Dick Strawbridge, the guy with the funny tash, has demonstrated that it is possible to harness the wind and create biodiesel reactors in the name of sustainable living. Hats off to him. Clever bloke.
But I am not clever. I don’t even think I’m particularly Green. Perhaps more a khaki. I shamelessly became interested in Green matters and sustainable living through necessity, rather than conscience; because of the problems with the restaurant which cost us hugely financially, we inadvertently became Green. We had to save money.
I became very aware of how much we were spending on petrol each month (at this point I didn’t care that I was damaging the environment, just that I was spending money that I thought could be better spent on alcohol), so I traded our 4.2 litre Jag in for a 698cc Smart car.
I was incredibly wasteful in the kitchen. Even though as a chef I was used to having to make the most of every single ingredient in the kitchen and work to incredibly tight budgets, on a personal level, probably because I loved cooking so much, I would waste so much food. One night I would cook a chicken dish and the next I’d try a beef recipe, regardless that I still had chicken left over. But now I was utilizing every thing. Instead of buying chicken pieces I bought whole chickens which I learnt to joint – in true ‘Mum’ fashion I learned how to make a whole chicken last nearly the entire week.
We have a wood burner. Previously at best this was used to display candles. At worse we would burn those artificial ‘logs’ from the supermarket purely to create an ambiance whilst the radiators on full provided the heat. But now I was up early of a weekend collecting firewood. I even invested in an axe.
To save electricity I became adept at knowing at exactly which point to turn of the electric hob so as still leaving enough heat to continue cooking my dinner.
It should not have been surprising, but it was, and pleasantly so, but we did start saving money.
And this is when the obsession set in.
I decided that I was in fact Green. I wanted to save the universe. Hell, I might even grow a big moustache. Everything I do, I now question if it’s Green. If I need a pan of boiling water to cook pasta; is it better to boil the water first in a kettle which uses a lot of electricity, but only for a few minutes, or boil it on the hob, which presumably uses less electricity, but takes forever?
And worse.
I recycle. We have recycling bins provided by the council which is fantastic. But they request that cans are cleaned first. But now I am using precious water to clean the cans. Which is worse?
The water from our tap is warm and murky at first so I need to run the tap for a minute or so to clear and cool it. Very wasteful. So I bought a filter jug which I fill and keep in the ‘fridge. But is opening the ‘fridge several times a day more of a drain on resources than running a tap?
I drink wine and I of course recycle my bottles. But the bottle bank is 3 miles away. My very Green Smart car doesn’t have a lot of space for empty wine bottles (not the amount I get through in a week). So am I polluting the environment making several trips a month to the bottle bank? We do have a Land Rover (yes, I know having two cars is not at all Green, but when one is a two seater and you live in the country with a dog, you do need a second option, and it is purely used for essential purposes). So what’s best for the environment? Several trips in the Smart or one trip in the Land Rover?
And then there’s Fair Trade. I’ve spent a fair time in South Africa and I want to support this fantastic initiative. But what about food miles?
I tried to work it all out, but it made my head hurt and I had to drive to the shops to buy aspirin. And I’m still not sure if the tin foil they were packaged in is recyclable.
So now I reckon that all I can really do is my bit. And if everyone does the same, maybe we can make a difference. We can certainly all save some money.
And I believe I have the ideal solution: Not everyone recycles bottles. And that is wrong. So I reckon the more wine bottles I buy, drink and subsequently recycle must surely mean some kind of saving on the universe than if I left the bottles on the shelf of my local off license for someone else to buy that doesn’t recycle? And if I buy Fair Trade wine that must be a good thing too?
I think I’ve got it right….
Monday, December 3, 2007
Friday, November 23, 2007
Restaurant Diners
During my black days as a Restaurant Owner, I quickly learned to categorise diners into one of five groups, perhaps you can spot which one you fall into:
Bernies
The biggest group of all, christened after the infamous eighties steak restaurant chain. Normally the parents of a thirty-something; everyone knows a Bernie. Their brief is big portions, cheap price and to hell with quality. They have a huge problem with change or experimentation and will turn their noses up at anything that does not come with chips. Nothing will see a Bernie exit a restaurant quicker than a menu which consists of anything remotely described as Thai Style.
They will seldom ever complain to the servers face; they are the a-typical English customer that will whine continuously to their fellow diners about everything from the firmness of the carrots to the thickness of the gravy, until their waiter inquires if their meal is okay, at which point they declare “ooh yes, absolutely wonderful, thank you”.
Clickers
A particularly sad bunch of diners, who, although they believe in their own self-importance, cause embarrassment for anyone at the same table as them. So called because of their annoying habit of clicking their fingers every time they want attention. What they fail to understand is that within the restaurant business, clicking of fingers is the universally acknowledged declaration of “hey everyone, look at me, I am an prick!”. Remember that next time you or someone nearby clicks their fingers at the waiter.
The most nauseating cross-section of diners of them all, generally they will spend the least amount of money but will brag incessantly about the expensive restaurants they have supposedly ate in before. Will complain just to try and look intelligent in front of their fellow diners.
Freeloaders
Will complain to either a) receive a discount, b) to get a free drink or meal, or most commonly, c) a combination of both. Their most common complaint is their meal was a little bland. Not cold or undercooked. Not burnt, raw, frozen, off, scorched. Not tasting awful. But bland. That word that doesn’t really mean much except that maybe they would have preferred a dozen birds-eye chillies thrown in with their green salad. Usually the complaint will come at the end of the meal when there is no longer any proof of the offending dish. Some Freeloaders have become some adept at all of this that they will actually tell the waiting staff what they expect in way of compensation.
Critics
Fairly harmless, these are the ones that have watched far too much Master Chef.
They will make stupid, meaningless comments, either positively or otherwise on each and every mouthful, such as “I’m getting a lovely aftertaste of chilli and lime coming through”. They will ask dumb questions of the waiting staff, such as the origin of the food on their plate, which is fine if they know what they are talking about, but they seldom do, and pass on pointless suggestions on how to improve the restaurant, the food or the service with no actual point of reference.
Advocates
The Restaurant Owner’s favourite group! Advocates seldom complain without just or reason, and when they do, it’s always in a polite, constructive manner, and they never make the waiting staff feel uncomfortable, the exact opposite in fact. They enjoy experimenting and are always keen to try the chefs’ specials. They appreciate the whole restaurant experience; the ambiance, the service and the food. Most people like to think they fall into this category; if only! It is in fact a very small, elite group consisting mainly of ex-restaurant owners.
The thing about these Customer Categories, not totally dissimilar to traditional star signs, is that you can be on the cusp of two. For example a Freeloader may show certain traits of a Critic. The most common is the cusp of Bernies and Clickers, and this is most evident when Bernies travel abroad. Suddenly this normally fairly reticent faction become temporary two week Clickers to anyone whose first language is not English and begin to talk down to them. I witnessed a fantastic example of this recently during a trip to Italy. The Bernie-Clicker at the table next to me was ordering coffee:
“I’ll have a cap-a-chee-no please, understand?”
“Si, a Cappuccino”
“Cof-feeee?”
“Si”
“you understand? Yes? cap-a-chee-no?”
This episode of embarrassing ignorance went on for a painfully long time. Bizarrely the Bernie-Clicker did in fact have an English-Italian phrase book with her. It was a shame really she didn’t use it then she would have discovered that the translation for Cappuccino is in fact Cappuccino, what with it being an Italian word and all.
Bernies
The biggest group of all, christened after the infamous eighties steak restaurant chain. Normally the parents of a thirty-something; everyone knows a Bernie. Their brief is big portions, cheap price and to hell with quality. They have a huge problem with change or experimentation and will turn their noses up at anything that does not come with chips. Nothing will see a Bernie exit a restaurant quicker than a menu which consists of anything remotely described as Thai Style.
They will seldom ever complain to the servers face; they are the a-typical English customer that will whine continuously to their fellow diners about everything from the firmness of the carrots to the thickness of the gravy, until their waiter inquires if their meal is okay, at which point they declare “ooh yes, absolutely wonderful, thank you”.
Clickers
A particularly sad bunch of diners, who, although they believe in their own self-importance, cause embarrassment for anyone at the same table as them. So called because of their annoying habit of clicking their fingers every time they want attention. What they fail to understand is that within the restaurant business, clicking of fingers is the universally acknowledged declaration of “hey everyone, look at me, I am an prick!”. Remember that next time you or someone nearby clicks their fingers at the waiter.
The most nauseating cross-section of diners of them all, generally they will spend the least amount of money but will brag incessantly about the expensive restaurants they have supposedly ate in before. Will complain just to try and look intelligent in front of their fellow diners.
Freeloaders
Will complain to either a) receive a discount, b) to get a free drink or meal, or most commonly, c) a combination of both. Their most common complaint is their meal was a little bland. Not cold or undercooked. Not burnt, raw, frozen, off, scorched. Not tasting awful. But bland. That word that doesn’t really mean much except that maybe they would have preferred a dozen birds-eye chillies thrown in with their green salad. Usually the complaint will come at the end of the meal when there is no longer any proof of the offending dish. Some Freeloaders have become some adept at all of this that they will actually tell the waiting staff what they expect in way of compensation.
Critics
Fairly harmless, these are the ones that have watched far too much Master Chef.
They will make stupid, meaningless comments, either positively or otherwise on each and every mouthful, such as “I’m getting a lovely aftertaste of chilli and lime coming through”. They will ask dumb questions of the waiting staff, such as the origin of the food on their plate, which is fine if they know what they are talking about, but they seldom do, and pass on pointless suggestions on how to improve the restaurant, the food or the service with no actual point of reference.
Advocates
The Restaurant Owner’s favourite group! Advocates seldom complain without just or reason, and when they do, it’s always in a polite, constructive manner, and they never make the waiting staff feel uncomfortable, the exact opposite in fact. They enjoy experimenting and are always keen to try the chefs’ specials. They appreciate the whole restaurant experience; the ambiance, the service and the food. Most people like to think they fall into this category; if only! It is in fact a very small, elite group consisting mainly of ex-restaurant owners.
The thing about these Customer Categories, not totally dissimilar to traditional star signs, is that you can be on the cusp of two. For example a Freeloader may show certain traits of a Critic. The most common is the cusp of Bernies and Clickers, and this is most evident when Bernies travel abroad. Suddenly this normally fairly reticent faction become temporary two week Clickers to anyone whose first language is not English and begin to talk down to them. I witnessed a fantastic example of this recently during a trip to Italy. The Bernie-Clicker at the table next to me was ordering coffee:
“I’ll have a cap-a-chee-no please, understand?”
“Si, a Cappuccino”
“Cof-feeee?”
“Si”
“you understand? Yes? cap-a-chee-no?”
This episode of embarrassing ignorance went on for a painfully long time. Bizarrely the Bernie-Clicker did in fact have an English-Italian phrase book with her. It was a shame really she didn’t use it then she would have discovered that the translation for Cappuccino is in fact Cappuccino, what with it being an Italian word and all.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Beer Gut
Of course drinking, whether that’s beer or another poison makes you fat. And whilst I concur that alcohol is to blame, I don’t believe it’s the calories in the alcohol that’s necessary at fault. It’s a little more complicated than that.
It’s not what you drink. It’s what you eat, when you’ve had a drink.
Last Thursday was a fairly typical night out. I was meeting a friend straight after work at 6pm. Drinking on an empty stomach is of course churlish. So on route to our meeting pub I grabbed a stomach-lining burger. Yuk. I then met my friend and proceeded to drink at a rate far higher than my comfort zone (this is what happens when you drink with friends, yet people will claim that drinking alone is the first sign of a problem – I beg to differ). To defer the effects of this peer-pressure-piss-up, I stuffed my face with peanuts and crisps.
Around 9.30 we both agreed that something more substantial was required to soak up the excess alcohol if we were to continue with our little social revelry, and headed for the nearest curry house, where we consumed vast quantities of vindaloo and tiger beer.
Then onto a club.
I left my friend around 3.30am and headed straight home. Or so I thought.
The next morning I awoke, rolled over and horribly the final events of the previous night came back to me. I half opened my eyes and could see the evidence of my disgusting indiscretion in front of me, strewn across the marital bedroom. I felt guilty and I felt sickened. Under the influence of alcohol, I had succumbed to forbidden pleasure.
I had come home with a kebab!
I am 38 years old. I understand I can not blame stupid mistakes on alcohol; that does not make everything alright. But in my defence, I can honestly say I would never bring a kebab home when sober.
Luckily my wife Jo was working a night shift, so I was able to rise early and quickly clear away any incriminating evidence of my illicit indiscretion. But it didn’t stop there. I had tasted forbidden fruits (well actually lamb, fat, grease and chilli sauce), and I wanted more. With a hangover to end all, I cooked myself bacon and eggs. And much, much worse: fried bread.
Come mid-day I was still feeling well and truly out of sorts. Everyone has there own bizarre and often incomprehensible hangover cures. For me, when things are really bad, when I reach lunch time and the Nurofen is quite simply not targeting anything, it’s Super Noodles. So a trip to the village shop was in order.
My dog Lily simply loves travelling anywhere in the back of the land rover, so I took her with me. It was only fair; I hadn’t given her much attention this morning. Whilst she waited in the back of the 4X4, I picked up my noodles, a bottle of Lucozade (normally following a drinking session I supposedly re-hydrate myself via coca cola, but on extreme days, such as today, the big guns of pop are called for), and a bar of chocolate.
Lily had been the perfect pet all morning. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not the most obedient dog; she loves everyone and displays that love by pissing on them. She barks excessively at her own reflection and will eat almost anything; shoes, cushions, radiators, doors (but strangely enough – not leftover kebab). But she understands when I have a hangover, and knows when to keep quiet. Definitely Mans Best Friend. So I picked her up some well earned doggy treats.
Walking back to the car I took a massive swig of Lucozade. I was in urgent need of a sugar boost and so hurriedly opened the packaging and took a big bite. Instantly I was hit with intense flavours of rabbit, liver and gravy. I glanced down at the bar in my hand; it was not my chocolate bar but Lily’s dog treat. Even though this treat must have been far healthier than the kebab I had eaten the night previous, I felt incredibility sick at the thought of eating such a thing. I leant against the shop window and tried to spit it out. My mouth was full of a murky brown liquid which I began vomiting. A small concerned crowd gathered which I tried to wave away with one hand whilst the other collected the rabbit-y flem. I pushed through the crowd towards the car. Even Lily who normally stands on her hind legs up at the back windscreen excitingly awaiting my return, had curled up on the floor with embarrassment.
As I climbed into the cab I heard someone chortle “Someone had a tad too much to drink last night”
How so very observant of them.
It’s not what you drink. It’s what you eat, when you’ve had a drink.
Last Thursday was a fairly typical night out. I was meeting a friend straight after work at 6pm. Drinking on an empty stomach is of course churlish. So on route to our meeting pub I grabbed a stomach-lining burger. Yuk. I then met my friend and proceeded to drink at a rate far higher than my comfort zone (this is what happens when you drink with friends, yet people will claim that drinking alone is the first sign of a problem – I beg to differ). To defer the effects of this peer-pressure-piss-up, I stuffed my face with peanuts and crisps.
Around 9.30 we both agreed that something more substantial was required to soak up the excess alcohol if we were to continue with our little social revelry, and headed for the nearest curry house, where we consumed vast quantities of vindaloo and tiger beer.
Then onto a club.
I left my friend around 3.30am and headed straight home. Or so I thought.
The next morning I awoke, rolled over and horribly the final events of the previous night came back to me. I half opened my eyes and could see the evidence of my disgusting indiscretion in front of me, strewn across the marital bedroom. I felt guilty and I felt sickened. Under the influence of alcohol, I had succumbed to forbidden pleasure.
I had come home with a kebab!
I am 38 years old. I understand I can not blame stupid mistakes on alcohol; that does not make everything alright. But in my defence, I can honestly say I would never bring a kebab home when sober.
Luckily my wife Jo was working a night shift, so I was able to rise early and quickly clear away any incriminating evidence of my illicit indiscretion. But it didn’t stop there. I had tasted forbidden fruits (well actually lamb, fat, grease and chilli sauce), and I wanted more. With a hangover to end all, I cooked myself bacon and eggs. And much, much worse: fried bread.
Come mid-day I was still feeling well and truly out of sorts. Everyone has there own bizarre and often incomprehensible hangover cures. For me, when things are really bad, when I reach lunch time and the Nurofen is quite simply not targeting anything, it’s Super Noodles. So a trip to the village shop was in order.
My dog Lily simply loves travelling anywhere in the back of the land rover, so I took her with me. It was only fair; I hadn’t given her much attention this morning. Whilst she waited in the back of the 4X4, I picked up my noodles, a bottle of Lucozade (normally following a drinking session I supposedly re-hydrate myself via coca cola, but on extreme days, such as today, the big guns of pop are called for), and a bar of chocolate.
Lily had been the perfect pet all morning. Don’t get me wrong, she’s not the most obedient dog; she loves everyone and displays that love by pissing on them. She barks excessively at her own reflection and will eat almost anything; shoes, cushions, radiators, doors (but strangely enough – not leftover kebab). But she understands when I have a hangover, and knows when to keep quiet. Definitely Mans Best Friend. So I picked her up some well earned doggy treats.
Walking back to the car I took a massive swig of Lucozade. I was in urgent need of a sugar boost and so hurriedly opened the packaging and took a big bite. Instantly I was hit with intense flavours of rabbit, liver and gravy. I glanced down at the bar in my hand; it was not my chocolate bar but Lily’s dog treat. Even though this treat must have been far healthier than the kebab I had eaten the night previous, I felt incredibility sick at the thought of eating such a thing. I leant against the shop window and tried to spit it out. My mouth was full of a murky brown liquid which I began vomiting. A small concerned crowd gathered which I tried to wave away with one hand whilst the other collected the rabbit-y flem. I pushed through the crowd towards the car. Even Lily who normally stands on her hind legs up at the back windscreen excitingly awaiting my return, had curled up on the floor with embarrassment.
As I climbed into the cab I heard someone chortle “Someone had a tad too much to drink last night”
How so very observant of them.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Supermarkets - report
I’m not particularly politically astute. I like food. I like to cook. I indulge in recipe books. Because of all this, I shop for food. Therefore I feel I can pass comment on the latest report on Supermarkets published by the Competition Commission.
The report has concluded that it considers supermarkets have done a reasonable job for consumers, although it does have some concerns over areas such as land holdings, treatment of suppliers and dominance of local markets.
Terribly and shamelessly I do not care too much for politics. Or rather I actually do, I just don’t like to make a meal of it all (please excuse the very much intended pun).
The report is wrong. Supermarkets are shit. I could and should end my comment here; but I will not.
If I was to ask how much a tin of beans cost, inevitably the pre-answer response would be “brand or supermarket?” Here lies the first issue: Why do supermarket beans cost less than brand beans? Taste? Quality? I asked my mother, who is an expert in all things frugal and she reliably informed it was due to packaging: “it’s the same product but with a cheaper label”. I trust most things my mother tells me: if I wake up with any kind of pain in my body I know it’s likely due to having “slept on it funny” and I will always remove my outdoor coat when inside so as to “appreciate it when you go outside”. My mother knows what she’s talking about. But I think she may have got it wrong with supermarket own brands. Sorry Mum.
It’s not down to packaging. It’s down to volume sales. Its simple mathematics: sell 100 branded tins of beans at 57 pence or 500 value/basics/etc own brand tins of beans at 26 pence. Obviously much more profit in the high volume selling own brand beans, and in all fairness, probably not too much noticeable difference in taste to your average baked bean eater.
I opened this comment declaring I’m not politically astute, and maybe I should be if I am to open comment on such things, but at this juncture I wish not to get drawn into the politics of slave labour or such. So if I may, I’ll just stick with food. What if we applied the baked bean concept to meat? Just this weekend I could have picked up two chickens on a buy one get one free offer for just £5.00. That’s just £2.50 each. I’m seriously considering keeping chickens here at North Lodge. Sensibly I’ve done my home work, and I’ve learned that I can not buy live, clucking, happy chickens for £2.50 each. But in my local Tesco’s I can: killed, plucked and beautifully packaged complete with cooking instructions. Something ‘aint quite right.
And this is where my problem lies: Supermarkets are setting unrealistically cheap prices for produce through intensive farming which we as consumers are beginning to accept as a standard. Farm shops are NOT expensive. Organic food is NOT expensive. It is realistically priced. Please do not be misled by supermarket pricing. Supermarkets like to promote the fact they are offering organic, ethically produced food but they do it at a price, with the produce confined to the expensive Organic Shelf. Organic food does not have to be an expensive luxury. Visit your local farm shop. Seek out your smaller, local producer. You might actually be surprised how much you get for your money; not only in quality but also in quantity. Even if you do not give a toss about organics or food miles or any of that green shit, just try out your local farm shop anyway; you’ll without doubt get better produce, you might actually just save yourself some money and the best thing is you will put a stop to your local supermarket taking you for a twat.
The report has concluded that it considers supermarkets have done a reasonable job for consumers, although it does have some concerns over areas such as land holdings, treatment of suppliers and dominance of local markets.
Terribly and shamelessly I do not care too much for politics. Or rather I actually do, I just don’t like to make a meal of it all (please excuse the very much intended pun).
The report is wrong. Supermarkets are shit. I could and should end my comment here; but I will not.
If I was to ask how much a tin of beans cost, inevitably the pre-answer response would be “brand or supermarket?” Here lies the first issue: Why do supermarket beans cost less than brand beans? Taste? Quality? I asked my mother, who is an expert in all things frugal and she reliably informed it was due to packaging: “it’s the same product but with a cheaper label”. I trust most things my mother tells me: if I wake up with any kind of pain in my body I know it’s likely due to having “slept on it funny” and I will always remove my outdoor coat when inside so as to “appreciate it when you go outside”. My mother knows what she’s talking about. But I think she may have got it wrong with supermarket own brands. Sorry Mum.
It’s not down to packaging. It’s down to volume sales. Its simple mathematics: sell 100 branded tins of beans at 57 pence or 500 value/basics/etc own brand tins of beans at 26 pence. Obviously much more profit in the high volume selling own brand beans, and in all fairness, probably not too much noticeable difference in taste to your average baked bean eater.
I opened this comment declaring I’m not politically astute, and maybe I should be if I am to open comment on such things, but at this juncture I wish not to get drawn into the politics of slave labour or such. So if I may, I’ll just stick with food. What if we applied the baked bean concept to meat? Just this weekend I could have picked up two chickens on a buy one get one free offer for just £5.00. That’s just £2.50 each. I’m seriously considering keeping chickens here at North Lodge. Sensibly I’ve done my home work, and I’ve learned that I can not buy live, clucking, happy chickens for £2.50 each. But in my local Tesco’s I can: killed, plucked and beautifully packaged complete with cooking instructions. Something ‘aint quite right.
And this is where my problem lies: Supermarkets are setting unrealistically cheap prices for produce through intensive farming which we as consumers are beginning to accept as a standard. Farm shops are NOT expensive. Organic food is NOT expensive. It is realistically priced. Please do not be misled by supermarket pricing. Supermarkets like to promote the fact they are offering organic, ethically produced food but they do it at a price, with the produce confined to the expensive Organic Shelf. Organic food does not have to be an expensive luxury. Visit your local farm shop. Seek out your smaller, local producer. You might actually be surprised how much you get for your money; not only in quality but also in quantity. Even if you do not give a toss about organics or food miles or any of that green shit, just try out your local farm shop anyway; you’ll without doubt get better produce, you might actually just save yourself some money and the best thing is you will put a stop to your local supermarket taking you for a twat.
Trolley Wars
Recently a well know high street supermarket opened its doors about 3 or 4 miles away. When I say ‘doors’, you need to understand that these were not ordinary doors, these were Marks and Spencer Doors. A friend of mine went along on the opening day, even though there are several other supermarkets so much closer to his home. When I pointed this out, he replied “yes, but you get a much better class of person there”
This got me to thinking; It’s no longer about which school little Isabelle attends, what car you have parked on the driveway or the last time you had you your windows replaced or even where you holiday each year. There is a new breed of class status, a new way to not only keep up with, but surpass the Jones’. What counts in today’s modern society is where you shop.
So be very careful of the brand of plastic shopping bag that you leave lying around your house when neighbours drop by, and on no account succumb to shopping online unless you are confident your supermarket of choice is, in shopping terms, the new black; nothing will degrade you more than the obvious arrival of a brightly coloured delivery van from the wrong chain. So where to shop?
Aldi
Right at the bottom of the table really. The supermarket equivalent of the Mark IV Cortina. If you do not know what one of them is then you are probably not shopping at Aldi anyway. But the things is (and sorry to start complicating matters straight away), there is the growing trend these days towards Square is Hip. Just as the Mark IV is now a classic, shopping at Aldi can be seen as cool and trendy. Think Kate Moss in tatty jeans and torn T shirt.
Asda
Used by people who have neither an Aldi nor a Tesco nearby.
Tesco
If Tesco was a car it would be a Skoda. In general terms nothing too much wrong with this really, but remember we are not talking quality or value here; we are talking housing estate cred. The problem with Tesco’s is their logo which is adorned across their bags and delivery vans – it looks cheap.
Sainsbury’s
Sainsbury’s shoppers believe the food sold here is of a higher quality and the fact they have identified this fact and choosing to buy it makes them feel they are slightly more superior and food-knowledgeable to other supermarket patrons. But this is purely only because a certain chef with chirpy-cockney street urchin manner, told them so.
Waitrose
People that shop at Waitrose typically drive large, 5 + year old cars with personalised number plates to conceal the fact how old the vehicle is. Ten years ago they would have holidayed in the Algarve but these days are likely to break out the snaps taken during their recent Tibetan exploration. They prefer to shop at the busiest times for maximum exposure and will dress for the occasion.
Marks & Spencer
Supposedly top of the food-purchasing-chain. It’s the shopping experience which every Waitrose customer longs and aims for. A Marks & Spencer delivery van dropping of at your doorstep just screams middle class dinner parties with not a sausage on stick to be seen. After all this is Marks & Spencer Food.
But that’s the problem, that’s all it is – party food. You can not actually cook anything from Marks & Spencer. You can open it and arrange it nicely on a plate. If you’re really adventurous you can heat it up in the microwave – but just trying going into any branch and actually trying to buy a raw ingredient. When was the last time you heard ‘This isn’t just any uncooked, unprepared, loose onion, this is a Marks & Spencer’s Allium’?
So basically anyone shopping at Marks & Spencer are either holding a dinner party or having a night off from take away. Either way they are incapable of cooking. But still in terms of supermarket cred that rates pretty high.
Farm Shops
This is of course where we all should be aiming to buy at least some of our meat and veg from. I’m a real advocate for supporting local farmer incentives such as farm shops and box schemes. But there is this small but growing irksome type of shop that is appearing which panders towards the Marks & Spencer lot that have be given a River Cottage cookbook for Christmas, who will turn up in their shiny 4×4’s to buy the key ingredients for Hugh’s Nettle Soup.
These are not so much farm shops but supermarkets in wooden huts. Produce is displayed loose inside large wicker baskets instilling this romantic image of farm hands out early each morning harvesting strawberries and other fresh looking fruits. Only the fact that it is December gives the game away.
Still, it doesn’t get any more middle class than this.
I must go now; my charcuterie hamper from The River Cottage has just arrived…
This got me to thinking; It’s no longer about which school little Isabelle attends, what car you have parked on the driveway or the last time you had you your windows replaced or even where you holiday each year. There is a new breed of class status, a new way to not only keep up with, but surpass the Jones’. What counts in today’s modern society is where you shop.
So be very careful of the brand of plastic shopping bag that you leave lying around your house when neighbours drop by, and on no account succumb to shopping online unless you are confident your supermarket of choice is, in shopping terms, the new black; nothing will degrade you more than the obvious arrival of a brightly coloured delivery van from the wrong chain. So where to shop?
Aldi
Right at the bottom of the table really. The supermarket equivalent of the Mark IV Cortina. If you do not know what one of them is then you are probably not shopping at Aldi anyway. But the things is (and sorry to start complicating matters straight away), there is the growing trend these days towards Square is Hip. Just as the Mark IV is now a classic, shopping at Aldi can be seen as cool and trendy. Think Kate Moss in tatty jeans and torn T shirt.
Asda
Used by people who have neither an Aldi nor a Tesco nearby.
Tesco
If Tesco was a car it would be a Skoda. In general terms nothing too much wrong with this really, but remember we are not talking quality or value here; we are talking housing estate cred. The problem with Tesco’s is their logo which is adorned across their bags and delivery vans – it looks cheap.
Sainsbury’s
Sainsbury’s shoppers believe the food sold here is of a higher quality and the fact they have identified this fact and choosing to buy it makes them feel they are slightly more superior and food-knowledgeable to other supermarket patrons. But this is purely only because a certain chef with chirpy-cockney street urchin manner, told them so.
Waitrose
People that shop at Waitrose typically drive large, 5 + year old cars with personalised number plates to conceal the fact how old the vehicle is. Ten years ago they would have holidayed in the Algarve but these days are likely to break out the snaps taken during their recent Tibetan exploration. They prefer to shop at the busiest times for maximum exposure and will dress for the occasion.
Marks & Spencer
Supposedly top of the food-purchasing-chain. It’s the shopping experience which every Waitrose customer longs and aims for. A Marks & Spencer delivery van dropping of at your doorstep just screams middle class dinner parties with not a sausage on stick to be seen. After all this is Marks & Spencer Food.
But that’s the problem, that’s all it is – party food. You can not actually cook anything from Marks & Spencer. You can open it and arrange it nicely on a plate. If you’re really adventurous you can heat it up in the microwave – but just trying going into any branch and actually trying to buy a raw ingredient. When was the last time you heard ‘This isn’t just any uncooked, unprepared, loose onion, this is a Marks & Spencer’s Allium’?
So basically anyone shopping at Marks & Spencer are either holding a dinner party or having a night off from take away. Either way they are incapable of cooking. But still in terms of supermarket cred that rates pretty high.
Farm Shops
This is of course where we all should be aiming to buy at least some of our meat and veg from. I’m a real advocate for supporting local farmer incentives such as farm shops and box schemes. But there is this small but growing irksome type of shop that is appearing which panders towards the Marks & Spencer lot that have be given a River Cottage cookbook for Christmas, who will turn up in their shiny 4×4’s to buy the key ingredients for Hugh’s Nettle Soup.
These are not so much farm shops but supermarkets in wooden huts. Produce is displayed loose inside large wicker baskets instilling this romantic image of farm hands out early each morning harvesting strawberries and other fresh looking fruits. Only the fact that it is December gives the game away.
Still, it doesn’t get any more middle class than this.
I must go now; my charcuterie hamper from The River Cottage has just arrived…
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