatal dose. It goes against everything I’ve ever known but it’s ok because they’ve just popped up and they look fantastic. The cryogenic defrosting process a success! I wheel them in to Lady Legend, the silver cosh whipped away to reveal two golden(ish) breadcrumbed steam slates. Oh you shouldn’t have, slaving away in the kitchen while I sleep the sleep of a thousand sleeps. Darling, it was nothing, I only pressed a button and watched my life flash before my eyes, a monkey could have done it! Hang on, she takes in the majesty of the plate or lack thereof. She, the cat’s Mother, was expecting some kind of classical toastie-based cheese and ham. Not this, a thin breadcrumbed floor board. A throwback to the days of Findus crispy pancakes and spam fritters. Fair dinkum in their time but it’s rare that you see people gorging on it in this day and age. What’s the modern day high falluting-ish equiv? Turkey escalope? Schnitzel? This is flat like a schnitzel, squashed kiev-lite. All the fun of melted cheese and meat without the breathy consequence. First mouthful is in. It’s hot but not scolding, I take a load off. Thank my good tongue, you’ll sleep well tonight lad. It doesn’t taste too bad actually. It tastes dirty but a bit tasty too. This is the impression at first bite. It goes downhill and fast. This thing is so thin, it’s like 5mm deep. The cross section shows a thin layer of ham and an even thinner hint of cheese, clad either side by a spanking of breadcrumbs. Lady Legend is not impressed, declaring it at one point the worst thing she has ever eaten. The words “dirty” and “filthy” are peppered throughout. It’s an ordeal, it starts off a cheap trick but turns…how does one so thin and board like weigh so heavy upon the lungs? We’ve been watching a lot of Man V. Food lately and I think that Toast Mes could be the snack that finally kills him. If man was to take on a platter of this food, like 12 sheets maybe, it would be fatal. These diminutive toaster ghosts can and will knock a man down. The overwhelming feeling from knocking back just one Toast Me is guilt, perhaps some dread too. What was that? Why did it come from the toaster? Who cooks these? Why so cheap? That 70p wasn’t a reduction, it was the RRP. Who does that? Who is she? It’s true grit, classic dirge stakes. You’ve got to admire it, to a point. I wouldn’t tackle one alone, you need a partner in crime and preferably a St John’s ambulance waiting in the wings. Toast em if you got em.

TOAST ME! CHEESE AND HAM

Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me. Toast me, cheese me, ham me, kill me. Well, they were only 70p for a brace from tesco frozen, who could refuse? I’d been told of these toaster activated savoury hot pockets, curious indeed but too disgraceful to get involved with. My periscope won’t go lower, I want to see the fish with elbows for faces and glow in the dark nose hairs. 70p though, not even on offer either. It would have been rude not to. I was damned if I didn’t and damned if I did. It was a Sunday, I was a little worse for wear, it was a solo mission for breakfast components. These toast mes were an additional, a starter piece for Lady Legend and I. I wouldn’t ordinarily have spotted them but on this particular trip to Tesco I was being methodical. Scanning all aisles and paying particular note to the lesser spied freezer sector. These Tesco Expresses are a fascinating experiment in whittling. Whittling all the breadth and excess of larger Tescos in to a core range of strictly essentials. Where’s the puff pastry? The fresh herbs? The lamb mince? Don’t have it, mate. Where’s the cheese and ham toaster activated frozen snacks? Right this way, sir!

Purchased and home, hands shaking uwith the obscenity of it all. I strip back the foil wrapper, packaged like your neighbourhood pop tart. The instructions say to toast on the highest setting for a couple of minutes. I’m nervous, the highest setting? 7? It’s a road less travelled, it’s the number your smoke alarm dreams about. I’m scared, as I put the two frozen boards in my toaster, I’m scared. I’m envisaging the great billowing black as soon as I pop them down. My eyes are transfixed. I’m sure this will go wrong. It’s going to char the golden crumb, maximum is too high! I’m thinking of the boy who scolded his face on the blistering pop tart, the pop tarts that say to toast activate on the LOWEST setting. And here I am, putting cheese(!) in a toaster on the highest(!) setting. This could be a fatal dose. It goes against everything I’ve ever known but it’s ok because they’ve just popped up and they look fantastic. The cryogenic defrosting process a success!

I wheel them in to Lady Legend, the silver cosh whipped away to reveal two golden(ish) breadcrumbed steam slates. Oh you shouldn’t have, slaving away in the kitchen while I sleep the sleep of a thousand sleeps. Darling, it was nothing, I only pressed a button and watched my life flash before my eyes, a monkey could have done it! Hang on, she takes in the majesty of the plate or lack thereof. She, the cat’s Mother, was expecting some kind of classical toastie-based cheese and ham. Not this, a thin breadcrumbed floor board. A throwback to the days of Findus crispy pancakes and spam fritters. Fair dinkum in their time but it’s rare that you see people gorging on it in this day and age. What’s the modern day high falluting-ish equiv? Turkey escalope? Schnitzel? This is flat like a schnitzel, squashed kiev-lite. All the fun of melted cheese and meat without the breathy consequence. First mouthful is in. It’s hot but not scolding, I take a load off. Thank my good tongue, you’ll sleep well tonight lad. It doesn’t taste too bad actually. It tastes dirty but a bit tasty too. This is the impression at first bite. It goes downhill and fast. This thing is so thin, it’s like 5mm deep. The cross section shows a thin layer of ham and an even thinner hint of cheese, clad either side by a spanking of breadcrumbs. Lady Legend is not impressed, declaring it at one point the worst thing she has ever eaten. The words “dirty” and “filthy” are peppered throughout. It’s an ordeal, it starts off a cheap trick but turns…how does one so thin and board like weigh so heavy upon the lungs? We’ve been watching a lot of Man V. Food lately and I think that Toast Mes could be the snack that finally kills him. If man was to take on a platter of this food, like 12 sheets maybe, it would be fatal. These diminutive toaster ghosts can and will knock a man down.

The overwhelming feeling from knocking back just one Toast Me is guilt, perhaps some dread too. What was that? Why did it come from the toaster? Who cooks these? Why so cheap? That 70p wasn’t a reduction, it was the RRP. Who does that? Who is she? It’s true grit, classic dirge stakes. You’ve got to admire it, to a point. I wouldn’t tackle one alone, you need a partner in crime and preferably a St John’s ambulance waiting in the wings. Toast em if you got em.

WAITROSE TUNA MAYO SANDWICH Define essential, divine essentials, Waitrose goes simple, oops! and value with their oh so essentials range. Essential sweet potatoes, essential cashew butter, essential reduced sandwiches in the meal deal counter of Boots in Leeds station. I’m feeling a little bit meagre, reader. It would appear my arse has fallen out. Yesterday was St Patty’s day, a day where we all don inflatable pint heads and pay tribune to the blatant saint of the black stuff. It’s a little bit Irish, we’ve never been but we’ll happily play the smallest fiddle we can lay our five leafed clawers on. Of course we’ve been, some of us here are half Irish. We weren’t celebrating that ging gang gong though. Out in York wasn’t it, jet set willy style. Big boys doing it big, basement gig and BYOB. Fairly essentials I’m sure you’d agree. Popping caps, getting drenched, pulling new ones out of your bag and repeating. Nice one my son! Am I on the wrong train? I think I’m on the wrong train. Oh no, it’s making sounds like its going to start moving but it’s not scheduled to move for another four minutes. It’s ok, announcement made, I’m on the right train. Well done me, I’ve passed the test of life. By a hair’s breadth…a hare’s breath, a hen’s teeth, a country mile, a child’s smile, a straight banana, the final furlong, the last chapter, everything but the kitchen sink. You’re a wise young old man, you were last to note the platform change but damn you’re a wise fellow. Look at these sleepy eyes, this sandwich detritus strewn across my jacket, what’s this joke, this feeble oink. He couldn’t organise a piss in a brew, I wouldn’t cross the street to watch myself pee in a tea. What’s his credentials? I want a full background check. I’ve just seen a dirty horse/jungle pony dancing across an empty sports field. No person in any kind of distance, a loose horse. It was really going for it to be sure (Paddy’s hangover), doing those little leaps, manic gallops near the goal posts. Good job I looked out of the window when I did, getting plenty of sheep in the monitor now, my eyelids ever heavy. I can’t remember where I was, I shalln’t conclude the chasing of my own tail down the rabbit hole. I’m back, I’m half British. I’m a sacred idiot and I’m traversing dark tunnel after dark tunnel in a quest for Mother. It’s Mother’s Day see, a mountain of mums throughout the land, momma worship. Mum time. Battle of the Mums. Your Mum works for my Mum. What’s the best thing your Mum can do? My Mum’s younger than yours, my Mum has all her own teeth. Just going past Salt’s Mill, home of the Hockney. The oldest iPad in the game, Grandad’s turbo powered bicycle. It’s literally a gorgeous day, my vitamin D levels are through the roof. I’m metamorphosing from a grape to a raisin. You haven’t aged a day old friend. I’ve got that Filippo Berio theme tune in my head. Does anyone remember that Filippo Berio cartoon? It wasn’t a cartoon, it’s an olive oil. No, I’m pretty sure it was a cartoon, I can remember the theme tune. It wasn’t a theme tune, it was an advert jingle. Oh, my mistake. Was it sung by the same guy what sung Go Compare? No. Wait, where am I? I’m home, I’m back home now in Manchester. I’ve been home, to my parents but now I’m back in the arms of Lady Legend at flat A, Legend Street. What happened? I think I blacked out. What did I eat? A reduced tuna mayo from Waitrose in Leeds station, on the platform. Far enough along the empty platform to devour and photograph my sandwich without threat of onlooker? Sounds about right. How was it? Average. Could have done with sweetcorn. It was a bit beige. It’s hair was the same colour as it’s skin, it was a bit like Bart Simpson but without the skateboard. My friend fell off a skateboard this weekend, smashed his iPhone he did. They have iPhones on the Simpsons now. Did you know I type every Food Legend on my iPhone? Did you know that Lady Legend dropped a mug on my iPhone in the night and now I have a smashed iPhone? Did you know that it was my fault for leaving it on the floor? Did you know that the Waitrose tuna mayo sandwich is nothing to write home about? Perhaps I would’ve been better writing home about the reese’s pieces I picked up for an offer price of 32p from Sainsbury’s local in Leeds station. Perhaps I should have written home about Leeds station having an actual Funkypigeon.com shop(!). Perhaps I should’ve written about the explicit Thai meal I consumed in York. Or the onion rings I ate by proxy from burger king via second hand smell in the car. But no, I wrote about the indescribable tuna mayo sandwich. The blankest slate in the box. Truth be told I only had 54p in my pocket so it was the only reduced option in reach. Lord knows it wasn’t the shining light of Waitrose’s b-team. The underdog forced my hand, a plain and simple exercise free of thrills and flair. Essential to a point but I wouldn’t put it on my Amazon wish list. It’s Tuesday now, a sea of review possibilities has washed over me since. I’m slowly regaining full strength. I’m feeling alive again but for how long? Next time I must place my faith rationally and treat every snack as my last. Carry more than 54p and you can be the king of the reduced counter. I aspire to be more.

WAITROSE TUNA MAYO SANDWICH

Define essential, divine essentials, Waitrose goes simple, oops! and value with their oh so essentials range. Essential sweet potatoes, essential cashew butter, essential reduced sandwiches in the meal deal counter of Boots in Leeds station. I’m feeling a little bit meagre, reader. It would appear my arse has fallen out. Yesterday was St Patty’s day, a day where we all don inflatable pint heads and pay tribune to the blatant saint of the black stuff. It’s a little bit Irish, we’ve never been but we’ll happily play the smallest fiddle we can lay our five leafed clawers on. Of course we’ve been, some of us here are half Irish. We weren’t celebrating that ging gang gong though. Out in York wasn’t it, jet set willy style. Big boys doing it big, basement gig and BYOB. Fairly essentials I’m sure you’d agree. Popping caps, getting drenched, pulling new ones out of your bag and repeating. Nice one my son! Am I on the wrong train? I think I’m on the wrong train. Oh no, it’s making sounds like its going to start moving but it’s not scheduled to move for another four minutes. It’s ok, announcement made, I’m on the right train. Well done me, I’ve passed the test of life. By a hair’s breadth…a hare’s breath, a hen’s teeth, a country mile, a child’s smile, a straight banana, the final furlong, the last chapter, everything but the kitchen sink. You’re a wise young old man, you were last to note the platform change but damn you’re a wise fellow. Look at these sleepy eyes, this sandwich detritus strewn across my jacket, what’s this joke, this feeble oink. He couldn’t organise a piss in a brew, I wouldn’t cross the street to watch myself pee in a tea. What’s his credentials? I want a full background check. I’ve just seen a dirty horse/jungle pony dancing across an empty sports field. No person in any kind of distance, a loose horse. It was really going for it to be sure (Paddy’s hangover), doing those little leaps, manic gallops near the goal posts. Good job I looked out of the window when I did, getting plenty of sheep in the monitor now, my eyelids ever heavy. I can’t remember where I was, I shalln’t conclude the chasing of my own tail down the rabbit hole. I’m back, I’m half British. I’m a sacred idiot and I’m traversing dark tunnel after dark tunnel in a quest for Mother. It’s Mother’s Day see, a mountain of mums throughout the land, momma worship. Mum time. Battle of the Mums. Your Mum works for my Mum. What’s the best thing your Mum can do? My Mum’s younger than yours, my Mum has all her own teeth. Just going past Salt’s Mill, home of the Hockney. The oldest iPad in the game, Grandad’s turbo powered bicycle. It’s literally a gorgeous day, my vitamin D levels are through the roof. I’m metamorphosing from a grape to a raisin. You haven’t aged a day old friend. I’ve got that Filippo Berio theme tune in my head. Does anyone remember that Filippo Berio cartoon? It wasn’t a cartoon, it’s an olive oil. No, I’m pretty sure it was a cartoon, I can remember the theme tune. It wasn’t a theme tune, it was an advert jingle. Oh, my mistake. Was it sung by the same guy what sung Go Compare? No. Wait, where am I?

I’m home, I’m back home now in Manchester. I’ve been home, to my parents but now I’m back in the arms of Lady Legend at flat A, Legend Street. What happened? I think I blacked out. What did I eat? A reduced tuna mayo from Waitrose in Leeds station, on the platform. Far enough along the empty platform to devour and photograph my sandwich without threat of onlooker? Sounds about right. How was it? Average. Could have done with sweetcorn. It was a bit beige. It’s hair was the same colour as it’s skin, it was a bit like Bart Simpson but without the skateboard. My friend fell off a skateboard this weekend, smashed his iPhone he did. They have iPhones on the Simpsons now. Did you know I type every Food Legend on my iPhone? Did you know that Lady Legend dropped a mug on my iPhone in the night and now I have a smashed iPhone? Did you know that it was my fault for leaving it on the floor? Did you know that the Waitrose tuna mayo sandwich is nothing to write home about? Perhaps I would’ve been better writing home about the reese’s pieces I picked up for an offer price of 32p from Sainsbury’s local in Leeds station. Perhaps I should have written home about Leeds station having an actual Funkypigeon.com shop(!). Perhaps I should’ve written about the explicit Thai meal I consumed in York. Or the onion rings I ate by proxy from burger king via second hand smell in the car. But no, I wrote about the indescribable tuna mayo sandwich. The blankest slate in the box. Truth be told I only had 54p in my pocket so it was the only reduced option in reach. Lord knows it wasn’t the shining light of Waitrose’s b-team. The underdog forced my hand, a plain and simple exercise free of thrills and flair. Essential to a point but I wouldn’t put it on my Amazon wish list.

It’s Tuesday now, a sea of review possibilities has washed over me since. I’m slowly regaining full strength. I’m feeling alive again but for how long? Next time I must place my faith rationally and treat every snack as my last. Carry more than 54p and you can be the king of the reduced counter. I aspire to be more.

ROASTED PEANUT PUFFS Think Wotsits but swap cheese dust for peanut mist and you’re entirely there. If Wotsits are like polystyrene parcel protectors then Peanut Puffs are some ancient Roman equivalent. I’m grabbing a fistful; the packet feels damp, laden with essential peanut oils. Heavier than it should be, the power of the peanut flexing and convulsing. My mouth was dry at the initial concept but as long as you have a drink on standby, these are infallible. Light yet dense, crunch to mulch in nigh on no seconds. It’s an emphatic victory for the Peanut Puffs. You are what you eat. What?

ROASTED PEANUT PUFFS

Think Wotsits but swap cheese dust for peanut mist and you’re entirely there. If Wotsits are like polystyrene parcel protectors then Peanut Puffs are some ancient Roman equivalent. I’m grabbing a fistful; the packet feels damp, laden with essential peanut oils. Heavier than it should be, the power of the peanut flexing and convulsing. My mouth was dry at the initial concept but as long as you have a drink on standby, these are infallible. Light yet dense, crunch to mulch in nigh on no seconds. It’s an emphatic victory for the Peanut Puffs. You are what you eat.

What?

MEERKAT SWEETS Simples! There, I said it. I was always going to say it, let’s be honest, I didn’t need an excuse. What are we talking about? Meerkat sweets, 100% unofficial meerkat sweets. A bag of the bastards. Procured from a charity shop, forget which, possibly “mind” or whatever that chazzer is called with the squiggle before the “mind”…screwed up mind? Scrambled mind? Rubbish mind? Smelly cat? Greased up deaf guy? You know the one! Is it actually just called “Mind”? Why bludgeon your point home with the screwed up drawing before it? Bit tasteless innit lads? To be fair, I literally buy all my sweets from charity shops. Notttt! I’m not that gross. Give me a break! The sweets, of course, aren’t secondhand. The packet is sealed and the contents are very much of the moment. You get these shops these days with signs for “retro sweets”, oh yeah I love that. I love retro sweets, they’re so…they’re so…well, retro. Yeah. Of course they can’t call them vintage sweets because people would be like ew, old sweets? What’s a vintage sweet? A star bar that’s past it’s sell by? It’s not wine or cheese darling, we don’t want matured sweets. Retro sweets, vintage clothes. There are vintage sweets though. Check out the shoe level open cash ‘n’ carry style single sweet boxes that knock about corner shops for donks. How rare do you see a pick ‘n’ mix in progress these days? I’ll wager that the fizzy strawberry I just put 5p on wasn’t always this stale. Surfaces toughen to react to the weather condishes they find theyselves thrust. How long must this fizzy strawberry have sat, air drying out, open casket, waiting to be plucked? Is there legislation on that? Pick ‘n’ mix law? There wasn’t sight of a plastic sweet shovel neither, ‘scuse fingers! It’s the last corner of society that isn’t policed. Sweet crime in your neighbourhood! Broken Britain! Stand down. I don’t really care about that stuff, hygiene and the like…at least I don’t to a degree. If you started getting itchy insides at the thought of possible finger grazing in a sweet tub then where do you draw the line? Do you wash the mouthpiece of a can of coke before you consume? Think of that can’s journey from wherever it came. Wrapped in plastic maybe but then what? Unleashed, roaming the fridge, getting picked up and passed around. Bound to be serious fingers involved with that. But it’s not an area I allow concern, if I did then it would slow me down considerably. Finger me non impressed. Meerkats, anyway, everyone loves a bit of them. They’re cute, they’re cool, they’re on tv, what’s not to love? Exactly. I’ll repeat again, these sweets are not official meerkat produce, neither for the compare the market ads or the meerkats as people. It’s your classic sub-Jelly baby format, more at one with its jellyness than the baby outer/inner blueprint. Like a stiffer haribo you might offer, a hardened stretched out jelly merchant. Different colours, the usual palette. Lacking in the darks, rife with the lights…the limes, the lemons, the less enjoyables. The greens, forgive me, the greens. More reds please, more anything than those floundering yellow bellies and green meanies. Fairly good though you know. Liking them a bit. Bit different than your usual. Pleasing textures, satisfyingly bigger than your average. I suffered from jelly stuck up my teeth and gums after a few. This is a downside but I’m a magnet for that kind of behaviour so forgivable. Past caring really. I would get these meerkats again, a high grade rarity at an affordable price (£1) from a worthy vender. It doesn’t take a screwed up mind.

MEERKAT SWEETS

Simples! There, I said it. I was always going to say it, let’s be honest, I didn’t need an excuse. What are we talking about? Meerkat sweets, 100% unofficial meerkat sweets. A bag of the bastards. Procured from a charity shop, forget which, possibly “mind” or whatever that chazzer is called with the squiggle before the “mind”…screwed up mind? Scrambled mind? Rubbish mind? Smelly cat? Greased up deaf guy? You know the one! Is it actually just called “Mind”? Why bludgeon your point home with the screwed up drawing before it? Bit tasteless innit lads? To be fair, I literally buy all my sweets from charity shops. Notttt! I’m not that gross. Give me a break! The sweets, of course, aren’t secondhand. The packet is sealed and the contents are very much of the moment. You get these shops these days with signs for “retro sweets”, oh yeah I love that. I love retro sweets, they’re so…they’re so…well, retro. Yeah. Of course they can’t call them vintage sweets because people would be like ew, old sweets? What’s a vintage sweet? A star bar that’s past it’s sell by? It’s not wine or cheese darling, we don’t want matured sweets. Retro sweets, vintage clothes. There are vintage sweets though. Check out the shoe level open cash ‘n’ carry style single sweet boxes that knock about corner shops for donks. How rare do you see a pick ‘n’ mix in progress these days? I’ll wager that the fizzy strawberry I just put 5p on wasn’t always this stale. Surfaces toughen to react to the weather condishes they find theyselves thrust. How long must this fizzy strawberry have sat, air drying out, open casket, waiting to be plucked? Is there legislation on that? Pick ‘n’ mix law? There wasn’t sight of a plastic sweet shovel neither, ‘scuse fingers! It’s the last corner of society that isn’t policed. Sweet crime in your neighbourhood! Broken Britain! Stand down. I don’t really care about that stuff, hygiene and the like…at least I don’t to a degree. If you started getting itchy insides at the thought of possible finger grazing in a sweet tub then where do you draw the line? Do you wash the mouthpiece of a can of coke before you consume? Think of that can’s journey from wherever it came. Wrapped in plastic maybe but then what? Unleashed, roaming the fridge, getting picked up and passed around. Bound to be serious fingers involved with that. But it’s not an area I allow concern, if I did then it would slow me down considerably. Finger me non impressed.

Meerkats, anyway, everyone loves a bit of them. They’re cute, they’re cool, they’re on tv, what’s not to love? Exactly. I’ll repeat again, these sweets are not official meerkat produce, neither for the compare the market ads or the meerkats as people. It’s your classic sub-Jelly baby format, more at one with its jellyness than the baby outer/inner blueprint. Like a stiffer haribo you might offer, a hardened stretched out jelly merchant. Different colours, the usual palette. Lacking in the darks, rife with the lights…the limes, the lemons, the less enjoyables. The greens, forgive me, the greens. More reds please, more anything than those floundering yellow bellies and green meanies. Fairly good though you know. Liking them a bit. Bit different than your usual. Pleasing textures, satisfyingly bigger than your average. I suffered from jelly stuck up my teeth and gums after a few. This is a downside but I’m a magnet for that kind of behaviour so forgivable. Past caring really. I would get these meerkats again, a high grade rarity at an affordable price (£1) from a worthy vender. It doesn’t take a screwed up mind.

COCK ‘N’ BULL ENCHILADAS Dear Food Legend, I present to you, my very special, Cock ‘n’ Bull Enchiladas! Two staffs of Mexican inspired goodness! One chicken, one steak. Both made with love! If you’re allergic to yum! return to sender. If not, enjoy with my thanks. Yours sincerely, Sam Alder BA Hons P.S. Regards to Lady Legend. Wow. This, dear readers, is what shalt hereon in be knownst as…the future. The above heaven penned letters came written on leaf of paper, affixed to lid of lunch box, dearly departed at my place of work. I didn’t see my sender, he despatched his work in stealth silence, warm breath on the barkeep’s lobe and Sam was gone. He’s earned his wings, he’s an angel now. He had me at the word “staffs”. God speed you black enchilada. On our first meeting, mere week ago, I was introduced to today’s chef and he popped the question immediately. If I make something will you eat it? Yes. The next day, the day of yesterday’s pizza in fact, I arose with one thought in my mind…who WAS that guy? What was his NAME? How can I contact him and reiterate my “yes”, my want, my yearn. He was a friend of a mutual so I used ancient tracking device methods to make it happen. I say make it happen but what did I do? Not a lot asides eager it up, beg for food-giveness. I’m not the man, you’re the man. You toiled over the innards of this container I carry, double bagged on a busy train. I waited, anticipated, dreamed of the possibilities. When I claimed the drop off earlier today, I was scared to even peek past the carrier bag. Not chilled to the bone, more dressed to the nines, in my mind. If anything I was too keen, I wanted to savour the anonymity of the dish for precious hours more. I wanted to open my present on Christmas morning. It just felt rude to extinguish the mystery before I got home. Wait I did, though the guacamole tub atop the box was clearly visible through the bag. Set my marbles in motion it did, I could ascertain vague colours through the plastic, some kind of chilli I was thinking. I feared for the unknown. What if I couldn’t decipher the insides? What if I didn’t know what to title the dish? What if I tick the box marked “arse” when I mean “elbow”? So this is pressure, this is what pressure feels like. I haven’t felt this alive in years. A sweet from a stranger, they said it was wrong but then why does taste so right? I’m at home now, I’m unwrapping my bindle. Lady Legend is holding my hand, trying not to shake, fever beads gathering at her brow. We’re hoping for a girl but what if it’s a boy? I’ve already painted the nursery pink but we’ll cut our cloth accordingly. The gates are open, I see your note for the first time. Darling, it’s enchiladas! I’m off, I’m cartwheeling around the house. Doors and windows flung open, old neighbours getting kissed, I’m singing the enchiladas theme tune yet I’ve never even heard it. I start tearing up bank statements, throwing receipts down the street, flushing taxes down the toilet. It all seems so futile! I’m born again, I’m a born again Mexican. My baby has a moustache and a little guitar. Sing for me lad. I don’t care that you’re a boy, oh and what’s this…a girl too! A boygirl! I couldn’t be happier. You’re the best of both worlds, daughterson. We’ll paint one half of the nursery blue, blue for boy, pink for girl. One chicken, one beef. I read your note again, the adoption papers have been counted and verified. I’m the proud bouncing father of one beef, one chicken enchiladas. I preheat the oven and prepare my table. How would you have reheated these staffs, Sam? I don’t have a microwave but you would’ve reanimated them in the oven anyway wouldn’t you? I’m looking after someone else’s kin now, I’m walking on eggshells. By the time I take the staffs out, they’re blistered by the sun. Their skin charred, outstanding outers crisped and blackened. Not completely, I wouldn’t drop the ball entirely. Don’t even mind it, I don’t. They look neat enough to eat these staffs. These staffs you so named, these rowboats, these blamonges. Parcelled so rightly, so tightly, one chicken, one beef. Bulging seamwards, billowing steam heavenwards. I’m so ready for this. I pop the guacamole, you’ve bowled me over again. It’s a mix, one part sour cream, one part guacamole, how did you know? Get in. I’m smearing it back and forth, fudging all laws of presentation, I’m going abstract. Street folk are slack jawed, fogging up the kitchen window wondering if I’m eating a painting, a sculpture, art. I’m eating everything, whichever way you look at it, I’m eating it. It looks beautiful Sam, you’ve really done it this time. I tuck in as calmly as one can do in these situations, the heat from the sweet release clads my face. The innards are unspooling in real time. I’m no food critic, I struggle dissecting the elements of any given meal. Someone gave me an unknown cake to try at work once, they didn’t know what it was, I had to grasp. Potato I said? I wasn’t trying to be cute neither…parsnip? Uh, syrup? Brown? Green? I don’t know. I see these enchiladas and I feel them by fork and by mouth. This skin that I’ve pierced, chewed and devoured…what is it? I know it’s a tortilla but wait, could it be a pasta sheet? It feels plush like pasta in places. But no, what…it’s obviously not a pasta sheet, that doesn’t happen. This is enchiladas not cannelloni, wait, maybe it’s cannelloni?? My mind casts doubt at every clearing, I can trick myself out of anything. There’s a lot of elements I can relate to here though, I see chicken, I see beef. They don’t count because I was tipped off in your note. I see peppers, I see chilli, I see mushrooms, I see cheese, I see the semblance of a sauce…I see chorizo. You dark angel! Inspired addition Sam, your family is proud. You know what you’re doing by cross-referencing your meats. That spritz of chorizo, that refined hand, flicking those chunks in slow motion towards your top heat pan. Have you ever searched “Jamie Oliver talks dirty” on YouTube? We’re getting towards that territory now, you’ve set me off. There’s a nice heat, it’s seasoned to perfection, we don’t need Tabasco or other condiments. We don’t really need the chips we’ve got on a sidecar. Shhhh. Sorry Sam, I was worried I wasn’t going to have enough, now I’m worried I’ve not got the bottle. My thirst is developing at a rate of knots, I get up and walk to the fridge to get tonic water (the wine of waters), all of two yards, I almost fall down. This is how good this meal is, I’m falling down. I’m having a heart attack and pulling the table cloth down with me. This food fills. Me like this food. It’s made real good, it’s Manchester origins defy it’s Mexican origins. Maybe Sam is a Mexican spy sent to Manchester to trick me, to fill me in the process. Yes, that’s what it is. It’s good food gone bad, it’s good food woken up on the bad side of the tracks. It’s the bad food that good DIDN’T want you to see. It’s a little bit naughty. It’s a dream, it’s a heaven dose. It’s hell in a handbag. The content gave me hope for all future content, weight distributed equally, meat to other ratio excellent. The slights of knife, a wizard’s eye, clearly evident in the inner workings. Death by razor to this chilli, waffffer thin. All the ingredients are world class, the cuts, the choices. I owe Sam big. I’m half expecting him to walk out from behind my bedroom curtains holding a receipt. Ta da, i didn’t shop at Sainsbury’s, I went to Poundstretcher and the whole lot only cost £1.50. Flabbergasted I’d be. Poundstretcher does meat now??, I’d say. Wonders never cease, enchiladas don’t quit. You’ve slayed me, Sam. I didn’t think I’d ever eat again when I started writing this but now I’m healing. Words can heal, strangers can give sweets. I can eat whatever you want and I want to. Thank you Sam.

COCK ‘N’ BULL ENCHILADAS

Dear Food Legend,

I present to you, my very special, Cock ‘n’ Bull Enchiladas!

Two staffs of Mexican inspired goodness! One chicken, one steak. Both made with love!

If you’re allergic to yum! return to sender. If not, enjoy with my thanks.

Yours sincerely,
Sam Alder BA Hons

P.S. Regards to Lady Legend.

Wow. This, dear readers, is what shalt hereon in be knownst as…the future. The above heaven penned letters came written on leaf of paper, affixed to lid of lunch box, dearly departed at my place of work. I didn’t see my sender, he despatched his work in stealth silence, warm breath on the barkeep’s lobe and Sam was gone. He’s earned his wings, he’s an angel now. He had me at the word “staffs”. God speed you black enchilada.

On our first meeting, mere week ago, I was introduced to today’s chef and he popped the question immediately.

If I make something will you eat it? Yes.

The next day, the day of yesterday’s pizza in fact, I arose with one thought in my mind…who WAS that guy? What was his NAME? How can I contact him and reiterate my “yes”, my want, my yearn. He was a friend of a mutual so I used ancient tracking device methods to make it happen. I say make it happen but what did I do? Not a lot asides eager it up, beg for food-giveness. I’m not the man, you’re the man. You toiled over the innards of this container I carry, double bagged on a busy train. I waited, anticipated, dreamed of the possibilities. When I claimed the drop off earlier today, I was scared to even peek past the carrier bag. Not chilled to the bone, more dressed to the nines, in my mind. If anything I was too keen, I wanted to savour the anonymity of the dish for precious hours more. I wanted to open my present on Christmas morning. It just felt rude to extinguish the mystery before I got home. Wait I did, though the guacamole tub atop the box was clearly visible through the bag. Set my marbles in motion it did, I could ascertain vague colours through the plastic, some kind of chilli I was thinking. I feared for the unknown. What if I couldn’t decipher the insides? What if I didn’t know what to title the dish? What if I tick the box marked “arse” when I mean “elbow”? So this is pressure, this is what pressure feels like. I haven’t felt this alive in years. A sweet from a stranger, they said it was wrong but then why does taste so right?

I’m at home now, I’m unwrapping my bindle. Lady Legend is holding my hand, trying not to shake, fever beads gathering at her brow. We’re hoping for a girl but what if it’s a boy? I’ve already painted the nursery pink but we’ll cut our cloth accordingly. The gates are open, I see your note for the first time. Darling, it’s enchiladas! I’m off, I’m cartwheeling around the house. Doors and windows flung open, old neighbours getting kissed, I’m singing the enchiladas theme tune yet I’ve never even heard it. I start tearing up bank statements, throwing receipts down the street, flushing taxes down the toilet. It all seems so futile! I’m born again, I’m a born again Mexican. My baby has a moustache and a little guitar. Sing for me lad. I don’t care that you’re a boy, oh and what’s this…a girl too! A boygirl! I couldn’t be happier. You’re the best of both worlds, daughterson. We’ll paint one half of the nursery blue, blue for boy, pink for girl. One chicken, one beef. I read your note again, the adoption papers have been counted and verified. I’m the proud bouncing father of one beef, one chicken enchiladas. I preheat the oven and prepare my table.

How would you have reheated these staffs, Sam? I don’t have a microwave but you would’ve reanimated them in the oven anyway wouldn’t you? I’m looking after someone else’s kin now, I’m walking on eggshells. By the time I take the staffs out, they’re blistered by the sun. Their skin charred, outstanding outers crisped and blackened. Not completely, I wouldn’t drop the ball entirely. Don’t even mind it, I don’t. They look neat enough to eat these staffs. These staffs you so named, these rowboats, these blamonges. Parcelled so rightly, so tightly, one chicken, one beef. Bulging seamwards, billowing steam heavenwards. I’m so ready for this. I pop the guacamole, you’ve bowled me over again. It’s a mix, one part sour cream, one part guacamole, how did you know? Get in. I’m smearing it back and forth, fudging all laws of presentation, I’m going abstract. Street folk are slack jawed, fogging up the kitchen window wondering if I’m eating a painting, a sculpture, art. I’m eating everything, whichever way you look at it, I’m eating it. It looks beautiful Sam, you’ve really done it this time. I tuck in as calmly as one can do in these situations, the heat from the sweet release clads my face. The innards are unspooling in real time. I’m no food critic, I struggle dissecting the elements of any given meal. Someone gave me an unknown cake to try at work once, they didn’t know what it was, I had to grasp. Potato I said? I wasn’t trying to be cute neither…parsnip? Uh, syrup? Brown? Green? I don’t know. I see these enchiladas and I feel them by fork and by mouth. This skin that I’ve pierced, chewed and devoured…what is it? I know it’s a tortilla but wait, could it be a pasta sheet? It feels plush like pasta in places. But no, what…it’s obviously not a pasta sheet, that doesn’t happen. This is enchiladas not cannelloni, wait, maybe it’s cannelloni?? My mind casts doubt at every clearing, I can trick myself out of anything. There’s a lot of elements I can relate to here though, I see chicken, I see beef. They don’t count because I was tipped off in your note. I see peppers, I see chilli, I see mushrooms, I see cheese, I see the semblance of a sauce…I see chorizo. You dark angel! Inspired addition Sam, your family is proud. You know what you’re doing by cross-referencing your meats. That spritz of chorizo, that refined hand, flicking those chunks in slow motion towards your top heat pan. Have you ever searched “Jamie Oliver talks dirty” on YouTube? We’re getting towards that territory now, you’ve set me off. There’s a nice heat, it’s seasoned to perfection, we don’t need Tabasco or other condiments. We don’t really need the chips we’ve got on a sidecar. Shhhh. Sorry Sam, I was worried I wasn’t going to have enough, now I’m worried I’ve not got the bottle. My thirst is developing at a rate of knots, I get up and walk to the fridge to get tonic water (the wine of waters), all of two yards, I almost fall down. This is how good this meal is, I’m falling down. I’m having a heart attack and pulling the table cloth down with me. This food fills. Me like this food. It’s made real good, it’s Manchester origins defy it’s Mexican origins. Maybe Sam is a Mexican spy sent to Manchester to trick me, to fill me in the process. Yes, that’s what it is. It’s good food gone bad, it’s good food woken up on the bad side of the tracks. It’s the bad food that good DIDN’T want you to see. It’s a little bit naughty. It’s a dream, it’s a heaven dose. It’s hell in a handbag. The content gave me hope for all future content, weight distributed equally, meat to other ratio excellent. The slights of knife, a wizard’s eye, clearly evident in the inner workings. Death by razor to this chilli, waffffer thin. All the ingredients are world class, the cuts, the choices. I owe Sam big. I’m half expecting him to walk out from behind my bedroom curtains holding a receipt. Ta da, i didn’t shop at Sainsbury’s, I went to Poundstretcher and the whole lot only cost £1.50. Flabbergasted I’d be. Poundstretcher does meat now??, I’d say. Wonders never cease, enchiladas don’t quit. You’ve slayed me, Sam. I didn’t think I’d ever eat again when I started writing this but now I’m healing. Words can heal, strangers can give sweets. I can eat whatever you want and I want to.

Thank you Sam.

YESTERDAY’S PIZZA I first saw this impressionist painting at Tate Brit…only joking! It’s yesterday’s pizza innit. I believe it was Richard Madeley interviewing I know not who, though it may have been Jade Goody, who first dropped the phrase “yesterday’s pizza” on these ears. He said it years ago, on daytime tv. He said it like a regular person might say “tomorrow’s fish and chip paper”. I remember exactly how he said it, he said “are you not afraid of becoming yesterday’s pizza?’. It was one of the most abstract experiences of my life…whoa, shit, what? That isn’t a phrase is it? He was talking about fame being transient, the old five minutes game, illustrating his point with the transient five minute existence of the previous day’s thin crust. He was either being deep or off his pan. All I know is it affected me deeply and I put it in my knowledge pan to keep forever more. Your turn of phrase folded my pie in to a calzone. You shook the foundations of my pizza base. Now if anything is past it, old hat or on the way out, I call it yesterday’s pizza. Which is queer because I absolutely love yesterday’s pizza. Allow me to paint a scene, Lady Food Legend and I crash bang wallop in to our home area late last night via the train. Flipped from the carriage like two green burgers from Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares. Not quite ten sheets to the wind but feeling confident, hungry and angry. Angry for this big bag I hoist upon my shoulder, a cartoon duffle bag plumped to obscenity. A serious bulger. The plan is to hit the co op to obtain bagels for a late night (no tea) salmon situation. Open til 11 I said, bagels ahoy I strode. Smack my mouth and call me Susan, of course it’s closed you feeble shambles. When has the co op ever done me good? Lumbered with it as my nearest supermarket forever more. Have I not paid my penance? We’re downtrodden and dumped upon, we see the shutters down and hang heads. Then we look sideways and realise we’re stood outside Heaton Pizza House. The gods have spoken, it’s on like donkey kong. See this pizza house is the only takeaway on about a mile stretch (I don’t know what a mile is so don’t quote) and for me that reads, if it’s the only one then it must be good! The mayor wouldn’t have granted permission for Heaton Pizza House’s erection if not, right? This, my servants, my minions, my brood, this Heaton Moor, I declare a takeaway free zone. Free we shall be from other districts detraction of identikit takeaways, one atop the other, endless sub par Americanised garishness. You, citizens, will be free to go home and cook your own teas without the devil’s temptation of two piece chicken and chips. Well, almost anyway. We’ll have this one takeaway that will sell it all, a flagship, we, the council, shall name it Heaton Pizza House. A temple of temptation but one at the very pinnacle of excellence. The mayor has stopped talking now and we’re back with me. So is it a solitary temple of supremacy? It’s menu spans the myriad of the usual options and as far as I can work out, from my two visits to date, it’s pretty average. Damn, another presumption, prediction and dream dashed. But let’s face it, all takeaway pizza is good pizza. We opted for a 14” pepperoni, thin crust but around a cm in depth. £7.90 actually. Fairly reasonable I think. We wanted the large size because we were ravenous. The journey home was fast and cautious, lest we slide the topping, imagine cheese drift. This want not we don’t. Back home and a quick black pepper spritz later, I’m adorning the pizza sparingly with green jalapeño peppers from a jar. Quick, pour the flat soul of this old Pepsi in my glass beak. Carry this tabasco, is it the smallest bottle you’ve ever transported? Think about it, tell me later, don’t speak now, to the bedroom! Myself and Lady Legend are in bed, an open casket funeral of the tastiest kind plays out between our writhing bellies. Jersey Shore episode 8, season 3, uncensored, our visual aid. Scoff, scoff, scoff. The slices so big, my tabasco dashes more ambitious with each cheesy triangle. The heat is piping, we’re polishing them off. I’m draining the ghost of Pepsi past, I’m speaking in tongues between each monster morsel. I’m rubbing my greasy hooves through my mane, the bed sheets long since translucent with finger shine. My skin turning the same way, Lady Legend turns to me and says she doesn’t know who I am any more. I only hear voice, she has turned see through too. I’ve turned in to Greek Mythology, I’m some kind of ancient ageing warrior. My body, once so taut, is shape shifting out of definition and in to soft focus. My beard fallen, my trident floppy. I shout to my horse, “Pegasus! Come back!”. Deserted. Such fickle steed, I lie broken in the twilight sun, loin cloth torn, hallucinations of my father returning triumphant…golden…lean from battle. Daddy, do I shame thee? I’ve had a good life though, I laugh to myself and fold in another slice. The visions have altered. Fast forward however many hundred years and I’m on a speedboat in Miami, some kind of mobster ensemble. I catch sight of myself in a passing party liner, I look good, my shirt Hawaiian. I laugh to myself and launch another watermelon overboard. I sleep off this fever, rising at 4am to drink Ribena and stand, perfectly still, in my darkened hallway. These are the precious moments I tell myself, no one will ever truly know what you do when alone. Cherish this. I can’t sleep, I’ll never return to deep slumber. This is my life now, I walk around in my underpants and drink pints of soft drinks in still silence. My eyes will adapt to this darkness, I’ll become more mole-like, more feral. The world is asleep but I’m replenishing, I’m living the dream. Fast forward five minutes and I’m Crash Bandicoot, I’m Tutan Karmunhe(sp?), I’m asleep and I remain this way until gone 9 o clock. I rise as little as it’s possible to rise and reach for the single remaining slice. Wow, you’re ugly I think. You looked holy last night, you had a genuine aura about you. You were drenched in sunlight from my lamp on tableside. Now look at you, you’re as cracked as the black pepper you’re sprinkled with. You’re a technicolour nightmare. Whatever, you’re going in. Cold and straight, each bite more aromatic, more character staining than I remember. I don’t care, you’re good, you’re strong. I don’t know why but I deserve this. Leftover pizza is good, especially cold and when I say cold, I mean room temp. Left out from the night before. The purest way. I think loosely about why takeaway pizza often has cheese on top of the toppings as well as underneath. I reach scant conclusion. My best effort is that the cheese on top acts as some insurance from charring the toppings during the inferno of the pie oven. The pizza was standard, fairly special but at the same time nothing but. You wouldn’t go out of your way but you wouldn’t let it get in the way. Madeley is so right to give yesterday’s pizza the mainstream limelight that it deserves but so wrong to suggest its a bad thing to aspire to. I want to be yesterday’s pizza.

YESTERDAY’S PIZZA

I first saw this impressionist painting at Tate Brit…only joking! It’s yesterday’s pizza innit. I believe it was Richard Madeley interviewing I know not who, though it may have been Jade Goody, who first dropped the phrase “yesterday’s pizza” on these ears. He said it years ago, on daytime tv. He said it like a regular person might say “tomorrow’s fish and chip paper”. I remember exactly how he said it, he said “are you not afraid of becoming yesterday’s pizza?’. It was one of the most abstract experiences of my life…whoa, shit, what? That isn’t a phrase is it? He was talking about fame being transient, the old five minutes game, illustrating his point with the transient five minute existence of the previous day’s thin crust. He was either being deep or off his pan. All I know is it affected me deeply and I put it in my knowledge pan to keep forever more. Your turn of phrase folded my pie in to a calzone. You shook the foundations of my pizza base. Now if anything is past it, old hat or on the way out, I call it yesterday’s pizza. Which is queer because I absolutely love yesterday’s pizza.

Allow me to paint a scene, Lady Food Legend and I crash bang wallop in to our home area late last night via the train. Flipped from the carriage like two green burgers from Ramsey’s Kitchen Nightmares. Not quite ten sheets to the wind but feeling confident, hungry and angry. Angry for this big bag I hoist upon my shoulder, a cartoon duffle bag plumped to obscenity. A serious bulger. The plan is to hit the co op to obtain bagels for a late night (no tea) salmon situation. Open til 11 I said, bagels ahoy I strode. Smack my mouth and call me Susan, of course it’s closed you feeble shambles. When has the co op ever done me good? Lumbered with it as my nearest supermarket forever more. Have I not paid my penance? We’re downtrodden and dumped upon, we see the shutters down and hang heads. Then we look sideways and realise we’re stood outside Heaton Pizza House. The gods have spoken, it’s on like donkey kong. See this pizza house is the only takeaway on about a mile stretch (I don’t know what a mile is so don’t quote) and for me that reads, if it’s the only one then it must be good! The mayor wouldn’t have granted permission for Heaton Pizza House’s erection if not, right? This, my servants, my minions, my brood, this Heaton Moor, I declare a takeaway free zone. Free we shall be from other districts detraction of identikit takeaways, one atop the other, endless sub par Americanised garishness. You, citizens, will be free to go home and cook your own teas without the devil’s temptation of two piece chicken and chips. Well, almost anyway. We’ll have this one takeaway that will sell it all, a flagship, we, the council, shall name it Heaton Pizza House. A temple of temptation but one at the very pinnacle of excellence. The mayor has stopped talking now and we’re back with me. So is it a solitary temple of supremacy? It’s menu spans the myriad of the usual options and as far as I can work out, from my two visits to date, it’s pretty average. Damn, another presumption, prediction and dream dashed. But let’s face it, all takeaway pizza is good pizza. We opted for a 14” pepperoni, thin crust but around a cm in depth. £7.90 actually. Fairly reasonable I think. We wanted the large size because we were ravenous. The journey home was fast and cautious, lest we slide the topping, imagine cheese drift. This want not we don’t.

Back home and a quick black pepper spritz later, I’m adorning the pizza sparingly with green jalapeño peppers from a jar. Quick, pour the flat soul of this old Pepsi in my glass beak. Carry this tabasco, is it the smallest bottle you’ve ever transported? Think about it, tell me later, don’t speak now, to the bedroom! Myself and Lady Legend are in bed, an open casket funeral of the tastiest kind plays out between our writhing bellies. Jersey Shore episode 8, season 3, uncensored, our visual aid. Scoff, scoff, scoff. The slices so big, my tabasco dashes more ambitious with each cheesy triangle. The heat is piping, we’re polishing them off. I’m draining the ghost of Pepsi past, I’m speaking in tongues between each monster morsel. I’m rubbing my greasy hooves through my mane, the bed sheets long since translucent with finger shine. My skin turning the same way, Lady Legend turns to me and says she doesn’t know who I am any more. I only hear voice, she has turned see through too. I’ve turned in to Greek Mythology, I’m some kind of ancient ageing warrior. My body, once so taut, is shape shifting out of definition and in to soft focus. My beard fallen, my trident floppy. I shout to my horse, “Pegasus! Come back!”. Deserted. Such fickle steed, I lie broken in the twilight sun, loin cloth torn, hallucinations of my father returning triumphant…golden…lean from battle. Daddy, do I shame thee? I’ve had a good life though, I laugh to myself and fold in another slice. The visions have altered. Fast forward however many hundred years and I’m on a speedboat in Miami, some kind of mobster ensemble. I catch sight of myself in a passing party liner, I look good, my shirt Hawaiian. I laugh to myself and launch another watermelon overboard.

I sleep off this fever, rising at 4am to drink Ribena and stand, perfectly still, in my darkened hallway. These are the precious moments I tell myself, no one will ever truly know what you do when alone. Cherish this. I can’t sleep, I’ll never return to deep slumber. This is my life now, I walk around in my underpants and drink pints of soft drinks in still silence. My eyes will adapt to this darkness, I’ll become more mole-like, more feral. The world is asleep but I’m replenishing, I’m living the dream. Fast forward five minutes and I’m Crash Bandicoot, I’m Tutan Karmunhe(sp?), I’m asleep and I remain this way until gone 9 o clock. I rise as little as it’s possible to rise and reach for the single remaining slice. Wow, you’re ugly I think. You looked holy last night, you had a genuine aura about you. You were drenched in sunlight from my lamp on tableside. Now look at you, you’re as cracked as the black pepper you’re sprinkled with. You’re a technicolour nightmare. Whatever, you’re going in. Cold and straight, each bite more aromatic, more character staining than I remember. I don’t care, you’re good, you’re strong. I don’t know why but I deserve this. Leftover pizza is good, especially cold and when I say cold, I mean room temp. Left out from the night before. The purest way. I think loosely about why takeaway pizza often has cheese on top of the toppings as well as underneath. I reach scant conclusion. My best effort is that the cheese on top acts as some insurance from charring the toppings during the inferno of the pie oven. The pizza was standard, fairly special but at the same time nothing but. You wouldn’t go out of your way but you wouldn’t let it get in the way.

Madeley is so right to give yesterday’s pizza the mainstream limelight that it deserves but so wrong to suggest its a bad thing to aspire to.

I want to be yesterday’s pizza.