Love Bites
Marital Skirmishes In The Kitchen
Christopher Hirst
FOURTH ESTATE • London
To Mrs H, whose real name is Alison
Table of Contents
12 A cake is not just for Christmas
GIVEN OUR COMMON INTEREST, it was appropriate that Mrs H (as she then wasn’t) and I met in a kitchen. It was at a party in south London, Darling Road to be precise, in 1982. When one thing happily led to another, food emerged as a joint passion. The first meal I ever made for Mrs H was a giant pile of smoked salmon sandwiches. I noticed that they went down well. This was promising. I doubt if a longstanding relationship would have resulted if she had turned out to be one of those females whose main nutritional intake is a breath of air.
The first meal she ever made for me was a Mongolian hot pot. This takes the form of a great plate of raw titbits – slivers of chicken breast, pork and steak, along with prawns, sliced scallops, broccoli florets, mangetouts – that you cook piecemeal in a large pot of stock over a methylated spirit burner. When you’ve simmered a piece, you eat it. Mongolian hot pot is an ideal dish for a couple in the exploratory stages of courtship. Because you use chopsticks to fish out the various items, there is plenty of scope for intimacy. You might steer your companion towards a succulent piece of steak, while she hands over a juicy prawn. There might be a certain amount of light-hearted competition for a scallop. The culinary foreplay is prolonged but not so heavy on the stomach as to preclude subsequent activity.
The meal was a revelation. My passion for food began when I became passionate about Mrs H. After living in an all-male flat, where food was fuel rather than feast, I was astonished by the flair and generosity of her cooking and also the remarkable amount she spent on ingredients. Not that I was entirely indifferent to food when we met. I don’t suppose many men would have proposed the Royal Smithfield Show as a destination for a first date. Somewhat to my surprise, Mrs H expressed keenness to attend this agricultural jamboree. The first thing we saw inside Earls Court was several lamb carcasses suspended over an enclosure containing their living siblings. Mrs H did not seem too alarmed by this vivid depiction of before and after. We bought a pair of pork chops at the show, which she grilled for supper. They were excellent.
Nibble by nibble, our relationship blossomed. We did a certain amount of the restaurant work that courting couples are supposed to go in for. Not that we had many candlelit dinners for two. Economy was a greater priority than romantic surroundings. Restaurants don’t come much cheaper or less romantic than Jimmy’s, the Greek joint staffed by famously cheerless waiters in Frith Street, Soho, while Poon’s on Lisle Street came a close second. Though far from ideal for a tête-à-tête – you ate at shared tables covered