The Good Life

Lovely grub

Pamela Vandyke Price

All of us have hooves of clay, but we needn't kick our worshippers in the puss with same. It has just been brought to my notice that I once suggested to a youngish journalist who wanted to interview me that she should come and do so in my flat over lunch. The poor girl did her homework on my savagings of 'convenience foods,' fasted for twenty-four hours and arrived anticipating five choice courses, lovingly cooked, served in eggshell china, to be eaten with antique silver and washed down by a rare vintage proffered in crystal. Well, she did get the crystal just because I am so careful with it I have more Baccarat glasses than any others. But she was made to sample three definitely cheap wines I wanted to taste so that I could pronounce on them. And apparently I arrived two minutes in advance of my guest, saying airily that I'd had a chaotic morning and did she mind some gulls' eggs and Fortnum & Mason's game pie?

Now I feel I must trace this deprived girl and toil over a hot stove for her. But life being what it is and my life being what she hadn't realised it is there will be too many books to consult, articles and books to write and experiments to make, to set up those perfect little meals that we are often told we should be able to run up with the proverbial wave of mitt in minutes. And anyway, chez PVP one has to move so many things in order to be able to get at a surface large enough to eat from, that the claustrophobic tend to run forth screaming even when they have been given space to sit down. Life must just totter on and the galoptious picnic snack replace the gracious balanced meal on many, many occasions.

Meals that one asks people to, however, vary greatly. I'd come for a huge quantity of anything good caviare, foie gras, braised ham the way the chief home economist of McDougalls prepares it, the kipper pat made by one of Justin de Blank's jeunes flues en fleurs, the elderflower ice-cream made by the Consumer Representation Officer of the Consumers' Association (she's an inspired cook in spite of the tag), the boiled chicken and rice made by the cook of one of my friends in the sherry trade (prefaced by Alejandro Cassinello's own version of chopped egg and onion), the middle cut of fried plaice as rendered by Graham's, the seafood restaurant next to That Chain Store, in Poland Street, and my opthalmic surgeon's summer pudding. But I'm a simple soul. And so, actually, are they and they will be lured by promises of my smoked salmon pâté, and my scrambled egg or even my wholemeal bread, butter and a cheese that's a point.

People, however, tend to be sniffy. I was much taken aback to read, in the report of a discussion about ice-cream, which I didn't attend, that John Fuller, President of the Hotel Catering and Institutional Management Association (and a delightful man), said he "was horrified by the idea of the British public making ice-cream at home. It would be as bad as making chips at home. One had them when one went out." Dear, dear me. There are fish parlours such as the afore-mentioned Grahams, and Chippers Corner, at 642-6 King's Road, London SW6, where the costly pelts and couture creations jostle for the take. away nosh to guzzle chez eux. But if any' body who could fry as well as that (I happen to be one of those who can roast, but not fry) would invite me to a chip in, I'd come running as I do for genuine home-made ice-cream.

There are some things, such as spinach (which nobody does better than the Brompton Grill), duck stuffed with wild wheat (ditto the White Tower), the souffle au turbot (at Prunier) and that thing which is essentially a pineapple swathed, in spur) sugar which I would like to wear on mY head (and customers of the Connaught eat with relish), which I do indeed go out to eat. How fearful for everybody if I slaved over same though I'm the deadly eneMY of anybody who says I couldn't if I tried, But lovely grub is, essentially, lovelY grub. And deliciously moreish plonl likewise. I regret having disappointed the charming girl she did, a delightful article about me, but it did, perhaps, lack gutsY appreciation. But she did get the cachet of 'that Piccadilly shop.' It might well and equally to my taste have been Thai, an Chain Store' yet again. Quiche Lorraine tastes just as nice when vended as ' egg and bacon pie.'

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