FOOD Deborah Ross
SORRY, but I'm still obsessed with this secondary-schools business. Indeed, in my small, panic-stricken corner of Islington few talk of anything else, particularly the mothers. I ask my partner why he thinks the mothers are getting much more worked up about this than the fathers. He says it's because women are, generally, significantly more hysterical. I am offended by this, and would have said as much, in no uncertain terms, plainly and frankly, had I not burst into tears and then locked myself in the bathroom for a lengthy session of sobbing, hair-pulling-out, self-harming and headbanging. Sometimes, he just doesn't know what he's talking about.
Yes, we've looked round the local state school now, had the full tour. And? Well, we were shown the special room for children with Learning Difficulties, the special room for children with Special Needs, the special room for Refugee Children, the special room for children with Especially Special Needs, the special room for English as a Second Language, the special room for children Whose Parents Beat Them Up, the special room for children who Keep Setting Fire to Things, the special room for children who Keep Setting Fire to the Family Pet Particularly, the special room for children who are Gun-Toters and DrugPushers ... you get my drift. Now, while I don't resent any of these children having special rooms truly, I don't — I would quite like to have seen a special room for children with learning abilities. I put this to the head, who just sort of looked at me like the middle-class hysteric I am. I'm not sure what would make me feel better. A MiddleClass Room for children with special Middle-Class Needs? With books, a renovated Victorian fireplace, organic snacks, a nice Portuguese daily, a total ban on Sunny Delight and a Volvo with roof-rack laid on for school trips? Actually, I think this is an inspired idea. They should make me head of education in Islington. Possibly, they would if it weren't for my bald patches, bruised forehead and the unsightly cuts on my legs. Even I can see I'd look rubbish on the cover of the council's annual report.
Anyway, my partner in crime in all this, so to speak, is my friend Louisa, who lives down the road and whose eldest son is my son's best friend and who is in the same position as us, only magnified rather, because she has three younger boys to educate as well. Louisa and I spend most nights on the phone, worrying away at this schools business, while our partners groan with boredom in the background and make strange circling movements with their fingers at their temples. They have a point. The endless conversations get us nowhere, but we just can't help ourselves. Louisa and I would like to know if anyone knows of an operation available such that we might have our tysters' removed. (We're Bupa-d, by the way, so are not put off by waiting-lists which, thank God, we can jump.) Whatever, during one of our marathon phone calls, I ask Louisa and her lot round for supper on the Saturday as, apart from anything else, I still rather owe her for the time I 'borrowed' her boys in order to write a piece on McDonald's and they were sick all night. The invitation is issued on the understanding that it'll have to be a takeaway — heavens, I'm much too busy fretting to cook — but I can't think of what that takeaway might be. Home-delivered takeaways, in most instances, are almost too horrible for words — you know, the Chinese in which no amount of MSG has been spared, the flaccid pizza, the Indian that comes under several inches of frighteningly vivid orange fat and, if left out overnight, looks like radiated cat litter by the morning. So it set me thinking: why isn't there a special Middle-Class Room of takeaways? Where is the takeaway made with first-class fresh ingredients? Where is the takeaway for the Dualit toaster, Alessi wine-stopper, Smeg fridge generation? The answer? Deliverance.
Deliverance, which now covers large chunks of London, is the takeaway service for the Just-Say-No-to-Sunny-Delight classes. Here's their mission statement: 'Since we started Deliverance in May 1997 our aim has never wavered: buy great ingredi ents, cook them beautifully, offer a wide range of cuisines, give an efficient service and deliver your order fast and hot.' The cuisines offered are Chinese, Thai, Indian, European, Italian, Japanese, as well as salads and smoothies. Each cuisine is overlooked by a different, separate chef in their two kitchens in Battersea and east London. We all go online to order a dish each, which I ask to be delivered at 7 p.m. on the Saturday. It all arrives on the dot, in sweet little boxes which, with a few air-holes, could be saved and used for taking the cat to the vet.
From the Chinese kitchen, I'd ordered a whole duck with the pancakes and the plum sauce for everyone as a starter. It's a magnificent duck, succulent yet crispy right down to the bones. It's the duck of ducks. I don't think I've ever had a better crispyduck experience, even in Chinatown. I am cheered. Louisa is cheered. We are so cheered we find ourselves saying things like, 'Just think what they'll learn socially', and, 'If they get into car theft, perhaps we could get a nice, sky-blue Fiat Punto with air-con out of it.' Our partners circle their fingers at their temples and say all school talk is BANNED! This presents something of a problem as we don't know how to talk about anything else any more. Um . . do you think the sky-blue Punto has it over the peppermint, pearlised green?
Next, I have lamb tagine (cooked with nutmeg, cinnamon, coriander) with couscous from the European menu. The lamb is tender, plentiful and wonderfully spiced, while the couscous is fluffy and delicious. Louisa has the Goan chicken curry from the Indian menu, and it's truly first-class: massive chunks of chicken, oodles of fresh spinach. It must be the best takeaway curry in London, surely. Her partner loves his salad nicoise, which is all fresh, char-grilled tuna and waxy boiled potatoes. Between us and the kids, we try pretty much everything from Irish stew and chicken Dijonnais through to the organic hamburger (tip-top meat) with chunky chips, and it's all really, really good. The puddings? The orange cheesecake is delightful. Not so sure about the chocolate mousse, which was a bit lower-class and Findusy.
So, that's Deliverance, the wonderful Middle-Class Room of takeaways. And it isn't even that expensive — on average £7 for a dish that most would happily pay twice as much for in the West End. Plus, no one was sick in the night, and one of the boys' Thai dishes, kao pat, was greatly appreciated as much for the name as anything. Now, if you don't mind, I can't hang about chit-chatting to you all day. I've got some serious worrying to do. Toadle-pip!
wwwdeliverance.co.uk; tel: 0800 019 11 ii or 0800 019 2222.
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