But Pip’s latest post, cooking from Kitchen and Co by French and Grace struck a chord for an entirely different reason.
“I’m just queuing for the latest must-have marshmallow,” people merrily tweet, congratulating themselves on snaffling out the latest fashionable foodie secret, the post-recessionary equivalent of a Mulberry bag.
[French and Grace] are getting write ups everywhere… all lauding them for their skills at combining flavours to create something truly amazing, and for turning their tiny supper club (so now!) into a tiny cafe in South London (even more now!)
Oh holy mackerel.
To say that’s me to a tee might be under-egging the clafoutis.
I’ve been known to tweet pictures of plates of incredible tangy goats’ curd and fresh, crunchy broad beans, eaten at, er, tiny cafés in South London – complete with Instagramesque vintage filters. A typical Saturday morning for TW and I involves a trip to the favourite grocer for vegetables and herbs; to the little wine merchant in Brixton for a bottle of something recommended by David, the owner (this week’s was a “Beaujolaisish” something I have now forgotten. Bloody tasty, though); and then to the newly opened branch of Cannon and Cannon for the week’s cheese (or Paxton and Whitfield if we’re in town).
The less said the better about the fact we now have the number for The Bread Room pinned up in the kitchen: such is the lure of their olive and rosemary bread that we now call ahead first thing in the morning to reserve our loaf before they sell out. I know. I know. And it’s probably not a good thing that I feel a sense of satisfaction when I open the Times on a Saturday to see that Horrid Giles hasn’t yet discovered the current favourite restaurant, thus ruining our enjoyment by making it entirely impossible ever to get a table. Or that office lunch is less often a limp Pret sandwich than it is chargrilled courgette and Parmesan salad with pinenuts or something of its ilk.
Might run out and buy Tesco's bargain sushi out of pure smugguilt, said a friend on Twitter as we shared a “Christ, I do wish people wouldn’t actually put down in black and white how insufferable we are” moment.
She’s a genius: smugguilt is precisely the word. There’s guilt at the levels of smugness achieved by making your own guacamole for lunch, or knowing your artisan baker by name, and more guilt when direct attention brought to the obsession feels more than a little uncomfortable. But then the smug kicks in, and frankly you don’t care because, as Pip says, other than the enchanting sensation of devouring delicious dinners, that smugness is what the new foodie obsession is really all about.