VICE UK - MUNCHIESRSS feed for https://www.vice.com/en/topic/munchieshttps://www.vice.com/en%2Ftopic%2Fmunchies%3Flocale%3Den_ukenWed, 21 Jun 2023 07:45:00 GMT<![CDATA[An Actual Italian Tries a Chicago-Style Deep Dish Pizza]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/xgw8y4/italian-tries-chicago-deep-dish-pizzaWed, 21 Jun 2023 07:45:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Italy.

I’m the classic stereotype of the average Italian, and a huge fan of Italian pizza. Just like the U.S., Italy has different styles of pizza depending on the region. The most famous ones are the Neapolitan (small with a thick crust and soft dough) and the Roman (large, crispy and thin-crusted). We have our own celebrity pizza masters, too, like Enzo Coccia for Neapolitan pizza, or Gabriel Bonci and Jacopo Mercuro for the Roman style. I mean, seriously, how could Americans – the people behind Domino’s – compete with that?

But my motto is to always try new things, at least in terms of food. So I went to Hamerica's in Milan, a chain restaurant bringing American cuisine to Italy, to try so-called Chicago “deep-dish pizza”. I know my Neapolitan friends might not speak to me after reading this article, but someone had to do it, right?

Chicago deep-dish pizza takes its name from the type of pan it’s cooked in. Indeed, its main characteristic is its height – it’s as tall as a pie. It also famously has its toppings placed in reverse: Mozzarella at the bottom, vegetables and meat in the middle, and tomato sauce and crushed tomatoes on top. The cheese is at the base so it won’t burn in the oven, since the cooking time is much longer than for a thin pizza (about 20 minutes).

When I think about it, this can only really be defined as pizza because of its ingredients. In fact, it’s more likely a savoury pie cooked in a pan, with a golden crust that looks like buttery shortcrust.

Chicago style deep dish pizza - photo of a small round pizza with parmesan on top with fries on the side
The Hamerica special served with fries. Photo: Courtesy of Gianvito Fanelli

Like many recipes, people fight over who invented Chicago-style pizza. In 16th-century Naples, modern-day pizza had already begun to take shape. Four centuries later, Chicago was an immigration hub for Europeans, including Italians, and more specifically Neapolitans. In 1943, two Neapolitan immigrants, Ike Sewell and Ric Riccardo, opened Pizzeria Uno in Chicago, where they started serving deep-dish pizzas with a crispy crust and reversed ingredients. Now the restaurant has become an international chain under the name of Uno Pizzeria & Grill, with 100 restaurants in the U.S., as well as Qatar, India, and Saudi Arabia.

Sewell and Riccardo claim to be the creators of deep-dish pizza, but Adolpho "Rudy" Malnati, a former employee of Pizzeria Uno and member of one of Chicago’s most famous pizza families, has a different version of the story. Malnati claims he’s the one who invented the recipe together with Riccardo, and that they’d hand out slices on the streets of Chicago to let people try it. According to him, Sewell came into the picture later.

There are no records of Sewell or Riccardo making pizza or even working in kitchens – something that reinforces Malnati’s version. But according to a different source, you could eat pie-like pizzas in Chicago way before that anyway, like at Rosati’s Pizza in 1926.

In any case, it’s almost impossible to tell who invented it. The important thing is, someone did.

Chicago style deep dish pizza - photo of a man eating a pizza with fries. He's wearing a black cap and blue jumper and there are frames with photos in the background.
The author contemplating his Chicago-style deep-dish pizza. Photo: Courtesy of Gianvito Fanelli

I entered Hamerica's and ordered the Hamerica special, which was finalised after four months of trials and 25 different recipes, the staff told me. I have to admit I was sceptical. I expected to go home feeling frustrated, or even disgusted, but when it arrived – piping hot – I was amazed.

The pizza was about ten centimetres high and 15 wide – much smaller than the ones I'd seen on the Internet. From top to bottom, there was pepperoni and tomato sauce, sausage in the middle and then mozzarella. It’s ingredients were similar to popular American pizzas, and to make it complete, it was served with nice thick fries.

Chicago style deep dish pizza - picture a hand cutting a cheesy pizza with a knife and fork. There are fries on the plate.
Photo: Courtesy of Gianvito Fanelli

The pizza isn't huge, it’s just the right size. And considering I was in a chain specialising in burgers, fries and other U.S. dishes, the immediate taste wasn’t bad: The shortcrust pastry was crunchy in all the right places, the middle was juicy and cheesy, the sausage moist, and the tomato sweet, with a light oregano aftertaste. I didn’t enjoy the pepperoni, really – it wasn’t spicy enough in my opinion.

Whether you’re Italian or not, I suggest you try it. If you’re a purist who’s horrified at the thought of an American pizza, remember pizza was made popular by Italian-Americans, not just Italians. And they also invented carbonara.

That being said, I have to admit I probably won't eat it again, mostly because of the €15.90 (or $17.36) price tag. With half that money I can get a delicious margherita in Milan, which – I’m sorry – still tastes much better.

]]>
xgw8y4Gianvito Fanelli Andrea Strafile MunchiesPizzausaFoodItalianamerica
<![CDATA[Can a Brita Filter Improve Cheap Vodka? A TikTok Investigation]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/epzq57/tik-tok-investigation-brita-filter-cheap-vodkaMon, 05 Dec 2022 08:45:00 GMTA version of this article originally appeared on VICE Italy.

Over the past few months, people have been sharing videos on TikTok where they pour cheap vodka through a filter jug. After tasting it, they look amazed. They say the vodka tastes a hell of a lot better - so much so, the trend has now garnered over 90 million views.

Real or not, the hack is nothing new. In 2006, it featured in an episode of MythBusters. They, too, seemed to think that filtering vodka improved its taste, though a scientist ultimately debunked it on the grounds that there was no chemical difference between the filtered and unfiltered versions.

Strap in for the science: Vodka is a spirit, generally made from grains or potatoes, that goes through fermentation, distillation, dilution and filtration. Ethanol - or pure alcohol - is formed during fermentation. The thing is, fermentation also results in other byproducts called congeners. These are acids and other types of alcohol like isobutylene, aldehydes, esters and ketones, which give spirits, such as rum and whisky, their flavour.

But good vodka is supposed to be pure, taste like nothing and go down the hatchet as smooth as water. (In fact, the word vodka comes from “voda”, which means water in Russian.)

After fermentation, the solution still doesn’t have enough alcohol, so it’s distilled – basically boiled – to reduce congeners and increase ethanol. That’s because ethanol boils at 78 °C, while some congeners evaporate at lower temperatures.

These processes are repeated many times to get premium vodkas, but for cheaper ones, manufacturers do the bare minimum.

The writer filters vodka through a water jug on a glass table outdoors.
Photo: Andrea Strafile

Sure, I like premium vodka, but I have far more important things to spend my money on. So, I decided to take on the experiment too – or rather, get six of my coworkers to do it. I got myself a filter jug and a €13 bottle of vodka. At 3PM (it’s six o’clock somewhere), I began to filter it.

I’ve got to say, spending an afternoon pouring shots for my colleagues in the name of investigative journalism really is what I’d always hoped to do as a grown-up.

Next, I split the tasting into three samples: unfiltered vodka, vodka filtered once and vodka filtered six times. That’s the magic number for the best result, according to MythBusters. The hosts of the show switched filters in between each step. That seemed like a waste to me, so I used the same filter throughout the process. (Water filters are only supposed to be switched every couple of months.)

My test subjects tasted the vodka separately to avoid influencing each other’s responses. They had no idea which sample was which and I also switched the tasting order, just in case.

The result was pretty surprising. Just looking at the samples, the vodka filtered once looked clearer. When tasting it, all six colleagues noticed a difference. Three of them strongly preferred the vodka filtered once, and the other three preferred the sample filtered six times. None of them thought the unfiltered vodka tasted the best.

The writer filters vodka through a water jug on a glass table outdoors.
Photo: Andrea Strafile

The impact of filtering multiple times, however, wasn’t clear. Two people thought the sample filtered six times tasted vile - even worse than unfiltered vodka. And although unfiltered vodka wasn’t anyone’s top choice, it ranked second for four out of six drinkers.

It turns out that a 2015 study comparing 12 vodka brands found multiple distillations and filtrations don’t seem to benefit the quality at all. The study says that, more than anything, it’s the fermentation process and quality of the basic ingredients that are the key factors to reaching lower impurity levels. Plus, filtering doesn’t change the liquor’s alcohol content and does not prevent hangovers, contrary to what some TikTok videos claim.

Three samples of vodka in different glasses on a table.
Photo: Andrea Strafile

My conclusion to all of this is: if you add up the cost of cheap vodka to the price of the filters, it comes out as more expensive than a bottle of premium vodka (ranging between €35 to €50). So, don’t bother - unless you were going to invest in filters anyway.

That being said, drinking filtered water with an aftertaste of vodka at the office might brighten up your day.

@andreastrafile

]]>
epzq57Andrea StrafileRedazione MunchiesBecky Burgum MunchiesvodkaHangoverAlcoholTikTokVICE ItalyVICE InternationalExperiment
<![CDATA[Why Do Some Men Hate Hot Drinks?]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/jgpmb8/why-some-men-hate-hot-drinksFri, 05 Aug 2022 08:00:00 GMTIf you ever think that writing articles around questions like “Why do so many men not seem to like hot drinks?” would be a piece of piss, think again. When doing call-outs for men to get in touch about this widespread phenomenon, all sorts of people crawl out of the woodwork. One reply, from @CumAsYouAreUK, tweets me that they “indeed hate hot drinks” and this is “one of the reasons people think I'm a sociopath”. 

My personal guess would be that disliking a cuppa isn’t why they think @CumAsYouAreUK lacks human empathy, but rather because he thinks tweeting about hot drinks from a graphic adult sex parties account is reasonable behaviour. 

Thankfully though, many other lads actually did reach out with proper reasons for not enjoying a brew, coffee, hot Vimto or Bovril (to be fair, does anyone below Sheffield enjoy the latter?). 

Some answers were easily foiled: 

Him: “Liquids shouldn’t be hot.”

Me: “What about baths?”

Him: “Ah, I forgot about baths.”

Others left me stumped: 

“I don't like being given a time frame for when I can or can’t drink a drink,” one guy called Charlie tells me. “They're too hot when you get them, they're too cold if you leave them a bit and the time when they are good to drink is too small.” 

As a person who deleted BeReal after a month because I hated being told what to do once a day, I fully empathise – but Charlie, I should add, also works as a barista. As a man surrounded by people enjoying the exact drinks he despises, does he ever feel left out?

“There’s a group of Greek guys who come and sit in the lane and drink freddo espressos and aesthetically that looks mint,” Charlie laments, but quickly backtracks that those that “can’t function without their morning coffee” are cringe – a statement that my mam’s extensive mug collection would have to disagree with. 

Investment consultant Paul, 43, not only feels left out, but says that others specifically criticise his choice to not partake in teas and coffees. He tells me that he thinks other people definitely look down on him for not drinking hot beverages and he often gets told he is “not a real adult”.

Paddy – 35, motion designer – agrees with Paul, saying it’s especially awkward in family situations when he refuses a brew. “It always felt odd amongst my family, a group of people terminally addicted to tea. My Irish grandma was, and remains, drinking tea permanently.” 

“People always found it baffling,” he adds. “[It] wasn't necessarily a ‘looking down at me’ thing – just a total incomprehension. Occasionally I'd say yes to my mum's offer just to feel like I wasn't offending her. I'd drink half the tea, half would go down the sink.”

Carly Webb, psychotherapist and the founder of Vitus Wellbeing, a personal therapy service, explains that hot drinks mean a lot more to people than simply an itch to scratch in the day to day monotony of life. “A cup of tea represents so much in our society – it isn’t a drink we consume in a rush but rather one we often take time to brew properly, offering tea to others in a group.” 

“People open-up over a cup of tea; whether it’s because of the appreciation that’s felt when someone makes it for you, or because of its warmth and familiarity – but tea has become the beverage that accompanies heart-to-hearts and friendly reunions as well as the mundane every day.”

As Gemma Collins famously surmised once on Celebrity Big Brother, saying “Can I make you a tea?” is like saying “Can I give you a grand?” Webb doesn’t just limit the special space that cuppas occupy to the British public, either. “Coffee is also a sociable drink – we take a coffee break with colleagues or sit together in a café for our weekend caffeine fix and catch-up.” 

Instead of choosing to be ostracised for their dislike of teas and coffees, she adds, maybe “those who refuse to try hot drinks are perhaps trying to push against the pressure to conform to societal norms or to bow to pressure to act and behave a certain way.”

In that sense, maybe the anti-hot drink lads aren’t that different to those who pretend they don’t know who the Kardashians are, would never admit to enjoying Love Island with the missus and religiously listen to Foo Fighters while saying pop music has no meaning. Many I spoke to admitted that, as much as they despise these beverages, they’d either never tried one or hadn’t partaken in them since they were children. As Will, 31, ribs: “The only hot drink I’d drink would be hot piss, if it was a choice between that and London tap water.”

That said, maybe it’s really not that deep. The anti-hot drink brigade might have just never developed a caffeine addiction like the rest of us, in which case the un-fairer sex might have a point. And making your “thing” hating warm beverages is almost certainly better than misogyny and craft beer.

Finally – and bear with me on this one – maybe the answer is that they just don’t like ‘em. If someone called me a childish weirdo for not liking a certain popular drink (I’m looking at you, Aperol Spritz brigade), I’d probably get super defensive, too.

@GlNATONIC

]]>
jgpmb8Gina TonicZing TsjengFoodWhy, Bro? Munchieshot drinksteacoffeemasculinitymen
<![CDATA[What It’s Like Growing Up in a Beloved Chinese Takeaway]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/jgpm5k/what-its-like-growing-up-in-a-beloved-chinese-takeawayThu, 21 Jul 2022 08:00:00 GMTIn the preface to Angela Hui's new book, Takeaway: Stories From Behind the Counter, the writer and journalist says that “Chinese takeaways in the UK are often seen through the lens of exoticism and fetishisation”. Instead, she writes, “the Chinese takeaway in the UK deserves respect, not just for functioning in hostile environments, but because it’s a unique thing in itself. A spice bag in Ireland, Liverpool’s salt and pepper chips, and an old east London Chinese takeaway dish ‘Jar Jow’ are all expressions of what it means to be Chinese in the West.”

In Takeaway, Hui explores all of the above and more. As someone whose family owned and ran Lucky Star, a Chinese takeaway in South Wales from the 90s until 2018, the book lifts the lid on an institution and mainstay which has persisted across the UK for over 70 years. With beautiful, vivid language and colourful, intimate description, Hui intersperses recipes and memories that spring to life on the page.

You can read an extract of the book, out today, below.

The takeaway board at Lucky Star takeway in Wales, 1995

Contrary to popular belief, we rarely eat the food we serve customers. Mum deems fried foods as ‘yeet hay’, a Cantonese phrase that means ‘unhealthy’ and literally translates to ‘hot air’. In Chinese culture, certain foods are believed to cause an imbalance in the body’s energy levels; too much hot or ‘heaty’ foods such as sneakily nabbing a chip or two during service would result in breakouts, sore throats and lethargy. Chinese takeaway food should be reserved for a weekly treat, and you don’t need me to tell you it’s not good for you if eaten every day. Although Dad would never apologise for his behaviour and outbursts like the previous night, nor be able to make up for the money he lost, watching the tenderness with which he and Mum prepare our family meal* shows me how much they care about us, and each other. I seldom see the soft side of my parents, particularly Dad, but maybe this is his way of reaching out. Somehow, without telling us, he is trying to make it up to us and win back our love.

Dad lifts the lid of the rice cooker like a magician performing a spectacular illusion and disappears behind a plume of rising steam. I’m instantly hit with the smell of jasmine rice’s almost buttery popcorn-like sweet, floral aroma intertwined with the delectable smoky-sweet fragrance of lap cheong (Chinese sausage) and lap yuk (Chinese cured pork belly). Dad plucks the steamed Chinese charcuterie out with his asbestos fingers, places it on the wooden circular chopping board and begins slicing it into bite-size pieces before returning it to the pot.

– CHOP –
I’M
– CHOP –
SORRY
– CHOP –
PLEASE
– CHOP –
FORGIVE
– CHOP CHOP CHOP –
ME

You could have sworn he was hacking down a tree rather than slicing. The banging of the cleaver is so loud it echoes all the way through to the front counter. He scoops up the chopped meat with his cleaver in one swift motion and splays it decoratively on top of the rice. Mum appears by his side, she drizzles the dark soy sauce mixture and sprinkles the spring onions in. Dad vigorously mixes everything together with a rice paddle to fluff up and to ensure each grain is coated in the sauce, and specks of rice go flying everywhere like mini firework sparks.

He looks over his shoulder and spots me hovering around.

‘Ah mui! Ah mui! Ah muiii! I’ve made your favourite bo zai fan,’ Dad chuckles. (Bo zai fan is claypot rice.)

‘Call your brothers down to sik fan*.’

My mouth’s watering just looking at the fluffy, steamed rice studded with maroon and white marbled pieces of sweet-savoury Chinese sausage and dark-brown cubes of Chinese cured pork belly flecked with bright-green spring onions; I’ve forgotten all about the snack. I know Dad’s ulterior motive and what he is doing. He often conveniently ‘forgot’ any of the previous night’s events even happened.

The shop front of Lucky Star takeaway in Wales, 1995

My parents have so much pride that they’d rather hide how they really feel, especially Dad, and after years of repressing emotions instead of discussing them, it gets harder and harder for them to admit mistakes. They stubbornly stick to their justifications, and I have to pick my battles. I’m so used to Dad’s rampant inability to apologise that I start making excuses for him to friends, family and customers, and have convinced myself that he’ll simply apologise in other ways that are no less valid. This flavourful bowl of rich, savoury rice goodness, lovingly prepared by my parents in front of me, might be a delicious peace treaty and an act of love, but just once I wish Dad felt comfortable enough to be apologetic. Baby steps. I’m sure one day we’ll get there. I grab a bowl excitedly before I can dig in to appreciate this elaborate family meal . . .

– RING RING RING –

An over-eager customer calls in their order ahead, before we’ve even opened.

– RING RING RING – RING RING RING –

‘I’ve got it!’ I shout at the phone as if it can hear me. I huffily put down my bowl of rice to rush up and get the phone call in time.

‘Heeell-loooo! Tynant Lucky Star! How may I help you?’

*In hospitality, 'family meal' means a group meal that a restaurant serves its staff outside peak business hours, usually just before opening. Typically the meal is served to the entire staff at once, with all staff being treated equally, like a ‘family’, but I guess in this instance we are literally family.

*Sik fan means to eat dinner or eat rice in Cantonese. It’s probably the most important Cantonese phrase. Rice influences nearly every facet of life. A meal isn’t a meal without rice and this is something that echoes far and wide in many parts of East and Southeast Asia. Rice acts as a neutral component to the meal and it gives one a sense of fullness, which is why it’s so important.

Takeaway: Stories From a Childhood Behind the Counter by Angela Hui is out now. You can order your copy here.

@angela_hui

]]>
jgpm5kAngela HuiZing TsjengBooksbook extractbook excerpttakeawaychinese takeawayChinese takeoutChinese foodBritish AsianFood Munchies
<![CDATA[Why Is Everyone on TikTok Making Butter?]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/93ay4a/tiktok-homemade-butter-recipesFri, 15 Jul 2022 07:45:00 GMTThe cost-of-living crisis is depressingly, agonisingly chipping away at every single thing we hold dear. From cutting back on car journeys to forgoing meals out, it’s hard to escape the pinch – even in kitchen staples like butter.

The price of Lurpak, one of the UK’s best-selling brands, has risen repeatedly thanks to inflation and the need to pay farmers a fair price for the cream that produces it. Manufacturer Arla Foods has warned the price will continue to rise in the future. It’s not just limited to Lurpak: the price of butters and spreads rose 4.9 percent on average between December 2021 and February 2022, according to consumer watchdog Which?.

“The increase in butter is ridiculous, and really just indicative of general rise of food costs, as opposed to something special in its own way,” says Olivia Potts, author of the upcoming book Butter: A Celebration.

Which is why some people have been seeking out alternatives – including, on TikTok, making their own butter. Footage of double cream being poured into jam jars, protein shakers and stand mixers are becoming inescapable on TikTok’s For You Page. Videos tagged #ButterTok have just over 280 million views, with videos transforming cream into artisanal butter and how-tos on how to churn your own in your home kitchen. 

Some of the videos are showing how to make butter out of expediency, but for 33-year-old Emily May, who posts as @sassbakes on the app, producing one of the most-watched videos for making your own butter was an accident. “On Friday, when I’d got back from doing my shopping, I thought: ‘Shit, I haven’t done a TikTok this week – what can I do?’” she says. A baker by trade, she often makes her own butter to accompany items like crumpets.

She decided to quickly make butter for the video, “thinking nobody would look at the video ever, and it would get under 300 views,” she says. “It just went mental.” The video, which shows her pouring double cream into a protein shaker and shaking the device vigorously, has been seen more than 1.4 million times. Her video is more low-tech and less glossy than another alternative, by @filthylittlesnacks, which has been seen nearly two million times. 

“Butter is ridiculously easy to make,” says Potts. “It’s just what happens when you split cream – and you split cream by agitating it.” Potts says the protein shake, while a typically 2022 method, has principles that date back way further. “The invention of butter supposedly came about by milk or cream being transported on livestock, and being jostled until the butter split out from the buttermilk.”

“A lot of the people that seemed to be commenting and interacting with it are mums that do the food shop, who are trying to find ways of saving money,” says May. “They’re the ones saying ‘I’m going to try that – and try that with my kids’.” 

Among those who was inspired to pick up her own protein shaker was Katie Tradie, who posts as @shitmumsclub on the app. Tradie, a 28-year-old mother from Swansea, saw May’s video and was enthralled. “I had no idea how butter was made,” Tradie admits. At first, she was sceptical that the video was going to be a typical how-to online, where it ended up being fake – or missing out large parts of the process. 

But when she saw May churning cream into butter, she was astounded. “It blew my mind,” Tradie says. “I was like: ‘Oh my god’. You know how butter has gone up a lot, I thought I have to try this for myself. If it makes nice butter, then I’m doing this.” Tradie imagined that you needed a factory to make butter, rather than just a protein shaker or stand mixer.

May’s video spread far and wide, with a number of people producing videos in response to her demonstration of how to make butter. And because everything is content, Tradie followed in May’s footsteps and filmed her own butter production. That video ended up getting more than 140,000 views.

Tradie is emblematic of the audience that has discovered butter: 94 percent of those who watch videos tagged with #butter are under the age of 35, according to TikTok’s own internal data. The trend has been “extremely popular” over the last eight days, and is expected to continue to trend for the next week, TikTok says. “A lot of people like it because it’ll save the money in the long run, and it’s also something that people just didn’t know,” says May. “Most people didn’t know that butter came from cream.”

May herself was never taught at school how to make butter, instead coming across it by accident one day while overwhipping cream. “The younger generation just expect things to be in a shop, to pick it up and eat it,” May says. “They don’t know where it comes from or how it gets to that stage.”

That lack of knowledge is something Tradie is determined won’t continue through to her children. “It’s a fun thing to do with the kids to teach them how things are made,” she says. “And it’s good for us to know.” That said, Tradie’s child wasn’t so keen on the taste, though making butter in this way is no different to any other method, according to experts like Potts.

Of course, alongside the self-education, there’s a more practical element involved. With inflation nearing double-digits, and the price of store cupboard staples including butter rising every week, finding a way to reduce budgets and draw down outgoings is vital for many. “Times are getting tough,” says Tradie, “and a lot of us are going down the route of trying to make our own food to just save a bit of money right now, aren’t we?”

@stokel

]]>
93ay4aChris Stokel-WalkerZing TsjengFood MunchiesTikTokbutterdairySocial Media
<![CDATA[The Mobsters Who Got Caught Because They Loved Food Too Much]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/bvnw84/mobsters-caught-because-of-foodTue, 12 Jul 2022 10:06:06 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE France.

Picture this: You’re in the beautiful Côte d’Azur in southern France, in the charming coastal town of Saint Raphaël, and you’re looking to get a quick bite to eat. A local tells you to check out Alberto, a casual-chic restaurant on the second floor of the five-star Hotel Le Touring overlooking the harbour, where chef Nunzio Palumbo serves amazing Italian food. Sounds like the dream, right? There’s just one thing: Palumbo is no ordinary chef – he’s actually a former mobster.

Palumbo, 56, has been on the run since 2014 and was previously known as Antonio Cuozzo Nasti from Naples. In his other life, Cuozzo Nasti was a member of the Camorra – the Neapolitan mafia – specifically of the Mallardo clan. “He was a dangerous element, charged with extortion, a specialty of the clan,” a spokesperson from the Italian justice system told the French daily Le Monde.

Arrested in 2012 after his group robbed a bank on the outskirts of Naples, he was sentenced to 16 years for robbery, reception of stolen goods and illegal possession of weapons. He started his sentence inside a drug rehab centre, but escaped in 2014, leaving his wife and kids behind. The Italian authorities maintained they knew his location all along; they just needed their French counterparts to cooperate. They finally got their chance after an article praising his food was published on the website for the city of Saint Raphaël. He was arrested on the 3rd of May, 2022.

Cuozzo Nasti is not the first criminal to try to start a new life in the restaurant industry. Fellow Camorra henchman Pasquale Brunese, 51, was caught in 2015 at a pizzeria on the beach near Valencia, Spain. Brunese was first arrested in 2008 for possession of heroin and cocaine, but the authorities then “lost track of him”, as the press put it. He then moved to Spain where he began working as a waiter, later buying the pizzeria under a fake name. In the meantime, he was sentenced in absentia to nine years and nine months for drug trafficking.

All in all, Cuozzo Nasti and Brunese were small fish in a big mafia pond, but that’s not the case for every mobster-turned-restaurateur on the run. Pasquale Scotti, 63, was the right-hand man of one of the most feared and powerful bosses in the Italian mafia: Raffaele Cutolo. Scotti was arrested in 1983 for murder, but escaped on Christmas night, 1984, after being admitted to a hospital to treat a wound on his hand.

Under the name of Francisco De Castro Visconti, the fugitive moved to Recife, northeast Brazil, where he invested in multiple restaurants and bakeries. He was finally caught in 2015, 31 years after landing on Italy’s most wanted list. In 2016, he was extradited to Italy to serve a life sentence for multiple homicides, extortion, money laundering and drug trafficking.

So far, all the mobsters mentioned so far began their culinary careers with a clean slate. But renowned New York chef David Ruggerio, 59, kept both his chef’s hat and fedora on the whole time. Born in Brooklyn, Ruggerio had a brief career in the boxing ring before becoming a rising star of French cuisine in New York, working at fashionable restaurants like Caravelle, Maxim’s and Le Chantilly.

After feeding a number of Wall Street magnates and Hollywood stars, he decided to take a shot at stardom himself, landing his own TV shows on PBS and the Food Network –  Little Italy With David Ruggerio and Ruggerio To Go, respectively. Unfortunately, Ruggerio’s empire came crumbling down in 1998 when he was accused of bank fraud to the tune of over €160,000.

While in custody, he also confessed to being involved with the Gambino clan and to committing crimes ranging from heroin dealing to loan-sharking, bookmaking and extortion. In an unexpected turn of events, his own name turned out to be fake, too – according to his birth certificate, Ruggerio was actually Sabatino Antonino Gambino, a cousin of none other than the infamous “boss of bosses” Carlo Gambino, who ruled New York’s underworld in the 60s and 70s.

Dutch-Italian mobster Marc Feren Claude Biart, 53, also divided his life between crime and cooking. A drug trafficker by trade, Biart used to smuggle cocaine into the Netherlands on behalf of the powerful Calabrian mafia ‘Ndrangheta, which controls up to 80 percent of all cocaine trade in Europe. After going on the run in 2014, he lived it up in Central America; first in Costa Rica, and then in the Dominican Republic. 

He would have gotten away with it too, if it wasn’t for his love for Italian cuisine. Biart and his wife made a series of YouTube cooking videos, though they were careful not to show his face on camera. His distinctive tattoos ended up giving him away, and he was arrested and flown to Milan in 2021.

It’s not just Italian mafia bosses that were betrayed by their love of food. Mexican drug lord Servando Gomez Martinez – also known as La Tuta – used to head the Knights Templar drug cartel based in the Mexican state of Michoacán.

After hiding out for months, La Tuta’s criminal careers finally met its demise in 2015. One of his girlfriends, Maria Antonieta Luna Avalos, came by his place with some associates with a chocolate cake to celebrate his 49th birthday. Turns out the police had been surveilling this location and nine other homes for months, and the impromptu party allowed them to hone in the right spot to arrest the boss. The cake was found intact in his fridge.

Most of the time, a mobster’s downfall is due to bad luck and being in the wrong place at the right time. It’s kind of funny to imagine these scary tough guys, hardened by years of brutal criminality, getting caught because they just loved food too damn much. Maybe having the munchies truly is the greatest equaliser of all time.

]]>
bvnw84Alexis FerencziPaul DouardCrimeChefMafiaCamorraJUSTICERestaurantFood Munchies
<![CDATA[I Visited Binley Mega Chippy to See What All the TikTok Fuss Is About]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/pkp7wv/binley-mega-chippy-reviewTue, 31 May 2022 10:07:26 GMTI spend far too much time on TikTok. I lounge for hours on the sofa, flicking my thumb through my FYP feed. But this weekend, it was taken over by chip shop videos – and I bet yours was, too. Binley Mega Chippy was just a humble suburban chippy in Coventry until it exploded into a global viral internet sensation practically overnight.

The chippy was slowly gaining notoriety on TikTok after a user named @craigs.kebab.house initially posted it as part of an appreciation slideshow of British chippies, set to music from Dutch hardstyle producer DJ Isaac. But its meteoric rise to fame truly came after @binleymegachippyfan53 created a jingle that quickly turned into a trending sound – which subsequently became the soundtrack to thousands of ironic admiration videos posted by users from around the world. 

On Friday 27th May, the Binley Mega Chippy jingle had only been used in 299 TikTok videos, though #BinleyMegaChippy had seven million views on the app. By Monday, the jingle had been used in 3,741 videos and the hashtag had over 100 million views – which is a ridiculous amount of views for content made about a chippy. A bunch of lads even travelled to the chippy to singe the jingle outside its door. As far as trends go, Binley Mega Chippy is well and truly mega. 

When I first spotted it on TikTok on Friday, I told my girlfriend that we had to visit the famous Binley Mega Chippy. At the time, she didn’t take me too seriously – probably because the chippy is over 150 miles away from our home in Liverpool and it would take two and a half hours just to visit a chippy. But isn’t it funny how things work out? Because just three days after joking about it, here we were, sat on a train from Liverpool to Coventry to visit Binley Mega Chippy. 

It took us two trains and one Uber to make it to the promised land. “It’s pretty famous around here, to be honest,” our cab driver said of the chippy. “Even before the TikToks, it’s a big local chippy and very well known in the area. I’ve taken plenty of people there this weekend, but the TikToks are bringing lots of people to the area - many more than usual.” 

After driving for nearly 20 minutes, we finally pulled up to our destination. There it stood, in all its red and golden glory. With all the shutters down. Closed. Stupidly, we’d arrived at 3.30PM and the chippy was shut until 4.30PM – unlike any other closed chippy, though, Binley Mega Chippy was already buzzing. Its car park only has about 10 spaces, but it was 70 percent full by the time we turned up. There were cars coming and going; people stopping to take pictures, pulling up in cars on FaceTime to their friends, and driving past beeping at all the commotion.

TikTok sensation Binley Mega Chippy shut in Coventry
Binley Mega Chippy: only opens at 4.30PM, apparently.

Those I spoke to in the car park said they had come from all over to visit the chippy. Most were from the UK; there was a group of lads from Coventry, two lads from Kent, one man from Manchester, and a couple from Newcastle. There was even one American lad from Texas who claimed he’d paid an extra two grand to add a layover on his flight to Paris just so he could stop and visit the world famous Binley Mega Chippy. Mental behaviour – have to respect it, though.

Fifteen minutes before the chippy reopened to the public, a queue of around 20 started forming. You could feel the buzz of excitement: Everyone was on the same page. Yes, no one really understood why they’d made the hundreds or thousands of miles journey to the Binley Mega Chippy, but nobody seemed to care. Everyone was there for the hype alone, even if you could sense the general miasma of irony. “What the fuck am I doing here?” someone laughed. 

Opening times sign for Tiktok viral sensation Binley Mega Chippy
The opening times sign.

Deep down, I think no one really cared. Everyone was in on the joke – after all, it’s pretty special to be at the centre of a trend that literally everyone is talking about at the minute. Apologies to any infuriated millennials and boomers reading this, but maybe this is just how our generation gets our kicks.

Finally, the shutters began rolling up at 4.30PM on the dot. People at the front of the queue ducked under the shutters just to be the first in. It was Black Friday minus the discounts and extreme violence – and all at a suburban chippy in Coventry.

Queue of people outside TikTok famous Binley Mega Chippy
The queue for Binley Mega Chippy.

By the time we got inside, it had only been open five minutes but things had already started to move fast. I used to work in retail and hospitality so I know how stressful it was to have crowds build up at the till – still, the staff kept their smiles welded on as they rushed around behind the counter taking and packing orders at a pace that would make Gordon Ramsey burst into tears of pride. When I made it to the counter I tried to order the Morbius meal but the staff told me it doesn’t exist (shock), so I ordered a large fish and chips with mushy peas and a ginger beer - the closest thing on the menu to the now-viral joke meal. 

While ordering food, I asked a female member of staff if she knew about her employer's newfound fame. “Yes, it’s crazy,” she told me while she was shovelling hot chips and packaging fish into paper. “So many people [have] been here [these] last few days. It’s very busy all day. When we open: queues. And when we close: queues. Everyone is very nice and very friendly – just very busy. But we are happy.”

Staff member at TikTok viral sensation Binley Mega Chippy behind the counter
The food on offer at Binley Mega Chippy.

Given the incredible hype surrounding this chippy, I had high expectations for the food. Now, disclaimer: I do not have a pretentious palette. I eat my fair share of greasy fast food and you’ll never catch me doing any fine dining. That being said, I know a good chippy when I taste one. And Binley Mega Chippy is a good chippy. 

I ordered my chips drenched in salt and vinegar and they came chunky and piping hot, the kind of lip-smacking artery-clogging chips you only find in a suburban chippy – about as good as chips can get. Next up: the fish, which was surprisingly nice considering Coventry is completely landlocked – greasy, very filling and about the size of my forearm and fist. Then came the mushy peas: standard, green, mushy and tasted like peas. The ginger beer was revolting, but that’s just my personal opinion (I can’t stand ginger beer). 

The Morbius Meal (sort of) from Binley Mega Chippy
The Morbius Meal (sort of) from Binley Mega Chippy.

I managed to talk my way into the back of the chippy, where I found shop owner Kamal Gandhi with two friends. The trio said they knew the eatery was getting attention online but didn’t know exactly how much fame they had, which is when I whipped out my phone to start showing them the 100 million views that the hashtag had already accrued – and they were even more astounded when I explained that it was way more than the number of people even living in the UK. 

Gandhi told me he only realised the chippy was trending on TikTok last week. “I noticed new people coming and then I thought, ‘busier than normal’,” he said. “Even [on] Sunday, there was 35 cars in the car park. [The] shop was closed and people [took] pictures. I don’t know where they [were] coming from.” 

He admitted he had “no idea at all” where his new customers are coming from, especially since people only usually line up on Fridays and weekends. “We have usually queues but not like that – not Monday [and] Tuesday.” Despite the jokes flying around online, he said that everyone IRL had been “perfect, fine” when visiting the chippy.

Before I made the two and a half hour journey home, I had to ask the final thing bugging me. How on Earth did he come up with the name Binley Mega Chippy? “I didn’t make it, I just bought it,” Gandhi said, having purchased the store off someone else just eight months ago. ”They already had the name with Binley at the core. There are a few other [chip] shops in Binley, down Binley Road. But clearly, there’s only one Binley Mega Chippy.”

@nathanbickerton

]]>
pkp7wvNathan BickertonZing TsjengNathan BickertonTikTokcoventryinternet cultureViralfish and chipschippyFood Munchies
<![CDATA[Cappuccino: The Iconic Italian Coffee That Isn’t Actually Italian]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/y3v9qk/cappuccino-the-iconic-italian-coffee-that-isnt-actually-italianTue, 24 May 2022 07:45:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Italy.

Italians make the best wine, the best pasta, the best bread, coffee, pizza, you name it. That’s what I’ve grown up hearing as a fellow compatriot. But the truth is that sometimes, what we think of as our own traditions actually originate from elsewhere and only took root in our country for totally random reasons. One example is cappuccino, which, contrary to popular belief, was not actually invented in Italy.

"It seems that cappuccino, both the word and the drink, comes from Kapuziner [the German word for a Capuchin monk]," says Gianni Tratzi, owner of the coffee consultancy firm Mezzatazza. Tratzi explains that the drink has its origins in the fancy Viennese coffee houses of the 1700s, where the black, piping-hot brew was decanted before being mixed with sugar, cream and spices. "This drink is now known as the Wiener kaffee [“Vienna coffee”],” Tratzi continues, “while the word cappuccino is international, and refers to the drink made with foamy milk."

Obviously, it’s impossible to pinpoint exactly who came up with this recipe, but Tratzi says that some books attribute its invention to a Capuchin monk based in Austria called Marco d'Aviano. “Apparently, he was served a very bitter coffee in Vienna, which he 'fixed' with sugar and cream,” Tratzi explains. “The waiter noted the modifications and the drink started being served under that name as a tribute to Brother Marco.”

History of cappuccino – hands pouring foaming milk into a red cup of coffee.
Photo courtesy of Mezzatazza Consulting.

Manuel Terzi, the coffee-obsessed owner of the bougie Caffè Terzi in central Bologna, has heard a different story. "The year was 1683, and the Turks were laying siege to Vienna,” he recounts. “A Polish soldier, Jerzy Franciszek Kulczycki, crossed the enemy camp pretending to be Turkish and went to ask for reinforcements.” 

According to the legend, the move was decisive – it helped the Austrians win the war. “As a reward, he was given bags of coffee abandoned by the Turks and he opened Vienna's first coffee house, where he’d sweeten his coffee with milk and honey,” Terzi says. Kulczycki is even credited by some with the invention of the croissant, making him a true renaissance man and a hero of the (breakfast) people.

Caffè Terzi, Bologna – Man pouring foaming milk into a cup behind a glass bar. In the background: decorative shelving stocking cups and glasses and a sign reading
Manuel Terzi at Caffè Terzi. Photo courtesy of the interviewee.

According to Tratzi, the very first cappuccino was served at Caffè dei Ritti in Florence around the time when the first industrial coffee machines were created, in the 1920s and 1930s. These companies are still known and loved espresso by aficionados to this day – Cimbali, Marzocco, Vittoria Arduino, Pavoni. "We’re still not talking about the espresso machines we have today," Tratzi says. "They were more like pressure cookers with one valve for steam and one for water." What the machines did have though, was a steam wand, a predecessor of the milk frother which achieved the same results.

Even those early cappuccinos had a long way to go. Far from the silky, hazelnut-coloured espressos we know today, they were more of a slightly charred Moka Pot brew combined with steamed milk. Starting with the 1940s and 50s, though, the modern espresso machine was invented, with its signature removable portafilters (those long handles with the filter at the tip). With one of those, baristas were finally able to make the creamy, full-bodied cups of caffeinated goodness many of us can’t go without.

History of cappuccino – a foamy cappuccino served in a white porcelain cup.
A cappuccino at Caffè Terzi.

As for the perfect cappuccino, Tratzi breaks down the classic recipe taught by the Specialty Coffee Association, an organisation representing thousands of professionals in the coffee industry. It is one part coffee (one espresso shot), two parts milk and one part foamy milk, “meaning a very thin and silky emulsion of milk and air, which gets incorporated into the liquid as it heats up," he explains. The foam must also be between 1 and 1.5 cm thick. Cappuccinos should be served "between 65 and 70 degrees Celsius, in a 150-170 ml cup filled to capacity,” he adds. “It should be presented as a coffee crown with a white circle in the centre.” 

This is the perfect presentation not just for the aesthetic factor, but also because it means that the milk and the coffee are perfectly blended and the drink will have the same taste and texture from start to finish. If, on the other hand, the cup looks totally white on top, “the first sips will taste too much of milk, while the coffee underneath will be stronger," Tratzi says.

According to Terzi, that’s precisely why flashier-looking drinks are impressive, but not actually any good. "Cappuccinos should be homogeneous, unlike a flat white, for example, which is layered, and all latte art products in general,” he says. “The more complex the design, the more distant it is from the traditional Italian cappuccino." 

By the way, in Italy, cappuccinos are pretty much exclusively a breakfast drink, even though things are changing in recent years. Although Italians love to have a coffee after lunch and dinner, you’re likely to be stared down if you order a cappuccino after a meal at a restaurant. 

When I ask coffee purist Tratzi about that, his response surprised me. “As an end-of-the-meal drink, cappuccino can be pretty good, but maybe the 150-170 ml cup is a bit too much,” he says. “Perhaps a cortado is better: 100-110ml with an espresso shot and a slightly less foamy milk, which also better enhances the taste of the coffee."

Still talking about today’s coffee consumption habits, Terzi left me with a word of caution about cappuccinos and plant-based milks. "The big problem with them is that their lack of protein prevents them from foaming well,” he says. “The only one that can achieve that gentle balance between taste and texture is quinoa milk.” Precious advice to up your vegan cappuccino game.

]]>
y3v9qkGiorgia CannarellaRedazione Munchies MunchiescoffeeFooditalyViennaVICE InternationalcaféVICE Italycappucino
<![CDATA[What Not to do on Your First Dinner Date]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/m7vpab/dinner-date-adviceMon, 11 Apr 2022 07:45:00 GMTThis article originally appeared on VICE Italy.

Restaurants seem like a great venue for a first date. They can be intimate, they can be fun, and they tend to serve alcohol. However, as anyone who has actually been on a first date knows, even the most seemingly rock solid of eating plans can fall apart. 

That person from Hinge you’ve been talking to for weeks might turn out to be a noisy eater, a poor tipper, or the kind of person who treats waiters like shit. What they eat, and more importantly how they eat it, can make a huge impact on the likelihood of you seeing one another again.

I once went on a date with a guy from Tinder. We agreed to go to one of those dinner-in-the-dark places, where you eat – well, in total darkness. During the course of the evening, and without warning or consent, he thought it'd be a good idea to lick my fingers. There was no second date.

Knowing that I couldn't be alone in having been out for disastrous dinners, VICE asked our followers on Instagram to share some of their first-date deal breakers.

Obviously, one of the most contentious issues when it comes to a restaurant date is money. "A friend of mine went on a date with a girl who, when it came time to pay, worked out how much each person had eaten of the things we’d shared," said Alice Bianchi, 33. "She actually told her, 'I've only had a the wine and dessert. Can you pay three-fourths of the bill and I’ll cover the rest?'"

I once went for a drink with a guy who was determined to split the cost of the four beers we’d ordered. The problem was, the bar’s card machine wasn’t working and I was cashless. Rather than covering for us both and letting me repay him down the line, he said, “Why not leave your ID at the bar and come back tomorrow to pay up?” This was over an €8 bill, by the way.

From talking to people about the issue, it’s apparent that the problem is rarely a lack of funds. Rather, it’s people who penny-pinch and obsess over money, even if they’re the one who suggested trying out that hot new pricey small plates and natural wine place that everyone on Instagram seems to have eaten at recently.

That refusal to make things fair – to say nothing of displaying genuine generosity – says a lot about the kind of relationship you might end up in if things progress past the first date stage. It should be noted, too, that who pays for what isn’t a matter of gender, but of intention and politeness.

Before the bill arrives you’ll be witness to how your potential other half approaches another possibly thorny issue: table manners. Good manners can be the difference between enjoying a date and enduring it and when it comes to dinnertime etiquette some of us are more exacting than others.

“I don’t like people who eat onions or garlic. I don’t like people who blow on their soup so hard that their breath reaches me. I don’t like people who chew with their mouths open. I don’t like people who burp loudly,” said 27-year-old market research executive Juicy Onugha. That isn’t everything she can’t stand. "I don’t like people who get sweaty or dirty when they eat,” she added. “Or people who use a toothpick and then examine their findings.”

Ironically, reading Onugha’s list brought me out in a sweat. I’ve long been a messy eater, and have been teased by partners as a result. Actually, I have been told off more than once because I don’t seem capable of eating a meal without splashing sauce all over the place.

Happily for me, and others like me, not everyone is as strict in their adherence to the rules of the table as Onugha. “"I like people who enjoy experimenting with the menu and maybe even share their food. Generally speaking, I like people who aren’t too uptight at the table, people who mop up their plate with bread,” said Alberto Marozzi, 28. “Oh, and I love people who comment on what they’re eating. Who say how good the wine is and tasty their meatballs are.”

Perhaps the most important thing you can can glean about someone over a bowl of pasta and a glass of the second cheapest red on the menu is how they treat the restaurant’s workers. Victoria Small, a 31-year-old writer, recalled a disastrous first date in London. “He snatched plates out of waiters’ hands, interrupted their dish descriptions, even urged them to hurry up and serve him.”

Her date wasn’t just rude, he was a liar. “He’d suggested this pizzeria to me and I’d asked if they served anything other than Neapolitan pizza, which I don’t like. He said yes, but when we arrived it was obvious that they didn’t – he even insisted that I had to try it.”

A member of staff, who had clocked that things weren’t going swimmingly for our couple attempted to avert a crust-related crisis. “He kept coming up to the table with some excuse to see if I was OK. My date said to him: 'Can't you see we're on a date? If you want to hit on her, do it when she's not on my time slot.' He wasn't really a nice person.”

For some first-timers, the key to a successful dinner date – other than being a good sport about the bill, keeping the mess to a minimum and just not being a total dick to the people who are paid to bring you food – is ensuring that you’re on a level playing field.

"A guy took me to a family pizza restaurant. He knew everyone - those who worked there, those who cooked there - and I felt so awkward,” said Davide Puca, a 32-year-old semiotician. “He thought taking me to a place he was familiar with might make him look and feel important. It actually had the opposite effect.”

Khris Pagaspas, 27, works as a bartender in Milan and is no stranger to observing couples on first dates. “There’s a lot of know-it-alls, people who know every cocktail out there and act all cool about it,” she said. “Then there’s the pretend teetotallers, those who don’t drink alcohol because they're afraid their true personality will come out if they indulge a bit too much.”

Pagaspas reckons keeping an eye on the couple’s drink is actually the simplest way to tell if a date is a success or not. “Look for the people lost in conversation, the ones really getting to know each other. They take forever to order – and they hardly touch their cocktails.”

]]>
m7vpabGiorgia CannarellaRedazione MunchiesLorenzo Matteucci MunchiesDatingFoodLoverelationshipsAdviceVICE InternationalVICE Italy
<![CDATA[Introducing: The Gourmand]]>https://www.vice.com/en_uk/article/n7nkbb/gourmand-meaningWed, 23 Mar 2022 08:45:00 GMTYou’re making the Greggs run when you feel the familiar pocket-rumble. You reach for your phone and study the new message: “Table for four tomorrow night, if you fancy it? It’s a little Jay Rayner fave.” You were sure you would be living off shame-spiced takeaway carbs this week, but you say yes, for your flatmate is incessant about the restaurant in question right now, but about all “quality” restaurants, generally. Your flatmate is a true  champion of culinary excess. Your flatmate is a Gourmand. 

The Gourmand is impossibly clued up on the hottest places in town while remaining cognisant of their lesser-known but “important” sister eateries. They are up to speed on the respective philosophies of the chicest head chefs as well as the alliances and feuds between them. They swear by Ottolenghi’s Simple and are actively coveting a set of single bevel Japanese knives. The Gourmand has sous vide’d themselves into a life of strictly seasonal recipes and lovable rogues delivering ad libs to camera over steaming piles of lewd jambalaya, authentic hand-ground pesto and painstakingly home-fermented kimchi. They are lost in the food-content sauce, analogue and digital: think Vittles, Bon Appétit, and Google alerts in-place for cookbook releases.

They dream of opening a food truck of their own one day and run niche concepts by you almost weekly. “How about Crispy Skin as a name? For a fried chicken joint?” the Gourmand asks you later that evening. “Each item on the dish is referenced only by its protein serving.” “Quality,” you hear yourself say.

The Gourmand has endless culinary insights befitting their voracious use of Instagram. You wonder if they are actively in the business of seeking out places their friends haven’t been to, in the hope of staking a claim and creating hype they can feel some ownership of. You can’t be sure. 

They are dotted all over the UK. In London, they’re enamoured with quality establishments like Four Legs, St John, Monohan Ramen, Trullo and Silk Road. In Bristol, it’s the concise menu at Marmo; in Stockport, the show stopping treats at Where The Light Gets In. Scoot over to Anglesea, and it’s Ellis Barrie’s mastery at The Marram Grass. They are – naturally – eagerly waiting to try out Margate’s Sargasso, the brainchild of the head chefs at Brawn. They have their finger on the pulse of bottle shop culture, too, frequenting your Top Cuvées, P Francos, and endless indy iterations in London, and your Bottle Chops and Wine Freedoms in Leeds and Birmingham respectively. 

While you’ve gone to M&S to feel special, the Gourmand is busy in the kitchen batch-cooking bathtub lasagna with milk. “It’s quite rich, but I’m going to make a few portions,” they tell you on your return, a faint coating of moisture on that well-fed head. You’ve taken to going for walks in these moments, and so you dip out again, lest you be pushed over the edge. You watch later as they consume the entirety of their creation in a fugue. 

To the Gourmand, Great British Menu is the purest representation of top-level cooking, therefore making it the best mainstream food show going; they marvel at Gordon Ramsey’s canny ability to talk obscene sad sack restaurateurs back from the brink on Kitchen Nightmares, and they’ve made their way through as much Bourdain as the internet can offer. 

Come see them in Whitstable Bay, shotting oysters by the half-dozen; there they are in The Spärrows in Manchester, eating central European spätzle; and here, look, it’s a young couple embracing ironic gourmand-ification of British comfort food at Norman’s Cafe in Tufnell Park. The Gourmand appreciates the majesty of British cuisine, even in its most modest forms – though the lower the brow, the greater need for the dish to be self-aware.

You’re at the dinner now, that booking for four has come around. You think about the G-word (“gentrification”) for a moment while you tease open your langoustines on a charcoal tablet in a restaurant that used to be a youth centre which used to be a pub, but you think better of it. You look over and the Gourmand is scanning the wine list for “anything orange or biodynamic, both in an ideal world”. You say the desserts sound nice, that you haven’t had a crème brûlée in ages, and then they launch into a monologue about the post-pandemic decline of fine dining in favour of classic, hearty, home cooking. “People just want to have a real experience that’s sustainable and regenerative, and feel like they are the beneficiary of human gastronomic endeavour,” they say as they scrape sinew off a tiny little bird.

For the Gourmand, Boiling Point is a masterpiece, a new benchmark in one-take, stress-out cinema; lockdowns were an opportunity to hone their French dessert-making, and the complete Keith Floyd DVD box set takes centre spot on the bookshelf. Rachel Roddy’s Insta profile is an Italian recipe refuge; Dan Barber’s is a celebration of America’s northeastern terroir; Rene Redzepi’s is a glimpse into Scandi excellence, @caffsnotcafes is a quaint thrill and @ecstasy_cookbook serves as an indulgent guiding light.

Back in the kitchen now, and each “low and slow” home-cooked feast is more opulent than the last. The cookbooks are battered to heck. You reckon they have early-stage gout – you can’t be sure though. “It’s a five-meat ragu, and it’s very traditional,” they’re saying as they stir another mad pot of sludge. “Never cooked with veal before. Pretty special,” they say as you slot sad, 85 percent-potato fishcakes in the oven and set a timer. You watch as they flip through a dictionary of taste pairings; you hear whispers of “sexy shallots” and “powerful rosemary” before you quietly exit the kitchen and sprint out the front door.

@nichet

]]>
n7nkbbNick ThompsonBruno BayleyEsme BlegvadFoodcookingInstagramCooking ShowCelebrity chefIntroducing Munchies