FOOD

Deborah Ross

OK, a confession. This is unusual for me, I admit, as I'm not into confessions. As a rule, I always try to lie my way out of trouble. Me? Smoking again? Don't be absurd. It's just that I've changed my shampoo to Timotei Fag, created in Laboratoire Nicotinier with the essence of 100 distilled Marlboro butts. Is the odour not delightful? Anyway, yes, a confession. Which is? Well, what began as a bit of a flirtation with Waitrose has now, I'm afraid, evolved into a fullblown, passionate, obsessional, possibly lifelong and, I suspect, ultimately bankrupting affair. There. I've said it. And it wasn't so bad. I must confess more often. I must stop lying forthwith. The cheque is in the post, by the way. And please, please let me have a puppy. I promise to walk it myself.

Now, Waitrose. Going to Waitrose even the once is a mistake, I think. Going to Waitrose is like going to Mauritius one year instead of to the Rhyl that is Tesco/Sainsbury/Safeway/Asda. Once you've been to Mauritius, you really can't do Rhyl again. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that this is only because I'm such a snob. You're thinking that I like Waitrose because it's for the middle classes; because it's not full of those very poor people who rarely seem to slap their back pockets, Asdastyle, but really get into slapping the hell out of their kids by aisle three. Well, you'd be wrong. Actually, no, that's another fib. 'Fib' sounds better than lie' somehow, even though a fib is what? Just a lie that's yet to cut its teeth? However, by this, please don't think that my sympathies are not with poor people. They are. Very much so. Indeed, one of the cruellest things about life is that the poor, who need money the most, are the ones that never seem to have any of it. It's awfully unfair. I always buy the Big Issue, except for those frequent instances when I don't. Sorry, mate. Already got one.

I love everything about my local Waitrose (Islington). I love the trolleys that seem to come with Volvo engineering, the wide aisles, the short queues, the staff (who actually look you in the eye), the ratio of 400 aisles of olive oil to none of Chocotastic Pop Tarts, the fact that it's beyond the means of most gaga pensioners, so you don't get stuck at the checkout behind a mad old lady attempting to buy a single lamb chop with milkbottle tops. I love it because there is no club-card scheme, which attracts the wrong sort of people. I love it because I recently heard a wonderful conversation between two trolley boys in the carpark. School leavers, both of them, I suspect, but one was new and the other had been at the job a bit longer. The older hand kicked off the conversation.

'What d'you get for your dinners when you worked at Safeway, then?'

'Sausage 'n' onions. Cornish pasty.'

'Nice.' 'What d'you get here then?'

'Fish pie.'

'Eh. Nasty.'

`Nah. S'alright. Once you've picked the fish out.'

Anyway, the trouble with Waitrose? The expense. Indeed, the general consensus (i.e., mine) seems to be that a £60 shop in Tesco costs about £100 in Waitrose. However, what I can't work out is whether the price difference is because Waitrose is actually that much more expensive item for item, or whether it's because you can't resist stacking your trolley with 'treats'. You know, squidink pasta or the pretty (bloody expensive) eggs laid ten minutes ago by traditional, pure-bred hens raised in small flocks on family-run farms. So, this is my mission. Does Waitrose truly cost that much more?

Off to Waitrose, Islington, and into the carpark. The carpark is quite something. It is full of Shoguns and Land-Rovers and every other four-by-four you can think of. I'm not quite sure why you need a four-by-four in Islington. Because you might hit an extra-virgin-olive-oil slick on Upper Street? Actually, we are thinking of getting a new car ourselves, and have even taken to watching TV car programmes in which everyone speaks as if every other word were a new sentence. 'This is. A terrific. Little car. Once you. Get behind. The banal. Exterior.' I don't know about you, but I blame Jeremy Clarkson, the thinking woman's ugly bloke. Plus, my partner has taken to reading What Car? and going on and on about bhps and torque and all that. Yes, I do find this interesting, actual

No, I'm not one of those stupid, stereotypical women who care only about colour and having a funky dashboard. Although, that said, something in pearlised pink would be very nice. And, if it came with a daffodil for a gearstick, that would be terrific. And if it was a four-by-four. . . .

Into Waitrose. Now, the thing about Waitrose is that it genuinely appears to care about good food. There is no 'Finest' range or 'Taste the Difference' or `So Good' which always makes me think: what's all the other stuff then? So Crap? Waitrose can get you excited about food in a way that Tesco just can't. Waitrose say, 'We know where every pint of milk comes from.' Waitrose, alas, do not say, 'This pint comes from Daisy in Berkshire who had a bit of trouble a while back when they stopped her benefits, but is now back on track and about to be married to Bob the bull.' This is a shame because, given the opportunity, I would have liked to have sent Daisy a little gift to celebrate such a happy occasion. Daisy has really pulled herself round, and should be an example to poor people everywhere.

OK, on to price. Here we go: Organic carrots: Waitrose £1.58/kg; Tesco £1.46 (but they're off. The tips have all gone to mush.) Pint of milk: Waitrose, 28p; Tesco, 28p. Can of Heinz beans: Waitrose, 36p; Tesco, 36p.

Can of own-brand chopped tomatoes: Waitrose, 29p; Tesco, 26p.

Tin Whiskas cat food: Waitrose, 47p; Tesco, 47p.

Own-brand cat food: Waitrose, 43p; Tesco, 38p.

Yarrah Organic cat food: Waitrose, 47p for a teeny-weeny sachet; Tesco, n/a, obviously.

Kellogg's Cornflakes, 750g: Waitrose, £1.54; Tesco, £1.54.

Dairy Lea Lunchables: Waitrose, £1.35; Tesco, £1.29 (obviously there's a Waitrose premium on this one because, frankly, if you're into Dairy Lea Lunchables, you have no business being in Waitrose, and must be punished accordingly).

Pretty eggs laid ten minutes ago by hens with en-suite bathrooms: Waitrose, £786 per egg; Tesco, n/a.

So, there you have it. According to my thoroughly haphazard and non-scientific research, Waitrose is, indeed, the dearer. But, if you take into account the quality of products and the actual experience of shopping there, perhaps it isn't too excessive. That's it for this week. Toodlepip! Must get on with selling our old car. Interested? Only one previous owner, a little old lady. .

Tesco: branches everywhere. Waitrose: branches not quite so everywhere, and entirely unsuitable if you're one of those club-card sort of people who is going to get under my feet.