FOOD Deborah Ross
AS a food/restaurant critic (and as one of the best and most authoritative around, if I may presume to say so, which I most certainly do*), the question I am most often asked is, `How do you keep in shape?' Well, I did try jogging once, which was great, actually. Indeed, I even made it all the way to the postbox on the corner. OK, I then had to be ambulanced and oxygen-masked the 50 yards home, but, frankly, I felt I'd rather earned the lift. And now? I've just joined a health club! Yes! And it's terribly swish, costs an arm and a leg, but worth it, I think, if only for the sign in reception, which goes, 'We are very excited about the imminent arrival of our exclusive sun loungers from Italy.' No, I haven't actually been to any of the exercise classes or done anything as vulgar and horri- ble as that yet, but I did make inquiries at the aforementioned reception about the chances of starting a step-'n'-smoke class, if there was sufficient demand, which I'm sure there would be. You'd think, wouldn't you, that they'd encourage customer feedback but, no, I just got a frosty and somewhat disdainful look for my trouble.
Now, on to the other question that I am most often asked, which, peculiarly, is: 'How did you get this job? Who did you sleep with?' Honestly, this is not only insulting, considering the years and years I put in at the LSC, but also quite perplexing. I mean, I've slept around quite a lot over the years and I've never got anything, not even a request for my name most times. And sexu- al harassment? Never, disappointingly, even though I seem to have spent forever bend- ing over photocopiers in the hope of a little pinch. I've even got my riposte planned. `Ohhhh, cheeky!' But the result? Just chron- ic curvature of the spine, I'm afraid. So what are you trying to say? That I got where I am today because of sex appeal? Oh, I see. Now I get it. Well, I-BLOODY-WISH!
And, now, on to leapingsalmon.com. OK, I know that's a rubbish link. It may even be no link at all. But you've rather upset me now, what with bringing up my fat legs and pitiful sex life, so I'm not going to exert myself to take you cleverly from A to B any more. I'm just going to pick you up and drop you, willy-nilly, ker-plunk, crash. Sorry. You had your chance and you blew it. Oh, all right, I'll give you a second chance. I know you all adore and revere me really. Although a pinch or a wink or a wolf-whistle would be nice for a change, just the once.
Anyway, leapingsalmon.com is an Inter- net site where you can log on, choose a `gourmet meal' and the ingredients will be delivered to your door the next day, mea- sured out, chopped and ready to cook with full instructions. The aim of the site is to `create a fabulous gourmet meal in your own kitchen' and to 'make it easy to have a good time', and to 'alleviate stress'. Howev- er, now I think about it, the name and slo- gan — leapingsalmon.com (stress is for the other fish) — might actually be a bit rich. The salmon, as far as I can see, does not have an especially stress-free life, what with having to hatch in a river, swim to the ocean, then swim thousands of miles back up the river where it was born to breed. Mr Salmon, when he first makes it into the open sea, probably goes up to Mr Cod and says, 'Stop whingeing about being over- fished and over-goujoned, you stupid old tosser. Honestly, I hate fish like you who can't see when they've got it made!'
Still, I invite guests and, with a click of a mouse, order the meal. For starters, I go for the baby asparagus (£6.20, for two, as all the following prices are) and grilled vegetables with mozzarella (17.20). Then, as a main, I order swordfish in banana leaf (£18.90). Pud- ding? Raspberry creme brulee (£650) and panacotta with dark berry compote (£6.50). It arrives at 4 p.m. the next day. It comes in four huge boxes which, in turn, are filled with polystyrene, bubble wrap, gel coolants and zillions of little plastic containers. Now, I'm not a great environmentalist, but even I can see that a whole plastic container for a single mint leaf might not be making the best of the Earth's resources. The swordfish dish alone comes with the following ingredients, all of which are individually packaged: swordfish steaks, banana leaves, coconut milk, corian- der, red and green chillies, olive oil, sesame- seed oil, sliced ginger, chopped lemon grass, chopped garlic, lime, mango, rosemary sprigs, rice. Scary or what? When our guests — our friends Stuart and Louise, and their children — arrive at 7 p.m., I am still sorting through these little boxes. Right, this lot is for the starters, this is for the main course and this is for the pudding. Or is it? Nope. I think it's for the starters . . . hmmmm. I know! Let's open the wine!
We wonder who leapingsalmon is actually for. Stuart thinks it's for the sort of minimal- ist, Clerkenwell loft-dweller who, probably, reads Wallpaper without any irony, rather than people like us, who live in maximalist, Victorian, over-cluttered messes and affect to read Hello! with irony, but don't really. We actually live for it. Indeed, we truly think that Jane Seymour's dining table can't be photographed from too many angles. We stare some more. We drink some more. We stare-drink-stare-drink-drink-drink for quite a while before Louise and I finally get down to it. By this time, however, we are less domestic .goddesses and more lipstick- smeared, tipsy old slappers. The kids love it, though. Usually, I am quite a strict mother. `Mummy, can I have a PlayStation for Christmas?"No. Go practise the piano.' `Mummy, can I watch a video?"No. Go read your fascinating Big Book of Knowledge.'
But in pissed mode my standards slip quite appallingly. 'Mummy, can I watch The Texas Chainsaw Massacre?' Of course.' `Mummy, can I have a bath with the hairdryer?' Shall I run it for you?' `Mummy, can I put on the women's clothes that daddy puts on when you go out?' Wha . hang on . . . come back here!'
Assembling the meal is very Generation Game. The roasted vegetables and asparagus are straightforward enough, true, but the swordfish in banana leaves! You have to get the fish, and all the spices and all that, then wrap it in the leaf, pour over the coconut milk, then tie the leaf with a little bit of string and rosemary sprig. Good God. Louise and I aren't sure we could have done it, even when sober. In the end, we dispense with the fiddly string and sprig, and go for clothes pegs. Not the most elegant option, I know, but wonder- fully effective, as it happens.
The food is good, I must say. The fish itself is fat and juicy and, once unpegged, quite delicious. I messed up the raspberry creme brulee, I'm afraid, by forgetting to let it set after grilling it, so it was a bit soupy. The panacotta, though, was fantastic. Would I order from leapingsalmon.com again? Probably, no. I mean, I'm not quite sure what you save, apart from a trip to the shops where the ingredients can probably be pur- chased for a quarter of the price. Plus I'm still compacting the rubbish. However, that said, a good time was had by all, especially the kids who, I discovered the next morning, had collapsed all over the place, and could now be found in beds, on sofas, halfway up the stairs and, even, wedged between the two drawers under my son's bed. I didn't even know this particular two-year-old was there until I heard a little squeaky voice going, 'Help, help, boo-hoo. . . . ' Anyway, can't stop. I'm off to sleep myself to the top of something. I-BLOODY-WISH!
www.leapingsalmon.com will also take orders by phone on 020 7598 3077.
*I'd show you my Glenfiddich award, if I'd ever won it.
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